Coherent Thoughts

Silence.

Funny, there never used to be any silence between us. We're the same, neither of us like the silence. I spent months listening to his meaningless prattle. He go on about anything, the history of the demon we'd just killed, the Council, a motorbike he'd seen and liked.

I'd do the same.

I could fill eternities of silence with things that made sense and things that didn't.

Things that meant nothing and things that meant everything.

It was a year after we'd been on the road after breaking away from LA that I got sick of his babbling and just kissed him. Never thought old Wes'd kiss back like he did. But I got a surprise, didn't I? Always thought he was so strait-laced, didn't go in for that sort of thing. He told me, after a while, about Fred. Could've killed her when he told me what she said to him in the hospital. That scared me, the soul and all making me hate myself for wanting to hurt her when I've met her and know she ain't that bad. I didn't want to hurt her because of what she said, but that bloody look on his face. I hate that look. He gets it when he tells me about his Watcher days, when he makes fun of himself, when he tells me about screwing Lilah Morgan.

He gets it most when he talks about that night. The night when everything went to hell in a hand basket for him. The night when he tried to do what was right and everyone who was supposed to care about him turned their backs on him.

He cried once. Sobbed his heart out about how it was his fault and he ruined everything. Stupid bugger, told so often he did wrong that he started to believe it. He still went out and dredged the ocean for Angel though, didn't he? Only Wes'd do something like that.

I never can figure out what happened, how we ended up together, here in a seedy bar Mexico sitting together in complete silence.

I left Sunnydale. I can't even remember why I went back there to begin with. Tailed by the First bleedin' Evil.

I saw her once and couldn't bear it, so I left. Who knows how I ended up in LA, but I did. He found me in some dive that I knew by smell he spent most evenings in. He slid into a seat next to me and ordered a whiskey. He glanced at me, looked away, then back at me again, his face creasing in recognition. Then he said my name. He didn't know me really, saw me once at Buffy's funeral, but I barely remembered him. Him being an ex-Watcher, he knew about me, but because he saw me at her funeral, he knew I was harmless. We talked, got pissed as hell together, then he offered me his sofa to sleep on.

Next morning he went flying over my boots and looked up at me from the floor by his sofa, trying to remember why the hell he had an infamous vampire on his sofa. It was him that figured out it was the First Evil sending me around the bend; it was him that called Buffy and told her; it was him that called Angel and told him - in that cold and sad voice - that perhaps he should go and help her. He'd forgiven him, Angel had. I guess you can't carry on hating someone after they saved your unlife. Wes didn't want to go back to them; he felt he couldn't, too ashamed to go back. Don't blame him.

It was him that suggested we buggered off. He didn't kick me out, he let me stay, helping me through the soul crap and insanity. Then one day he said he was leaving and did I want to come?

I walked in from the shower, and he was staring out of the window. I would always find him like that, staring blankly at the LA streets below. He turned slowly and looked at me as I entered the room, his blue eyes wide.

"I can't do this, Spike," he said quietly.

"Do what?" I asked, towelling my hair. "This? If you want me to move out, Wes, mate, that's fine. I don't mind."

"Move out?" he repeated. "No. No, I don't want you to move out. I meant I can't stay here, in LA, I can't do it. I can't go out and kill the demons, always half afraid that Angel will show. I can't have them calling, asking me how I am. Having Fred constantly telling me how sorry she is. But I can't give up the fight, Spike. I want to do it; I need to do it. I just can't do it here."

"So, what do want to do?"

"Leave," he shrugged. "Get out of this town, go back to being a rogue demon hunter," he smiled wryly.

"But you said you hated it," I answered.

"No," he shook his head slowly. "I hated not having anyone around to talk to. Would you… Do you think you might…? If you wanted to… Come along?"

I stared at him. Him and that little boy lost look he had; him and that hopeful smile; him and that look in his eyes that told me he was setting himself up for rejection.

"Go on then," I smiled.

