For the purposes of this story, Spike left Sunnydale and went to Los Angeles after he 'attacked' Buffy. He didn't try to get his soul back or his chip removed.

1 'Hallelujah'-Leonard Cohen
2 Dance Me to the End of Love, Leonard Cohen

*****

/Needs oil,/ He thought as he lurched against his door, letting the dead weight of his body swing it open. The sound of metal on metal was a prophetic crow's caw, winging its way down the hallway. The sound was a violent rape of the evening's stillness. Wesley grinned. "I've heard there was a secret chord."1 Somehow the drunken man defied the laws of gravity and remained standing long enough to slam the door shut behind him. That noise was it's own protestation against the sacred and made his smile widen. "It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,"1 Wesley walked with purpose towards his meager kitchen, the seriousness of his step defeated by the occasional stagger. "The minor fall, the major lift."1

A quick, or not-so-quick, peek into the refrigerator revealed a depressing lack of alcohol. Ever resourceful, he turned from the icebox to the cupboards above the stove, where he located an unopened bottle of gin. "The baffled kin composing Hallelujah!" 1 The first swig burned, but not very much. His throat was long numbed to the bracing fluid, inured to the sting by countless bottles of whiskey and gods knew what else.

Wesley peered at the bottle, scowling. "You don't like me either, do you?" He asked the gin. When he got no answer, his scowl deepened. "Fine, let's watch the telly." Unfortunately when he got back to the living room the remote control ran away. Wesley collapsed on the couch and stared out the window, his companion on the table nearby. "Go away, Angel. I don't want you here. You're not welcome." Silence answered him.

/Face it, he's not going to listen to you now./ Wesley laid his head back on the couch. God damned vampire. Cocksucking, bloodsucking. there was a connection there, Wesley was sure of it. Life's blood, life's essence. "Your faith was strong but you needed proof, 1 didn't you, *Angel*? And what happened to your blasted faith when *Darla* showed up? Hm?" More of the gin came to visit Wesley's overloaded brain. "You saw her bathing on the roof; her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you. 1 Although I honestly don't understand what you saw in her. She was a slut when she first lived, and if the chronicles are correct she was on a course to die rather appropriately for such trash. What do you think of that, *Angel*?"

Nothing. "She tied you to a kitchen chair. She broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!" Wesley stared at the sliver of moon he could see through the window. "Ah, perhaps it's the redemption you feared. You can't live like an ascetic, no matter how hard you try. The touch of warm, human skin is too tempting, to damned *there* to resist. Maybe it's that. Buffy, Darla. *ME*! But one of these things is not like the others."

/And you're too fucking afraid to speak up, aren't you, *Angel*?/ "So you compromise, hm? Sinking yourself into warmth, but just the soft wet of the female. No, the other is too close to the demon, isn't it? Too close to admitting that you aren't like them. Far too much like saying that more than warmth separates you, because you *DON'T* see the sin in it." Wesley closed his eyes and willed his nausea to pass. It didn't, so he changed tactics, welcoming it into his belly, giving it a home. /Please, make yourself comfortable. It's not like anyone else is going to do so. No one else wants inside my body./

"But I made it easy for you. Easy to cast aside. You say I took the Name in vain; I don't even know the name. But if I did, well, really, what's it to you? 1" /Far too easy. Hello, gin. Wouldn't you like to make the acquaintance of my newest visitor?/ "You've been trying to get rid of me for so very long. I wasn't good for much more than your cock, and certainly not for Fred. It must have made your rotting heart flutter when you smelled *Charles* on her, in her, like a smear of some protective ointment she'd picked up at a second-rate magick shoppe downtown."

"I was trying to help. *TO HELP, GOD DAMN IT!* But that doesn't matter, does it? No, all that matters is you. *YOU!* Not Connor, not me, not the *FUCKING WORLD!* No, all that you cared about was your moldy heart, your weeping cock and your perverted redemption. There's a blaze of light in every word; it doesn't matter which you heard, the holy, or the broken Hallelujah! 1"

Broken weeping interrupted gin from getting a better look at the roiling mess that was Wesley's stomach. /Mustn't stop the pull of lust./ He wiped his tears away and threw back more of the gin, loving the dizziness it brought. "I did my best; it wasn't much. I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch. I've told the trugh, I didn't come to fool you. 1" /But you never cared./ "I lived with you, I lay beside you, bled on your skin, my tears washed your blasted boots. But you couldn't tell that I was trying."

