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.

•••

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.

•••

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.

•••

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”