reality_bends | He can fly higher than an eagle...

"You'd sleep without me pacing around and listening to you?" Spike leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Wesley's hand. "I'm sorry. You're not acting badly. I just want to be able to do things I can't, and it's been a bloody long twenty-four hours."

Wesley slipped his hand out from underneath Spike's head and ran his fingers through Spike's short hair. "Shh, love. It's all right. I understand."

Spike just shook his head, his throat closing as he fought back his emotions. Fear, failure, despair, hope, protectiveness, resolve, and many others swirled through him. Shutting his eyes, he leaned in closer so that he could feel Wesley's hip against his temple.

"It's okay," Wesley said, helpless to do anything but pet Spike's hair and talk to him. "I know, it's been very difficult. I'm so sorry. You've been wonderful."

Spike couldn't do this. He couldn't fall apart. Not now, not when Wesley was still so frail and fragile. Maybe never in front of Wesley, because it would worry him. He had to be strong to get him through this, to be there, taking care of him, keeping him safe and on the right track toward recovery. He couldn't fall apart.

Steeling himself, Spike blinked back the tears that had begun to form and sat up again, recapturing Wesley's hand in his own. "I'm trying. And don't apologize, love. You've done nothing wrong."

Worried, Wesley searched Spike's eyes. "Promise me that you'll get some sleep tonight. Please?"

"I've slept," Spike said with a faint smile. "You just haven't been awake to notice. This chair's more comfortable than it looks."

Wesley shook his head. "No. Find the nearest couch, or have them bring a real bed in for you -- there's enough room." He could feel the last vestiges of stubbornness slipping away, and he wanted to take advantage of them while he still could.

"I can be closer to you like this." Spike soothingly stroked Wesley's hand, glad to see the furrows of pain between his brows smoothing out. "I'm fine, love."

"Please," Wesley said again. "I'll promise you anything you like if you'll do this one thing for me. Please."

"I'll be fine," Spike said, but he couldn't hold out against the open plea in Wesley's eyes. He sighed softly at his own folly. "All right. I'll see if they can bring something in. But I'm not going anywhere else, and you're not going to change my mind about that."

Wesley relaxed and squeezed Spike's hand. "Thank you."

Spike hadn't promised to use the bed if it could only be set up too far away from Wesley for his comfort, but that was a different issue altogether. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm here to worry about you. Or have you forgotten who got stabbed?"

"They haven't given me that much morphine," Wesley said ruefully. "But I can't not worry about you. I love you." He smiled at Spike.

"I love you, too," Spike said, returning the smile. "But there's no need to worry about me. Angel's told them to give me whatever I ask for." He paused. "Within reason. He made sure to add that part."

Wesley grinned more widely. "He must have thought you'd be tempted to ask for a car, or maybe a whole fleet of them."

"There's no room for a car in here," Spike said, pretending to look offended. He glanced over at the door. "D'you really think they'd bring me one?"

"Maybe. Knowing Angel, it would be in pieces." Wesley had to suppress a giggle at the thought.

"He likes his cars big and shiny to overcompensate for the rest of him. Don't know if he could pull one apart, even for me." Spike relaxed a bit as it was obvious that the medication was working and that Wesley was not likely to keep trying to take care of him when he couldn't even take care of himself.

With the relief from pain came the crushing fatigue that Wesley remembered so well. "Mm. You never know," he said, rather drowsily. "I wouldn't put anything past him."

"Especially not where I'm concerned," Spike agreed. He watched Wesley's eyelids begin to droop. "Feeling better, are you?"

"Much." Wesley meant to blink, but it was more difficult to open his eyes again than he would have thought.

"Good." Spike hated to have Wesley slip through his fingers into sleep again, but he hated to see him hurting even more. "Get some rest, love. I'll be here when you wake up again."

"Love you," Wesley said, feeling his grip on Spike's hand relaxing along with the rest of him.

Spike smiled sadly, missing him already. "Thank you. I love you, too."

Wesley wanted to say something else, but he was too sleepy. Instead, he gave Spike's hand one last squeeze before letting himself drift off.