Wesley stood abruptly. It wasn't the smartest thing to do, but he managed to lurch towards his cold bed. Freshly dirty clothes joined their more mature compatriots on the floor as Wesley crawled into bed. Once he realized he couldn't breath his pillow, he turned his head to one side. The clock's red glow was obnoxious, so he told it to go away. "Damned appliances ignore me too." Deciding that perhaps he'd just not fight it tonight, he turned his head the other way. Ah, the wall. How lovely. "And even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my lips but Hallelujah! 1" He didn't bother to listen for a response.

Spike listened for another minute or two, until he was sure the man was asleep or passed out. The vampire stood with all the speed and vigor of an old wino, walking slowly down the hall towards the stairs. The sun would be up soon enough and he needed to get some sleep. He strolled down the street, vamping out to encourage a couple of winos to get the hell away. "And it's no complaint you hear tonight, and it's not some pilgrim who's seen the light-it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah!"

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/Gin is no friend./ Even in his present state, Wesley managed to wince at his horrible rhyme. Whatever had possessed him to come home, drunk, after being cut off at the bar-because he was drunk, and then climb into the bottle? /Angel, remember?/ His mind supplied for him. "Fuck me."

Unfortunately he wasn't that limber, and he didn't smell like anything he'd touch anyway, even in desperation. While his head might have been the center of all the universe's suffering, the rest of his body was responding just fine, so Wesley got up and took a shower. Much to his dismay, he found that hot showers were no better at getting rid of hangovers than coffee was. Of course he knew that from past experience, but someone had once told him to never give up hope. /Wasn't that Angel?/ A snide mental voice inserted into his silent ramblings. "Oh, shut up. Or I'll stop letting you visit with gin." Apparently the threat was a good one, because the whining voice disappeared and left him with his headache.

Breakfast-he wasn't so bad off he'd stopped stocking normal food, so he forced himself to enjoy a couple of bananas and a pot of deadly strong tea. It was the kind that gave you bad teeth in less than a cup. He loved the stuff-better than sunshine, a tan from the inside out. His stomach wasn't so sure, but the threat of tequila before dinner, sans lime, silenced that little upstart. It wasn't but a bit after two in the afternoon, which left him with hours before he could reasonably hit the bars. What to do, what to do.

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Spike waited in the shadows of a dumpster until Wesley appeared at the entrance to his building. As he'd suspected, the human was going out for the evening, probably to get drunk again. Not that he blamed him-it was the same thing Spike was planning to do. He didn't know why Wesley was so intent on destroying both his brain and his liver before he turned 40, but it probably had to do with his blasted Sire. Yeah, Angel could drive anyone to drink. Spike wasn't sure he couldn't blame his own troubles on the freak. It was certainly worth a try.

He easily caught up with Wesley, who was walking instead of driving. Then again, the man probably didn't want to get arrested for driving pickled, which was what would happen if he tried to drive in the state he was about to be in. Spike got about four feet behind the man and cocked his head. He smelled.blood. Not much, nearly overwhelmed by antiseptic and latex and a few other odors, but definitely there. Interesting. This spur-of-the-moment decision to 'check in' on one of Angel's whores was turning into a nice little intrigue.

The mortal passed by his 'usual' watering hole and turned onto a side street. Spike knew what he was doing-too many mutual acquaintances at the one place who might get word back to his old chums about Wesley's marathon swim in the brine. The blonde didn't care-he could drink anywhere, even in the dark, musty little pit Wesley chose for his night's oblivion.

Spike ordered a double and slid onto the stool next to Wesley, who was already mostly through his drink. He ordered another, and then a third, not ever noticing who sat beside him. It wasn't until the bartender poured Spike's next drink that the human looked over. "Spike."

