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Disclaimer: The following is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe of the rights of Joss Whedon, the WB, Mutant Enemy or any other copyright holders of Angel.

It Depends
by The Brat Queen and Meredith

Spoilers: Up to Epiphany, after which Joss and I go separate ways.

Rated: PG

Summary: Still recovering from his near-miss with Angel, Wesley goes back to Sunnydale for support.

Author's Note: This is a sequel to A Night, and features events mentioned in Meredith and Keren's series Strange Bedfellows. Both of which can be found here.

Wesley sat by himself in his flat and stared at the piece of paper in his hands. It was a photocopy of a letter that had been sent to Angel, a typewritten piece of paper containing a list of names, addresses and phone numbers.

God alone - well, perhaps God and Angel himself - knew who in Sunnydale sent the damned things.

Wesley clutched the paper, feeling his palms grow moist. He'd found the original letter on Angel's desk, back at the hotel. When he'd asked Angel if he could have a copy, Angel had been surprisingly nonchalant, suggesting that Wesley could even keep the original if he cared to.

But Wesley hadn't wanted to cut any of Angel's ties, and the office's fax machine made copies well enough.

Which left Wesley here, sitting, practically memorizing the one number he was quite certain Angel hadn't noticed amongst the list.

He told himself not to call. Then he told himself he had to. On the one hand there was discretion, on the other -

Wesley reached up and touched his neck.

- on the other, there was the fact that it was a week now since Angel had nearly drunk from him.

Wesley punched the number into his cell phone.

Fortunately - or perhaps not - Spike answered before Wesley could change his mind.

"Hey, Slayer, what's up?"

Wesley blinked. It took him a moment to realize what Spike was saying. "Er - this - this isn't Buffy."

There was a sound as though Spike had lit a cigarette. "With a male voice and a posh accent I should bloody well hope not. Wrong number, Watcher?"

Wesley put the now useless phone list down on the coffee table. "No. Spike, it's - it's Wesley."

"Well, Wesley, it's Spike," Wesley could hear Spike exhale a puff of smoke. "Now that we know who we both are, why are you bothering me?"

Wesley pressed a hand to his forehead, surprised at how cool his fingers were. "I - I was wondering.... Are you available sometime tonight? Free for conversation, I mean."

There was a slight pause. "Sure. Pick me up at eight. Mind, you'll have to buy me dinner first. And I'll have to be home at a reasonable hour."

"Er -"

Spike's voice lowered to a purr. "Unless, of course, you buy me a real nice dinner. Then I might have to show my appreciation. Just make sure you tell Angel you're sleeping over a friend's."

Wesley blanched. "No, Spike - that isn't what I meant." Wesley paused, then added "Believe me. I'm calling about Angel, actually."

"What, he wants to buy me dinner? This is a bit Cyrano of him, isn't it? Not that I mind..."

"No," Wesley slumped down on the couch. He felt the beginnings of a headache. "Spike," he said as slowly and clearly as he could. "I wish to speak with you about Angel."

"What, is he evil again?"

Wesley sighed. "No."

"Too bad," there was another exhalation of smoke. "So. You wanna talk about the Big Brooder. Remind me why I care?"

Lacking something to do with his hands, Wesley absentmindedly tidied some stray papers. "Because it's - it's a vampire matter. I'm in need of your... expertise."

"No, that's why you care," Spike replied. "You do realize it was Angel who told me the vampire facts of life. He's been doing this a long time. If he doesn't have it down by now..."

Wesley sat up straighter. "That's precisely my point, Spike. I need to speak with you about - about new matters. Like blood drinking."

"Hardly a new matter there, mate."

"But - but actually it is," Wesley decided to get to the heart of it all - or at least the heart of this conversation. "Spike - I don't wish to talk about this over the phone. Please. Might I speak with you in person? It doesn't need to take very long. I can be there in a few hours."

Spike snorted. "Gives me just enough time to get out of town. Thanks for the warning."

Wesley took his glasses off, covering his eyes with his hand. "Please."

"Oh for fuck's sake don't beg, Watcher. Bribery is much more effective."

Wesley sat up again, putting his glasses back on. "I - I don't have much by way of money..."

There was a sigh. "Wouldn't want your bankruptcy on my lack of conscience. Just bring a nice bottle of something strong. I'm gonna need it."

Hours later, Wesley approached Spike's crypt with a feeling not unlike trepidation. He didn't like being back in Sunnydale in the slightest, and the rather embarrassingly decorated bottle of scotch he'd bought along the way - a leftover, it seemed, from someone's anniversary celebration - only made him feel more conspicuous. But it was that or turn his back on Angel, and the latter option was unacceptable.

