Spike nodded. "You can learn a lot of odd skills, living in Sunnydale." He turned his head to look at Oz quizzically. "Neighbors don't find it strange?"

Oz shrugged. "In this neighborhood? Half of them live like vamps, even without the bite. It makes perfect sense to them that I'd want to screen out the sunlight."

Spike took off his duster, tossing it on the room's chair, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Still, all the care you've taken, a person might think you were expecting a cold blooded visitor."

Oz sat beside him. "I figured the chance was worth the effort. I couldn't very well ask you to stay the day if the place wasn't secured."

"Thoughtful little bugger." Spike got up again and went to his coat, digging a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the pocket. He lit up, took a drag, then leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, and squinted at Oz through the smoke. There was a moment of silence. Oz gazed back at Spike calmly. *That's one thing that's different about Oz,* Spike thought. *Most people alone in a room with a vamp would be babbling a mile a minute out of sheer nerves. Not Ozzy. That's fucking refreshing.* "So, I'm to sleep over, then?"

Oz nodded. "If you want to. But I gotta tell you, if you're headed for your place, you better make it fast. Sun up isn't far off." There was another silence, and Oz said, "If you don't want to, I could drive you in the van."

Spike considered for a moment, then said slowly, "It's not that I don't want to. I'm just a bit confused. We haven't, ya know." Oz raised an eyebrow suggestively. Spike smirked. "Well, yeah, we have that. I mean, we've slept together, but we haven't actually slept together. That's a bit of a step... for some people. I haven't slept with anyone since Dru buggered off." He shrugged. "I'm just lucky Miss Edith didn't tell the crazy bint to see what I'd look like with a stake in my chest. Y'see, unless you're daft, you only sleep with people you trust, and I didn't trust Dru, but I loved her."

Oz nodded, feeling resigned. "I understand."

"Good. I hope this ends the discussion for now." Spike started to strip.

Oz quirked an eyebrow in puzzlement. "Does this mean you...?"

Spike had just pulled his T-shirt over his head, and he paused with his arms still trapped inside to scowl at Oz. "Said the discussion was over, didn't I?" Oz made a zipping motion across his lips. "Good."

Oz got up and started to undress also, thinking, *So, this is how it is. There's something here between us, but I'm not sure just what, and we're not going to talk about it. At least not now. Trust--or love... of some sort. Hell, he probably doesn't know either.* Spike had finished stripping. Now he came to Oz, pushed the other man's hands away from his jeans, and began to unzip his fly. *But I can live with postponing the 'relationship talk' for awhile.* He almost sighed. When Spike looked at him, he turned it into something approaching a moan, since the vampire had just wrapped his hand around Oz's dick. Spike smirked, and started stroking slowly. *On the other hand,* Oz thought as he was pushed back on the bed, *sometimes the whole guy tendency to avoid discussing emotions can be pretty damn convenient.*

"You sure can, sweetie."

She managed not to wince at the breezy tone, but mentally scrapped her plans to become the next Mrs. Whoever. Maybe if she saw him again she could set him up with her younger brother. Baby brother wasn't gay, but for a chance to hook up with something like that he could probably be persuaded to be flexible. "What can I do for you?"

"I need the room number of a patient here--Wesley Whyndham-Price."

She started typing on her keyboard. "Could you spell that?"

"Not on your nellie. Just try something that seems likely. There can't be too many Wesleys with a hyphenated last name in residence."

She tried what seemed like the most logical spelling, then tried the next most logical spelling, then gave up and tried a Boolean with +Wesley. Two names popped up. "I have two."

"Oh, good. It shouldn't be hard to check both."

"I don't think you'll need to. One of them is Wesley Schwartz, and he's in neo-natal, so I'm pretty sure the one you're looking for is in room 365-B. Take that elevator to three, turn right as you get off, and it should be in the third corridor. Just ask at the nurse's station if you get lost."