We care about each other. We get the looks, the sidelong glances from old ladies who look down upon "that kind of thing." The looks from teenage sluts who'd give anything to have a round or two with us. We ignore them. Well, not me. I usually don't notice them, because he'll smile and nothing else'll matter. He's got a fantastic smile, a wide one that spreads slowly across his face. He doesn't use it enough, always little smiles, only tiny hints of the real thing.

Tell you what you see a lot on his face though: guilt. He still can't get over it. That's what we row most about because his face wasn't meant to be that sad. We row like anything, always about the same thing. I'll tell him to get the hell over it, that it's done and dusted and he'll shout that it isn't that simple and was it easy for me to get over Buffy? And then I'll bring up Fred and we'll yell and scream until one of us laughs or kisses the other.

He'll usually laugh and I'll usually grab him and kiss him. Then, when we're laying in bed, cosily wrapped up in each other, he'll ask in that soft, gentle voice if I love him. And I'll say yes, of course I bloody do and he'll look at me and ask, "What about Buffy?" So, I tell him that it's only him for me, will only ever be him for me. Then I'll ask if he loves me more than he loves Fred and he'll whisper that he loves me more than anything.

I still love Buffy and he knows it.

He still loves Fred and I know it.

But neither of us care because I pulled him through his crap and he pulled me through mine. We love each other and it doesn't matter that we love other people as well. I don't mind, just so long as he never leaves me. I know he feels the same.

Silence. Still so silent between us. Our feet gently rubbing against each other, exchanging secret smiles. His finger runs along the side of his glass, his fingers glistening with the cold condensation from the glass. He rubs it along his forehead to cool himself down. He grimaces when he feels the damp blob of demon gunk in his hair. I reach over and run my fingers through his hair, and my thumb down his cheek, successfully removing all traces of the fight we had about an hour ago with a Janar demon. His fingers lightly brush mine as I pull away, sending shock waves of pleasure up my arm and straight to my dick. He smirks then, he knows me far too well. But I know him just as well, and I allow myself a smirk as he downs his beer and stands up quickly.

"Home?" he asks, breaking the companionable and caring silence that had settled over us.

I shrug, swirling my half-full glass of beer before drinking some and setting it on the table.

"No rush, is there?" I ask.

"Bloody hell, Spike," he groans. "Hurry up!"

"Can't get enough of me, can you?" I mutter. "Bloody insatiable."

"Well, in that case…" he mumbles and sits down, purposefully pulling his feet away from mine.

Then I down the beer and stand up, the bastard smirks at me and stands slowly.

"I knew you'd see it my way," he said triumphantly.

I can't argue with him, not when he flashes me that wide smile and I completely cave in. That bastard, he knows exactly what buttons to press. Which, I guess, is why I'm so sodding nuts about him.

"Home then," he says.

It's not, home, I mean. It's a run down motel that we're leaving in two days. We don't have a home, Wes and I, we spend our time in and out of motels and hotels, depending on how flush we are. But I know that isn't what he means. I know he feels the same as me. 'Cause we're the same.

Me, Spike, William the Bloody. The murderous vampire, who was neutered and fell for the Slayer and cared so much for her sister. The vampire who got a soul for the Slayer then walked away when it became too much.

Him, Wes;ey Wyndham-Pryce. The ridiculed ex-Watcher, beaten by his father, knocked all confidence out of him. The rogue demon hunter who had his heart broken time and time again by women and friends, the man who almost died trying to do the right thing.

Who'd have thought that him and me would end up together, end up needing each other more than anything, end up pulling each other through some real shit, end up meaning the world to each other.

So, we go "home." But when I say that, I don't mean some rag-end motel with stained sheets and filthy carpets. When I say "home," - and I'm being unbelievably sappy here - I mean his arms.

But I don't care about being sappy, because when we get "home," he smiles at me. He smiles a tiny smile before he kisses me as we sink onto the bed. Then he pulls away and treats me to that beautiful wide smile that lights up his gorgeous eyes, and then I know that he feels exactly the same:

That he's only at home in my arms.

I want to marvel at the thought, that now someone truly loves me, but then his tongue brushes mine and we lay back on the bed.

And I lose all coherent thought.

The End.