Pocketing the directions that he'd written down, Wesley knocked on the crypt's door.

It swung open to reveal a rather bored-looking Spike. He leaned against the doorway, folding his arms which were bare save for the black T-shirt that he wore to compliment his dark jeans and boots. "Well, well," Spike said, looking him over. "If it isn't Heck's Cherub."

Wesley paused, then realized that Spike was referring to the leather coat and pants that he'd changed into before leaving. "I took my bike."

Spike leaned forward, looking around until he saw Wesley's motorcycle parked by the side of the drive. "Not half bad," Spike admitted, then turned and walked back inside leaving the door open. "Suppose you might as well come in."

Wesley followed, cautiously closing the door behind him. He held out the bottle of Glenlivet. "Here. As requested."

Spike took the beribboned bottle and eyed it suspiciously. "Nice presentation. Hadn't expected sarcasm from you. Especially with you getting a discount and all."

Wesley wasn't sure he understood the reference, but decided not to dispute the intended compliment.

Spike sat down on what seemed to be a fairly new love seat, leaning back so that he could stretch his legs out along it and prop them up against the arm. Spike gestured to the chair opposite him. "Have a seat, mate."

Wesley sat down, briefly debating whether or not he should remove his coat, then deciding not to in the faint chill of the crypt. He watched as Spike opened the bottle of scotch, took a long gulp, then offered it to Wesley. "No, thank you," Wesley said, holding up a hand as he declined.

"Suit yourself," Spike said, taking another pull. He looked at Wesley expectantly. "Well? You're here, aren't you?"

"Yes," Wesley said. Having rehearsed the conversation in his mind during the ride over, he found himself suddenly lacking any of his well- prepared lines. "I... I need to ask you about something."

"Yeah?"

Wesley folded his hands together, resting his weight against his legs. "Spike... how long can a vampire survive without living blood?"

Spike glanced at his wrist as though checking the time. "So far about a year. Look, mate, I'm sorry, but I did warn you. You wasted a trip. I'm the new eunuch on the block. Angel's the one who's been doing this for a hundred years."

"A - a hundred?" Wesley asked. "Did he - do you know this for certain?"

"Hell no," Spike said, waving this off. He put the bottle down and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. "Once Darla dumped him we barely saw the poor fuck. Heard stories once in a while. Ran into him in Vienna. But I certainly wasn't tracking his diet in my diary."

Wesley considered this. "What kind of stories?"

Spike shrugged, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag. "That he'd lost the soul again and was killing any gypsy he could get his hands on, that he'd taken up a pious life and joined the Jesuits - which, if you know his thing for convents - " Spike noticed Wesley's nod, and continued. "Right. Let's see... that he'd killed himself, that he'd joined the French Resistance, that he'd joined the Nazis, that he spent all of WW2 in South America drinking rum, that he was tryin' to live off nothing but evil doers -"

"Evil doers?" Wesley asked. "Might that have been it?"

"In theory, sure," Spike said. He flicked his ashes to the floor. "Thing is, it's surprisingly difficult. Murders and rapists and even Jehovah's Witnesses tend to look like everyone else unless you catch them in the act."

"But he could have tried," Wesley said.

"Yeah, he could have," Spike said, with exaggerated patience. "Too bad there's no way of finding out. If only he had a concerned boyfriend who could ask him these things directly."

Wesley gave a thin-lipped smile, nodding. "Yes. I - I get that. But Angel doesn't care to speak about these things with anyone. Not even me."

Spike leaned forward, gesturing with his cigarette. "Then why don't you leave it alone, Wesley? He's a vampire! You must have known when you two got together there were things he's not proud of. Poking at the wound won't do either of you any good."

"That's why I came here," Wesley said. He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. He walked a few steps away, looking down at the ash-covered floor. "I'm aware that it is bad for him - difficult for him. But I have to know."

"Why?"

Wesley turned back to Spike. "If it's not possible for a vampire to survive for any length of time without feeding from a living creature then - then there are certain... implications."

"You're telling me," Spike said, stabbing out his cigarette. "As far as I know, I'm the first one to make it this long. The first one who had to, anyway. You would know more about Angel's usual menu than I do. But I'm pretty sure he was living on rats for a while there. And it didn't seem to give that soul of his any problems."

"So he could go back to it then?" Wesley asked.

Spike shrugged. "As far as I know. Never cared for the taste myself."

"But bagged blood - butcher's blood," Wesley said. "That's all right?"