"Will do, kiddo. You've been a peach." He handed her a small piece of pasteboard. "Here ya go. That'll comp you for a free drink on any Vanilla Night at Caritas." He wiggled a finger at her admonishingly. "Third Thursdays only, kitten, or you might get a surprise." He strolled off.

She stared at the brightly colored slip of paper for a moment, decided that she wasn't in the mood to visit a gay bar, even for a free drink, and started to throw away the coupon. After a moment's thought she grinned evilly and slipped it into her purse. This would make a great present for that new ER doctor. When she'd offered him a home-cooked meal, he'd said great--as long as that was all she expected to be cookin' if he came over.

She couldn't understand two months later when he gave her a hug and thanked her profusely for sending him to Caritas. She'd asked suspiciously if he'd met anyone special there, and he'd smiled and said he'd met someone 'out of this world'.

The nurses on the third floor didn't even look up when the good-looking man carrying the paper sack breezed past. He strolled down the hall, carefully checking numbers, till he came to 365. Actually there were two 365s--A, and B. He pursed his lips. "Ooo, crap. That'll teach me I should write down information when I'm agitated." He tried the door on the left first.

The woman in the bed was in traction, her right leg strung to a complicated looking set of ropes and pulleys. She looked at him, then said hopefully, "I don't suppose you're here to give me physical therapy?"

"Sorry--wrong room." As he shut the door he heard a faint, heartfelt 'damn'. There was a 'No Visitors Allowed' sign on the right side door. He snorted. "Yeah, right. Translation: shut the door after yourself so no one notices."

Wesley was stretched out on the bed, snoring slightly. He'd have looked peaceful enough to give someone warm fuzzies, if not for the bruises darkening his face. His visitor stepped over to the bed softly, and stood looking down at him. *He looks awful young without his glasses. And hot, too. Stop that! The man is injured. I really need to cut back on reading hurt/comfort slash on the Internet. Well, I'd better wake him up.* He started to reach for Wesley's arm. At that moment Wesley's mouth dropped open slightly. The visitor blinked, then murmured, "What the hell. I may never get another chance." He bent over and kissed Wesley--with tongue. "Wakey, wakey, Princess Briar Rose."

Wesley sighed, and licked his lips, thinking that this was a much more pleasant awakening than anyone in a hospital had a right to expect. Then it occurred to him to wonder exactly who it was kissing him. He rather hoped it was the male nurse who'd taken his temperature the last time he woke up. He opened his eyes.

Wesley jerked back against the pillow, clutching at his sheet and jerking it up under his chin. "McDonald! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Lindsey made shushing motions. "Keep it down--I'm not supposed to be in here."

"I should say not!" Wesley was reaching for his call button. "So, Wolfram and Hart had something to do with this cock up, did they? I shouldn't be surprised... Hey!"

Lindsey snatched the buzzer out of his reach. "Stop that, Wes! Damn, I'm going to have to go ahead and let Brundilatte run a tab at the bar, if her work is good enough to fool an old demon hunter like you." He thought for a moment. "Of course you have had a recent head injury, and drugs." Wesley was staring at him. Lindsey sighed. "Listen to the voice, sugar."

"Sugar?" Wesley blinked. "Lorne?"

"The one and only."

Wesley squinted at him hard. "Damn. I know I need my glasses to drive, but I didn't think my vision had gotten this bad."

"It's a glamour, hon. I needed it quick, strong, and dirty, so I had a witch I know throw it up for me. She does good work."

"But... why? And why Lindsey McDonald?"

"Why? Wesley, while I have a healthy appreciation of my own physical charms, I can only get away with 'I'm just off the set of a horror movie and didn't have time to change' so often. As to why Lindsey--why not? He's damn cute. Besides, for something like this you need a little physical bit of whoever you want to look like. You know--hair, nail clippings, skin..." he cleared his throat, "basically anything a forensic lab would like to get their hands on."