It was good, in some ways, that Wesley was asleep, because then Spike didn't have to be strong and positive, which he obviously wasn't doing that good of a job of being, anyway. Without Wesley to look after, he could pull back in and allow himself to be tired and heart-sore, if still acutely alert to any change in Wesley's rhythms.

In some ways it was hard for Spike to be quiet and still, reflective but not brooding; he would have been happier going out and starting a fight, yelling and punching and kicking out all of his emotion, but he couldn't possibly leave Wesley alone. So he sat and felt helpless and useless, too drained even to be frustrated.

Some time later the nurse stopped in as he was about to go out and look for magazines that didn't involve toile and crepe paper. She checked the infernal machines attached to Wesley and offered to sit with Wesley if Spike wanted to go out for a while. He declined, but he did ask for more reading material and, mindful of his promise, something he might be able to sleep on, as well as socks to keep Wesley's feet warm. She said she'd get on it right away.

She came back with the magazines first, this time a selection of gossip, fashion, home life, and architecture publications, which were far more interesting than Martha Stewart, even if Spike would have liked laughing over the models and celebrities with Wesley instead of browsing through the glossy pictures alone.

Wesley stirred once or twice but made no signs of waking up, so Spike read, waited, and tried not to worry about him as the hour grew later and the quiet ward grew even quieter.

The next time he heard a sound in the hall and looked up, Angel was standing in the doorway with what looked like a laptop under one arm and a crumpled up paper bag under the other. "Hey," Angel said very softly. "How's he doing?"

"Sleeping again, but it's good for him," Spike replied, rising silently from his chair and padding over toward the door. "Lets him heal and keeps him from thinking about how much he hates being hurt."

Angel nodded, then shifted uncomfortably and asked, "What about you?"

"Can't stop thinking about how much I hate him being hurt," Spike said with a tight smile. He glanced over at Wesley, who slept peacefully, unaware of the conversation going on a few feet away. "But I'm fine."

"Brought you some stuff," Angel said, offering Spike the paper bag. "Thought you could probably use it."

Spike gingerly opened the bag, trying to keep it from making too much noise, and found a couple of packets of blood inside. He suddenly realized that he hadn't eaten since before they had gone out the night before. "Thanks. Hadn't even thought about it," he admitted.

"I kind of figured," Angel said, leaning against the door frame. "You want to come out here so we can talk? I don't want to wake him up."

Looking back at Wesley, he nodded but said, "As long as we keep the door cracked so I can keep an eye on him. I don't like leaving him alone."

They moved into the hallway, and Angel said, "I had Harmony hook us up with a realtor in New York. Someone with a reputation for handling... you know, unusual requests. I thought maybe it'd make things easier. Give Wesley something to concentrate on."

"When he can concentrate at all," Spike said with a faint smirk. "Thanks. That'll be good." He looked at Angel suspiciously. "Still can't get over you being nice to someone."

"Someone?" Angel asked. "Or just you?" But there was a little smile, in his eyes if not on his lips.

Spike narrowed his eyes, not sure whether Angel was laughing at him. "Both, but especially me. Must kill you to be helping me when you're helping your friend."

"Actually, no," Angel said easily. "Anyway, if you boot this thing up, the website for the realtor's the main page. You can look at apartments. It's kind of cool. There are, you know, virtual tours and stuff."

"Sounds very helpful," Spike said slowly. He was still wary, but he took the laptop when Angel offered it to him. "We'll look when Wes is up."

"You think I'm up to something," Angel said. "But you're wrong. I just want... well, there really isn't anything I can do to make this up to Wesley, I know that. But I want to. If being with you is going to make him happy, and I can make that easier..."

"He means a lot to you," Spike commented after a moment. "Goes both ways." He took a breath and forced himself to do what was right. "If he wants to come back here - later on, when he's had time to think - I'm not going to stop him. Might argue a bit, but I won't say no." It was something like a deal with Angel that they wouldn't let their feelings for each other get in the way of Wesley's happiness.

"Yeah, well... good thing holding my breath isn't an issue, huh?" Angel didn't sound depressed, exactly. More resigned. "Just... do what you can to make him happy. That's what's important."

"I know it is," Spike said. "I've always felt that way about the people I love. You should know that."

Angel looked down at his hands. "Yeah, I know. Otherwise I'd be making a bigger stink about this."

