__Into The Fray__
By Dutchbuffy



Wesley was peacefully composing a monograph on the similarities of Homeric Greek to Ash-Windomic vernacular, when Lilah materialized in a sitting position on his desk, showing considerably more leg than was corporate dress code. He knew she hadn't really materialized, as she was always very careful to walk in from somewhere; he just had been completely oblivious to his surroundings. Irritation at the disturbance, mixed with guilt at having forgotten her for a moment made him a bit slow in speaking to her.

"Get your cute ass up to the White Room, honey," Lilah drawled. "Interesting things going on. And, um, hurry."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she pressed her cold fingers against his lips in a coy gesture. "Just go."

He couldn't help his flinch at the feeling of her dead flesh and he saw the flash of hurt before she got up, not as quick and supple as when she was still alive. He hurried, powered less by a desire to get to the disturbance than just needing to get away from her fast.

For once, the White Room was full of his so-called colleagues, a mass of white coats speckled with anthracite lawyers like a huge Dalmatian. A loud voice was roaring out obscenities. That would be the interesting thing, he assumed. The white coats parted politely before him, and he beheld the source of the shouts. It was a naked blond man, every muscle tense with anger, who was wishing them all to hell and further and demanding them to tell him where he was.

"Don't stand there gaping like bloody goldfish! What the fuck have you done to me and get me the hell back to where I was!" he bellowed. He had a North London accent, Wesley thought dazedly. Funny, most demons and powers usually sounded like they were from California.

The furious blue gaze caught his eyes. The man advanced on him, unconcerned with his nakedness, dangly bits dangling away as they liked. A long blunt finger was pointed at his chest.

"You! You bloody well tell me what's going on here!"

Wesley opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but as usual, he was too slow. Unexpectedly, the man's anger slid off him like a cloak, puddling neglected on the floor. His mouth gaped and his eyes goggled. He felt behind him and a chair that Wesley would have sworn wasn't there a second ago was ready to seat him. He sat there looking utterly vulnerable and lost, and it was at that moment that Wesley fell in love.

"Angelus?" the man croaked, in a voice completely different from the commanding roar they'd heard before. Even while Wesley's emotions were otherwise engaged, his efficient brain brought up slides from all Angelus' associates past and present, and cross-referenced them with short blond men, and Angel's recent trip to Sunnydale, and came up with William the Bloody before he heard Angel's shocked whisper of "Spike!"

The look on Angel's face was far from welcoming. In a strong impulse to protect the hapless naked arrival, Wesley moved over to him and took a pale wrist in his hands. William the Bloody didn’t resist, which seemed odd, and Wesley was checking his body temperature and heartbeat before Angel could come close.

"He's human, Angel," he heard himself say, still tingling from the contact of Spike's skin against his fingertips. Warm and alive, and incredibly smooth.

Angel turned and with a wave of his hand sent the Dalmatian creature scurrying in its entirety out of the room. He grabbed Spike's shoulders and roughly lifted him out of the chair.

"What's your game this time, Spike?" Angel said between clenched teeth. "I thought I made it clear the last time we met I never wanted to see your ugly face again."

Wesley could see that Spike expected to have more leverage when he struggled to free himself from Angel's bruising grip. He'd be a lot less strong now than before.

"Yeah, right, mate, as If you didn’t know I was in Sunnydale the last time you popped in for a little visit," Spike answered scathingly. "Couldn’t come over all nasty and brutal with the little woman around, could you?"

Angel had been more than sparing with his description of his Sunnydale jaunt, but Wesley knew he must mean Buffy. Whatever Spike meant, it deflated Angel's anger. Angel threw Spike back on the chair like a puppet and marched off. Before he left, he barked a command at Wesley to find out what had happened and to take care of Spike.

Wesley looked at Spike, who’d laced his hands behind his head and was staring with amusement at Angel's retreating form.

"Issues," he said to Wesley.

Wesley nodded dumbly. He couldn't stop staring at Spike's body, where the bruises Angel's hands had left were already beginning to form. His mind was a blank. Take care of how?

Spike became impatient with him very quickly. "Well?" he said. "Fags, bourbon, brekky, clothes?"