Wesley stared at him. "But what did you have from Lindsey that..." he trailed off. "And how did you get..." He trailed off again. "You know, I don't think I want to hear about that right now."

"We'll save the story for some night when you've done a few tequila shooters. You'll like it--believe me. Now, isn't it time we got you up and dressed? It would be easier if you could help, but I'm willing to treat you like a life-sized Ken doll if I must."

Wesley flipped the sheet down. "I can manage."

"Pity. I'm sure you're anatomically correct." Lorne opened the bag and handed it to him. Wesley reached inside and pulled out a shirt. "That green is going to make your eyes look turquoise." Wesley pulled out the jacket. "I'm afraid the burnt orange won't be exactly right for your skin tone. It's an Autumn color, and you're a Winter, right?"

Wesley was staring at it. "I'm going to look like a seventies pimp."

"If you're going to be picky..."

"Lorne, Huggy Bear dressed more conservatively."

"Look, sweetie, it's either that or that open-back toga you're wearing, and believe me, if you wear that on the street you will attract attention that you do not want--if waking up being kissed by another man startles you so badly."

Wesley rummaged in the bag. "No underwear?"

"Picky, picky, picky."

"Never mind." Wesley pulled the trousers out of the bag and shook them open.

Lorne said, "You're not going to run into the bathroom, or tell me to turn my head, or something?"

"Why?" Wesley sat down, stepped into the pants legs, then stood up and pulled them on, drawing them under his gown.

Lorne sighed. "Rats. I should have remembered that growing up in English boarding schools you'd have mastered the art of stealth dressing at an early age."

"You did if you didn't want your Y-fronts hiked up around your throat on a regular basis." Wesley had been fiddling with fastenings, and now he pulled off the gown. He started to slip on the shirt, and froze, wincing.

Lorne was immediately alert. "What is it?"

"Angelus cracked two of my ribs. They're taped up, but I'm afraid that reaching, or twisting, or lifting my arms... Pretty much anything is going to hurt a bit for awhile."

"Let me help."

"There's no need."

"You're an Englishman--having a valet should be in your blood. If it's hard, just role-play. You be Uncle Bill, and I'll be Mister French." Lorne helped Wesley into the shirt, his touch efficient, and gentle.

Wesley muttered his thanks, then began to don the rest of the clothes. "Shoes?"

Lorne looked into the nearby closet, and plucked a pair off a shelf. "I figured you'd still have yours somewhere nearby. After all, they don't have to cut them off. Good job, too, because guessing someone else's shoe size is like trying to choose the right shade of panty hose for a woman--damn near impossible unless you're intimately acquainted, or have been given specific written instructions."

Wesley accepted the shoes, sitting down to put them on. "You're a very handy fellow to have around, Lorne. Why haven't we worked with you more?"

"Because though I have a noble heart, I prefer not to put my ass in jeopardy unnecessarily--unless it's the FUN kind of jeopardy. Hurry up. They figure you're sleeping, but in a place like this there's no telling when they'll come in to wake you up and give you a sedative." Wesley had slipped his feet into his shoes and was beginning to bend down. He froze with a pained moan. "Oh, for goodness... Will you tell me when you need help? Sit up." Lorne knelt before Wesley and began to tie his laces. "Next time--loafers."

"Can't. They might slip off during demon fighting. I'd be a right idiot trying to kick demon ass in my socks, wouldn't I?"

Lorne chuckled as he finished tying a bow. "Sugar, the mere act of demon fighting qualifies you as reckless, if not suicidal, for most people. Done." He stood up. "Let's make like the Concord."

"Pardon? What's grape jelly got to do with...?"

Lorne rolled his eyes. "Either you're not as British as I thought, or the drugs were pretty damn strong. Let's jet, handsome."

"Oh. Right. Not just yet, though." He started toward the door, his step very firm for a man who had recently narrowly escaped being messily and painfully killed. "First we have to get Doyle."

"And he is?"

"In the psychiatric ward."

Lorne sighed. "Why did I even ask?"