"Not really." said Spike, looking away, "but it beats starving." Striving for a lighter tone but not quite achieving it, he added, "Looking gaunt and romantic is one thing, but bloody consumptive is another."

Wesley felt his heart sink. "Oh." he said. "I suppose that makes sense."

"Warming it up helps a bit," offered Spike. "Maybe a little lemon to mask the aftertaste."

Wesley smiled fondly as a memory occurred to him. "Cordelia tried cinnamon. Angel didn't like it."

Spike looked thoughtful. "Might be worth a go. Nutmeg's not bad. Kind of gloppy, though."

Wesley nodded, sitting down on the arm of the chair. "Angel felt that spices made it ... clotted."

Spike nodded in turn. "I can see that. He always was a purist. How about a shot of whisky?" Reminded, he took another swig from the bottle.

"I think he prefers his alcohol straight."

"There's a first time for everything." He held the bottle out to Wesley.

Wesley reached over and accepted it, taking in a long swallow. He grimaced at the sensation of the liquid in his throat. "Yes, there is that."

Spike lit another cigarette. "Spit it out, Watcher. You can't have come all this way to swap recipes with me."

Wesley ran his thumb along the neck of the bottle, then took another swig. "Angel tried to drink from me," he said, handing the scotch back.

Spike, in mid-puff, choked and dropped the lit cigarette into his lap. He quickly patted himself down, standing up and looking for the cigarette amongst the pillows. Finding it, he took a deeper drag, sat back down, and stared at Wesley intently. "But you're still alive."

"I am," Wesley said. He glanced at Spike. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, thanks," Spike said, absentmindedly. "I guess he managed to stay in control then. How much did he take?"

"Nothing," Wesley replied. He slid back down into the chair in order to sit properly. "He - he stopped, before he could. Ran off."

Spike took another, thoughtful drag. "And you didn't stake him?"

Wesley flinched. "No. He - he wasn't Angelus. It simply happened. He didn't intend to."

"Ah," Spike said, blowing the smoke out. "Got a little too caught up in the moment, did he? Became a bit bumpy in the forehead once he got a bit bumpy in the pants?"

Wesley looked down, feeling a blush color his cheeks. "Yes," he admitted, his voice softer than he would have liked it to be.

"Relax," Spike said. He leaned back in his chair. "They call it blood lust for a reason, you know."

"I know," Wesley said. "I mean - it was a - a surprise at the time. But... I do understand."

"It's just that usually it's not an issue," Spike explained. "Either you're with another vampire - in which case it's pretty much recreational - or, well, you're playing with your food. It's these bloody interspecies relationships that muck the whole thing up."

"Is it a constant problem, however?" Wesley asked.

Spike shrugged. "Dunno, really. Hasn't come up much."

"Because..." Wesley started to speak, then trailed off, wishing he hadn't given the alcohol back to Spike. "It - it wasn't an unusual evening, for us both. Besides that, I mean. Which is why I am now wondering if - if Angel needs live blood. Blood - blood which has a pulse, at least."

Spike took another swig from the bottle. "Well have you tried it? Some blokes like that sort of thing."

"I'm not sure that is the answer," Wesley replied. "This - I - I don't think this is a matter of a single moment. Angel's need for blood has arisen before this. He has tasted human blood recently - as recently as a few months ago. I thought perhaps it was a mistake, a fluke. A - a falling off the wagon, if you will. Of course it seemed logical that the feeling would stay with him, make his abstinence harder, but - but what if that is not the whole of it? What if - what if this is a need?"

Spike stood, offering the bottle back to Wesley who took it and helped himself to a drink. "Then I'm screwed, aren't I?" Spike walked over to the tomb, propping himself up against it. "You got two different concepts here, mate. Is it human blood you're after, or a neck to bite? I don't have much left of my stash, but I s'pose I could see my way clear to sparing a bag to stave off the cravings 'til you can get the silly ponce to the Red Cross. Or on the other hand, if you don't mind the hairballs, there's plenty of alley cats gonna be gassed anyway. Chinatown's full of live chickens. He's got options."

"I - I know," Wesley said. He flashed Spike a grateful smile for the offer. "I - I don't go with him on his shopping trips, but I know he has had human blood on hand. I don't think he minds going to blood banks in order to acquire it. But I don't know how often he drinks it... or if that is enough." Wesley sat forward, ordering the ideas in his head as though giving a recitation. "Vampires were created long before man discovered the process of blood storage. If they were intended to be scavengers, I suspect that is how your species would have survived all this time. It would certainly be easier to hunt animals that were already dead - less danger for you that they would attempt to fight back. A living victim must be a part of it then, wouldn't it?"