"Wesley," Spike returned, throwing back his bourbon.

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting pissed. You?"

"The same." Wesley sipped his drink. "Isn't this.this isn't where."

"You need another drink," Spike observed as he got the bartender's attention. The guy wasn't the type to cut off quiet, nonviolent drunks, so he just set the bottle of bourbon in front of the blonde and walked off. They could pass out on the floor for all he cared. If they did, he'd just empty their pockets and pitch them into the street.

"That I do," Wesley agreed, pouring himself a glassful of the liquor. "So, what brings you to Los Angeles? I thought Sunnydale was more your climate."

Spike finished off his drink. "You make the worst conversation I've ever heard," He muttered as he refilled his glass. Wesley just drank some more. He wondered why the vampire was drinking in a dive in Los Angeles. Oh, even in his semi-fogged mind he remembered the chip-and he also knew that meant nothing. Spike could very easily kill him if he wanted do. Actually, it didn't sound like a half bad idea.

The pair drank until the bourbon was gone. Then they hit the bartender up for some rum. It, too, was a thing of the past before they were truly satisfied. Wesley looked over at Spike, who seemed to be holding his liquor far better than the Watcher himself was. "You like this place?" He murmured. It was the first time he'd spoken since being chided by Spike for his lack of communication skills.

"It's got all the atmosphere of an accountant's office," Spike replied.

"Wanna go somewhere else?" Wesley offered.

"Where?"

"My place." /Did I just proposition a vampire?/ Wesley blinked. That probably wasn't a good idea. /Not like you haven't done it before./

Spike looked over at the human. "Sure."

Wesley threw down enough cash to cover the booze and led Spike down the street. He was absurdly grateful for the vampire's presence when a few street kids thought about hustling them. He knew the vampire couldn't do anything, but they didn't, and Spike's 'fuck off' appearance nicely counteracted Wesley's 'please hurt me' look.

Neither commented on Spike's hand pressing against the middle of Wesley's back as they climbed the stairs. Perhaps that last glass of rum was a bit excessive. "Enter," Wesley said to Spike as he opened the door. Spike stepped in quietly and flicked the lock into place. Wesley turned on the light, which wasn't that jarring since most of the bulbs were burnt out.

"Nice place, Wes."

"Drink?" Wesley offered, holding out the gin.

"No thanks," Spike said, waving him off. Wesley put the bottle down.

"So. why are you here?" Wesley asked.

"You invited me in," Spike replied.

Wesley snorted. "You know what I mean. Why're you in L.A.?"

Spike's face hardened slightly. "Why are you climbing in the bottle every night, sobbing over Angel until you pass out?"

The human's expression was one of confused shock. "How did you.you've been following me around? Why?"

The vampire shrugged. "Nothing better to do."

"Tell me why you're here," Wesley demanded.

"Tell me why you smell like blood and ink and antiseptic, and why you don't smell like Angel if you love him so much and know so much about his.tastes."

Wesley winced and drew back. "Why are you drinking with the enemy? For that matter, why have you been staying in Sunnydale with the Slayer?" A telltale flinch gave Wesley a clue. "Or did she throw you out?"

"Did Angel throw you out? What was it you were talking about last night, who's Connor, and why do you care about why I'm here?"

Wesley stared at Spike, who just stared back at him. One of them would have to break, and he knew who it would be. "Fine. On two conditions."

"What?" Spike asked curtly.

"One, you don't interrupt. Two, you tell me why you're here. The truth."

"Fine."

Wesley sat on the couch and motioned for Spike to join him. The vampire sat just far enough away so they didn't touch, but close enough that he could clearly hear the alcohol-tinged blood flowing through the man's veins. Wesley didn't look at him, or anything, as he told about Fred, Darla, Connor, Holtz and the others. He hadn't intended to go into that much detail, but the rather surreal circumstances surrounding their conversation made it seem appropriate.

Once he was finished, it was nearly dawn. He'd been surprised by Spike's silence-the vampire hadn't interrupted once, hadn't laughed or snorted, or even moved. They'd have to do something soon, though, because the blinds in the living room were wide open. "The sun's rising."