"Um, yes, of course," Wesley heard himself waffle. "Please follow me, and I'll have some things brought up to my office."

Spike laughed delightedly, jumped up and clapped his hand on Wes' shoulder. "What have we here? A Watcher, I presume? Angel's got his own personal Watcher? Thought all you fellas were blown up! Well, fancy meeting like this. You'll be able to show me the way to the local, won’t you, mate?"

Hesitantly he put his hand on Spike's back and directed him to the doorway. Spike tilted his head to look at Wesley's hand that he'd forgotten to take back, and flicked a brief, flirtatious smile at him.

Wesley almost tripped over his own feet, but years of combat training kept him upright. He took off his jacket and offered it wordlessly to Spike. The expressive eyebrow rose again, and he was rewarded with a full smile.

"Thank you, kind sir," Spike said gravely. "Most gallant."

Wesley, feeling more like a fool than a rogue demon hunter should, stuck out his hand. "Wyndam-Pryce. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."

Spike switched the jacket he was draping around his middle to his other hand. "Spike. Formerly know as William the Bloody."

"I know," Wesley said and held on to the warm hand, smooth like a baby's.

Spike gently removed his hand from Wesley's and pushed the button for the elevator. "Been reading up on old Peaches, have you?"

Peaches? Did he mean Angel? For a moment, the most likely explanation for that nickname rose in full color in front of his eyes and he could feel himself blush. Damn. Spike was shaking with silent laughter and shook his head as he stepped into the elevator.

"Which floor?"

"Seventeenth," Wesley stammered. How could someone who'd just been flung from some unknown dimension be so much more alert and with it than he was?

The moment the elevator doors closed, all the laughter and arrogance left Spike and he crammed himself into a corner, leaning heavily on the support bars. Wesley saw him turn green and looked around in a panic for something, anything to catch the vomit. The moment passed, and Spike just leaned against the wall, squashing his face against the mirror, forehead beaded with thick drops of sweat. He lifted one eyelid to peek at his reflection and closed it again in disgust.

"Would you...would you perhaps prefer to come along to my flat?" Wesley offered hesitantly. "You'll be prodded and poked for days if you stay here."

"Brilliant idea," Spike whispered faintly.

As soon as they arrived on the seventeenth, Wesley slammed the button for the ground floor and closed the doors quickly. He took his cell phone and arranged to have a car brought to the entrance. He wasn't sure if he could carry it off, but everything went as arranged. He supported the stumbling ex-vampire to the limo and gave his address to the driver.

Spike turned green at every corner and stoplight. Wesley saw him struggle to master the reactions of his new body and admired his courage. He awkwardly patted Spike's leg, sticking out pale and forlorn from under his jacket.

"You'll get used to it," he said, meaning to sound encouraging.

"'Course I will. A bloke can get used to just about anything," Spike aid. "Bit of a downer, though."

"What? Humanity?"

Spike nodded.

"Oh."

Wesley needed some time to digest that. He'd have expected a former vampire to be ecstatic at regaining his humanity and soul. Angel had been working towards it for years.

"Soul bothering you?" he inquired.

"Nah, got used to that before. It's this whole giddy gurgling thumping lug of a thing I'm stuck in. Moves like silly putty."

Spike sat up a bit straighter to look out of the window, and was obviously trying to anticipate the car's movements. Wesley nodded approvingly. He liked a man who used his brains.

"What's the date?" Spike asked abruptly.

Wesley supplied it.

"Nearly five months?" Spike said wonderingly. "Huh. Seemed longer." He was silent for a moment, thinking hard. "147 days," Wesley heard him whisper. He didn’t know what the significance of the number was, but he saw the thick-lashed eyes blink rapidly.

"Did Angel bring me back?" Spike asked next.

"Not that I know of," Wesley replied.

"Buffy, then?"

"Buffy's in Cleveland," Wesley said. "Tending a Hellmouth. Why would she bring you back?"

"That's the million dollar question, mate," Spike answered morosely, and sank back into exhausted silence.

Wesley sat Spike down on his couch and went to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When he retuned, his unexpected guest was fast asleep. Well. He foresaw interesting times ahead.

* * *