I do not own the characters used herein, I don’t make money off them, and I promise to give them back. No harm, no foul. All lyrics, unless otherwise noted, are the sole property of Leonard Cohen. Feed the writer. Review.

•••

/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 king 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!”1 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!”1

•••

/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…

•••

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.”