Spike looked up at the window, lost in thought. "So it is."

"You can stay here."

"Where?"

"Come on."

Wesley led Spike into his bedroom, kicking clothes out of the way. He peeled back the sheets, which were fairly fresh, and let Spike pick a side of the bed. The vampire removed his duster and boots before lying down. Wesley stopped by the bathroom for some water, which might do a little to prevent another hangover, and joined him. He'd half expected Spike to simply fall asleep with the sunrise, but he didn't.

Spike waited until Wesley was comfortable before he started to speak. The chip, Harmony, Drusilla, Buffy. He wouldn't have gone into so much detail, but Wesley had given him far more than he'd asked for and he felt beholden to reciprocate. Wesley lay still as death, but Spike could sense that he wasn't asleep, just paying attention. Although he considered his story to be much simpler than Wesley's, it took almost as long to tell.

"So that's why I'm in Los Angeles."

"Ah." Spike closed his eyes.

"I need to sleep."

"I'm not stopping you."

"I know."

*****
Part 2:

Spike woke up comfortable. That alone told him he wasn't in his usual Los Angeles hiding place. No, that particular dump had nothing this soft and warm in it. In fact, the only amenity it had was windowless walls. This place smelled.well, it didn't exactly smell good, but the slightly stale odor of unwashed, drunken human was a far cry from urine, semen and vomit.

The breathing, blood-filled body next to him was also new. Wes was still deep asleep, helped there by massive amounts of alcohol and emotional catharsis. Spike doubted he'd wake until morning, or something forced him into consciousness. It was almost sundown, so the vampire figured it would be the latter. Specifically, he'd wake the man up himself. He needed a bath.

He decided to give Wes a chance to get up on his own, so he rolled out of bed and dug around in his duster until he found his cigarettes. He'd have to go out later and get something to eat, but it could wait. The vampire wandered around Wes's little flat, taking note of the little clues that filled in the story he'd heard the night before. Yeah, the guy had it bad for Angel. Books that were of no use but to do research for the souled vampire, notes and pictures and letters, all lovingly preserved. Spike couldn't grudge the man his memories. He did wonder, though, why he had the collection of medical equipment he did-braces, crutches, a wheelchair, IV stands. his closet looked like a hospital supply store.

Spike walked back to the couch and sat down, lighting another cigarette. He wasn't sure why he was still in L.A., hanging around Wes. They weren't friends; if he recalled correctly the man hated him with a passion. Then again, that had been back when Wes was in Angel's good graces and Spike was torturing him. Ah, memories.

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Wesley stepped out of the shower and toweled off gingerly. His body was sore-not from his constant drinking, but from purification. /If that's what you want to call it, fine./ A quick mental jab silenced the voices in his head and the man stepped out of the shower. Spike was there, sitting on the bed. Wesley didn't care that he was naked, that the vampire could see the way he'd begun to turn his body into a parchment, blank no more.

"Did it hurt?"

"No. It felt.good."

A single cold finger ran down his back, tracing the words imprinted there. "Lovely, you know." The words were demonic, as were their meanings. Grief, agony and pain poured into black fingerprints, forever etched there. "Devil's tears."

"Yes." Wesley moved away to the dresser. Clothes seemed a bit excessive, yet somehow necessary.

"Drinking again?"

"No. I've got an appointment."

Spike nodded and made to move away. A warm hand on his wrist stopped him. "You can go. You might enjoy it." After a moment's consideration, Spike stood back and waited for Wesley to finish getting ready.

This time Wesley went to his car, holding the SUV's door open for Spike. The vampire was amused and oddly touched by the show of manners; to the best of his knowledge no one had ever willingly held a door open for him in over a century. The human drove with a mortal's care for rules and safety, which Spike refused to let bother him. After all, Wesley did have his health to think about.

The tattoo parlor was located in the basement of a dilapidated building on the dividing line between two neighborhoods-one merely seedy, the other nearly a war zone. The junkie-thin man at the door nodded to Wesley and let the pair in. Spike followed along as the human went straight back to the most remote chair. He removed all of his clothing and draped himself on the antique dentist's chair with practiced ease, turning his head to look at Spike.