"Thanks ever so," Spike drawled, although there wasn't much heat in it. "But I'll take care of him, with or without your blessing from on high."

"I didn't mean it like that," Angel said, glancing quickly up at him. "I didn't... look, just... if there's anything I can do, let me. Okay?"

Spike gestured with the laptop. "I've already taken this, and I doubt we'll say no to the jet or the windows. They'll make things a lot better for him. But you'll have to stop sometime; you can't buy your way out of the guilt."

Angel bristled immediately. "I'm not trying to buy my way out of..." He trailed off, lowering his voice and hunching his shoulders. "Okay, maybe I am. But I do want to help."

Spike glanced through the door to make sure that Wesley was still sleeping before he answered. "I know, and I'm not stupid enough not to let you."

"Thanks," Angel said sheepishly. "Look, I'll let you get back to him. I just wanted you to have this stuff."

"We both appreciate it," Spike managed to unbend enough to reply. "Especially with how hurt he is. None of this would be happening without you." It was a painful admission, but it was true.

"Tell him I stopped by. Tell him if there's anything he needs..." Angel shook his head. "Just take care of him." Clearly done with the conversation, Angel turned and started down the hallway.

Spike watched him walk away, feeling like they hadn't said everything they needed to say but at a loss for words. When Angel was out of sight, Spike went back into Wesley's room, setting the laptop on the table and pulling the blood quietly out of the bag.

Now that he was paying attention, Spike was aware that he was quite hungry as well as tired. Checking that Wesley seemed to be sleeping soundly, he wandered out and used the microwave in the nurses' kitchenette, pouring the heated blood into a styrofoam cup. He was thankful to find that it was pig mixed with a bit of something else, which tasted and smelled far enough from Wesley's blood that it didn't remind him of the previous night.

When he was done with his meal, he went back to Wesley's room and sank back into the chair that was quickly becoming home. For lack of anything better to do, he powered up the computer - cringing as it beeped loudly upon starting, although Wesley didn't seem to notice - and began to look at the flats on the web.

For Wesley, it was a long and rather dream-like night. On several occasions he woke to small sounds in the room -- once he thought it might have been a nurse giving him more morphine, which he was perfectly happy to have if it kept him in the comfortable doze he was in.

At some point, he roused enough to discover that there was another bed -- some kind of cot, perhaps -- in the room, but that Spike wasn't lying down on it. He turned his head to see Spike dozing in the chair next to him, but he didn't have the energy to do anything but close his eyes and drift back to sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, it was morning, sunlight streaming into the room in pale stripes between the blinds.

Unaware that Wesley was awake, Spike was standing in one of the beams of sunlight, watching his skin not smoke and burn as he tilted his hand directly in one of the beams. He was fascinated by the warm golden light and the heat it brought with it, remembering lazy afternoons sitting in the garden, trying to come up with poetry to describe the clouds. A yawn crept up on him, a product of his largely sleepless night, and he stifled it with the hand not in the sun.

Wesley turned his head and saw Spike standing near the window, and said nothing. He wanted to watch Spike like that, in the sunshine, for as long as he could. But then Spike yawned, and concern outweighed silence. "Did you get any sleep at all?" Wesley asked hoarsely.

Spike turned, a smile forming immediately at the sound of Wesley's voice. He was getting used to seeing Wesley so weak, but the extended periods of silence as Wesley slept and healed were wearing on him. "Some," he replied. "Less than you."

"I'd imagine everyone is getting less than me," Wesley said, blinking sleepily. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Spike glanced over at the clock on the wall by the door, which, to be fair, wasn't in Wesley's direct line of sight. "Looks about eight o'clock to me."

Wesley groaned softly and rubbed his hand over his face. "My internal time clock is destroyed. Possibly forever."

"You'll get back to normal once they're not drugging you," Spike said, walking away from the sunlight and toward the bed. "Can't expect your body to be acting the same right now."

Reminding himself that he wasn't going to whine, Wesley offered Spike a tired smile and reached out the bruised pin-cushion that was standing in for his hand. "I'm sure you're right."

Continues here (http://www.livejournal.com/community/reality_bends/72395.html).

He can fly higher than an eagle...

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