The vampire found a chair by the door and carried it over to where Wesley was. The artist made quick work of cleaning and prepping the human's skin. Before long the only sound in the small shop was the buzz and whine of his machinery. Spike watched, captivated, as more and more of Wesley's pale skin turned dark. The longer he stared, the more sure he was that the letters moved, dancing amongst themselves. He could hear their voices, singing out. Regret, guilt, pleas for redemption. Spike knew the words, knew the song, and wished he could join in. He wanted to strip down and demand the artist give him the same punishment that Wesley was enduring. He wanted it. He needed purification, absolution.

Wesley watched curiously as Spike watched him. The vampire's face showed anger, sadness, hope, and desperation by turns. He idly wondered what was going through the blonde's head. Did he want the blood dripping down Wesley's back and legs? Perhaps we wished that he could be the one thrusting needles into the human's skin-although Wesley had been honest when he said it didn't hurt, the process did cause pain. Pain no longer hurt, though. It was the sweetest nectar, a balm to his soul.

For hours the two men watched each other, silent as statues. The only break in their non-conversation was when Spike left for an hour to purchase blood. If the tattoo artist thought it strange that his customer brought company only to remain quiet, he said nothing. He called a halt to his work several times for his own purposes, to eat or drink or shoot up. When Wesley stood to dress himself, he honestly felt for the man. He would suffer for days. "Same time tonight?"

"Yes," Wesley said as he handed the man several hundred dollars. He had an appointment with the man every day for the next week. After that, the artist was bringing in 'reinforcements,' as he called them, do finish the job. Even with the extra help, Wesley's body would take another week to finish.

Spike walked slowly to the car, wincing along with the human. Much to his surprise, when they arrived at the vehicle Wesley handed over the keys and crawled in the back, on his belly. Spike drove them back to Wesley's apartment, careful not to jar the man resting behind him.

The sun was almost on the horizon when Wesley unlocked his door and ushered Spike inside. He left the vampire to his own devices as he went into his bedroom. Once he'd shed his irritating clothes, Wesley climbed onto his bed and spread out. His back itched and tingled, like a day-old sunburn.

A soothing cold sensation jarred the human from his almost-sleep. "Today it hurts," Spike murmured, looking at the mortal's irritated skin.

"No. Itches."

"You're bleeding." Spike leaned down and slid his tongue gently across one symbol. Thick, nearly dried blood dissolved on his tongue. Sweet, coppery, thick with sorrow. He looked up at Wesley, who smiled. Taking that for permission, Spike cleaned the blood from a second, and then a third, mark.

Wesley closed his eyes and let himself float. Everything about Spike was cool-his skin, his tongue. What the vampire was doing did help, though-everywhere he touched was soothed.

Spike traced the outlines of each symbol reverently, trying to absorb the meaning of them just as he was taking their pain inside his body. It was his own form of penance, to take the suffering from another. They may wield their own whips, but solace could only be found in the other. That was a lesson Spike learned long ago. Torture was something best mastered on one's own flesh, but comfort could only be taught upon a partner.

By the time Spike had worked his way up to Wesley's hairline, where the marks stopped, the human was asleep. The vampire moved off him and stripped down before returning to bed and drawing the covers.

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On the tenth day, Spike woke up alone. In the stillness of near-dark he heard Wesley's heartbeat, strong and slow, in the living room. When he looked he found the man buried in one of the dusty, hide-bound books that littered his bookshelves. After a shower and a meal, Spike joined him.

"Reading?"

Wesley looked up, blinking. He hadn't heard Spike come in, hadn't heard the shower or the microwave. "Yes."

"Ready to go?"

Wesley marked his place and closed the book. Their routine was well-set; Wesley drove them to the tattoo parlor, Spike alternated between watching and roaming the streets, and then the vampire drove him home and tended to his wounds. The artist had finished the actual design several days before and was now filling in the open spaces. Others had come to help him apply blue-black, grumbling that it made the demonic symbols all but invisible. Neither Wesley nor Spike commented on their complaints.

When they arrived back at Wesley's apartment, Spike once again laved his skin, taking in blood and pain. Now, however, as he worked they talked. Wesley asked him about Buffy and Spike replied. Then Spike would inquire about Angel. It was just another form of torture-sticking in barbed hooks, then working them out slowly. At the same time they both felt relieved; their pain dripped out in trickles and droplets, pooling on the floor to be burned away at dawn.

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On the last day, when Wesley's new skin was finished, he surprised Spike by going not to the bedroom but to a bookshelf. The vampire watched, curious, as the man pulled down a book and opened it. He handed the text to Spike, who glanced briefly before returning it. "Nice, mate."

"It's for you."

Spike looked at the book again. It made no sense to him. "Ah."

Wesley smiled softly. "It will remove the chip."

Spike blinked. "Why?"

"You took my pain and made it yours. Let me take yours and make it mine," Wesley replied. He owed Spike, more than he could ever repay. Had the blonde not shown up, he would've died long before finishing his self-styled penance.

The blonde looked hard at Wesley. His first impulse was to ask if the man really knew what he was offering-but somehow he knew that the man did. "Is that what you want?"

"We understand each other," Wesley said. "That's more than either of us have had before."

Spike nodded once. Wesley took that for acceptance. The spell was simple, nothing more than object displacement. Had Spike been magickally inclined, he would have removed the chip himself long ago-but he wasn't, and it said much about those close to the blonde that no one else had offered. A few words later, the chip was on the floor at Spike's feet. The vampire looked at it once before crushing it under his boot heel. Then he reached for Wesley.

A flash and a ripple of displaced air were all the warnings Wesley got. In less than a second he found himself wrapped in vampire. Yellow eyes filled his vision; he could feel fangs just centimeters from his own mouth. Yet somehow the arms surrounding him were gentle. They remained that way as he was carried into the bedroom and divested of his clothing.

Both men shuddered when cool and warm skin slid in soft whispers. "Dance me to your beauty, with a burning violin,2" Spike whispered as he traced the markings on his human's skin. Wesley's eyes widened in recognition of the verse. "Dance me through the panic, till I'm gathered safely in. Lift me like an olive branch, and be my homeward dove.2" Spike pushed Wesley back onto the bed, climbing in after him.

"Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone. 2" Cold, prayerful kisses were pressed over pain-darkened flesh, which arched and strained to meet the vampire's worshiping touch. When Spike asked Wesley to open for him, the man did so freely, crying sweetly when slender fingers stretched and prepared him.

Demon and human eyes locked as Spike dragged Wesley up onto his lap, impaling him on the vampire's cock. "Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon. Show me very slowly what I only know the limits of.2"Wesley trembled and wrapped himself around Spike for support. The blonde hushed and soothed with his voice, tender hands urging the human to move, closing one hand around his hot erection. That cold mouth traced a path from cheek to neck, lingering on the pulsing vein he found there.

Wesley let his head loll back, giving Spike permission. Fangs tested and brushed lightly before parting skin and slicing into the vein. Wesley moved faster, pushing himself into Spike's hand and his mouth even as the vampire sunk himself, fangs and cock, into the human. Spike twisted and screamed against Wesley's throat, filling the human with dead seed even as the last of Wesley's life flowed out, blood into Spike's throat, living semen onto his hand.

Spike pulled away and ripped his wrist open on his own fangs, pressing the open wound to Wesley's mouth. The human tentatively licked, then latched on and drank deeply. Eventually Spike pulled away and laid the dying man back on the bed. "Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long. We're both of us beneath our love; we're both of us above,2" He whispered to his lover, knowing he could hear.

The sun was rising; he could feel it pulling at him, begging him to sleep. He knew that while he did, Wesley would die-die so that he could wake come dusk. The vampire curled around the quickly cooling human, never wanting to be parted from the one who took his pain, reveled in it, and then made it into a thing of beauty. "Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your glove. Dance me to the end of love.2"

The End