"Of course it is," Spike replied. "The best part." He pushed himself back onto the tomb, sitting down on top of it. "The challenge, the fight, the sweet taste of fear and adrenaline. Our species was meant to be predators. Just like yours." Spike sighed. "You get your food wrapped in plastic. So do I. The only difference is you don't know what you're missing."

Wesley considered this, trying to remember everything Angel had ever said to him about the subject. "Do - do you think that it would be too much, then? That live blood would - would push him over the edge? Make it difficult for him to resist the urges?"

"I don't know, mate." Spike replied. "It's a toss up. Might be just the thing to take the edge off. Or it might be like giving a starvin' man an appetizer and then setting him to guard the feast."

"But what if he's already had the appetizer?" Wesley asked. "Can we deny him the feast?"

"Didn't you just refuse to be the main course?"

"Of course I did!" Wesley said, standing. "Rather, he stopped. Even still I wouldn't have agreed to it at the time. Angel has always maintained that he needs to stay away from mortal blood. But what if that is the very thing that is proving to be his undoing? You've lived without taking a victim for a year. You don't care for it. Angel has done so for as long as I've known him, and perhaps longer. What if this need inside of you both is more than just a craving? What if the demon inside you needs this to survive?"

"Then it doesn't survive, Wesley. Q.E.D. And most likely it takes a whole lot of other people with it. Ever seen a vamp in a hunger fit? They go into berserker mode. It's not pretty, even by my standards." Spike lit another cigarette. "But we have no idea if the demon needs this, or merely wants it. A man can crave steak and live sixty years on tofu, though I'm not sure why he'd want to bother. And even if the demon dies, do we?"

"You are demons." Wesley replied. "Demon hybrids perhaps, but still demons. What the demon does is the very essence of a vampire's existence. You cannot separate the two."

Spike sighed exasperatedly. "Look, it wasn't my bloody idea to try. I like my inner demon. I admire my inner demon. My inner demon ate my inner child for breakfast, and more power to him, I say. But - here's the thing." Spike made a production of lighting another cigarette from the less than half smoked one in his hand, then stretched out an arm for the bottle. He took it from Wesley and took a long slow drink before continuing. "I've been feeling dead inside." He held up a hand to forestall the obvious pun. "Deader than usual. Like there's nothing left of me but ... Anyway, I thought it was just the happy effects of my new lifestyle and certain electrical problems. Not to mention some awkward bits in the social calendar. But you've made me think it could be the demon dyin' out - and there's still something here to tell you about it. Gettin' back to your boy, he's got a genuine gypsy-certified soul, right? So if he loses 'the very essence of a vampire's existence', does that leave him dead? Or human?"

"Angel won't have a chance to become human for quite some time," Wesley said. "I don't think that's what is behind this." Wesley noticed Spike staring at him strangely. "You disagree?"

"Angel has a chance to become human?" Spike asked. "Angel wants to become human? And it's on a bloody schedule?"

"There was a prophecy," Wesley said. "About the vampire with a soul. Once he fulfills his destiny, he will become human again."

"Um," Spike said, slowly, "that's one vampire, right? Singular?"

Wesley looked at him. "Of course."

"You're sure?" Spike looked uncomfortable. "It's important."

"Well the translation did prove difficult, particularly considering how many languages the prophecy had been through," Wesley admitted. "However I do feel certain that that is the ultimate reward."

"If that's the reward, what's the bleeding punishment?" Spike muttered. "Look, I'm not arguing the human bit, Watcher. I'm making sure it's just the one candidate."

Wesley frowned. "Just the - who else could it be, Spike?"

Spike looked away. "Answered your own question there, mate."

"What?" Wesley stepped forward, trying to look Spike in the eye to see what the vampire was getting at. "What on earth are you talking about?"

After a moment, Spike looked up, his blue eyes appearing, of all things, sheepish. "Me. Maybe. More's the pity."

Wesley felt the return of his earlier headache. "Spike, you don't have a soul."

Spike took a drag off his cigarette. "Tell Red." Off of Wesley's confused look, he added "Willow? The witch?"

"Willow thinks you have a soul?"

"Yeah," Spike said. He shrugged as he blew the smoke out. "That's her theory."

Wesley took a moment to try to understand this. "Why... Did Willow attempt to perform the curse again? On you?"

"Can't we turn this conversation back to your sex life?" Spike asked. When Wesley didn't respond, he sighed, then continued. "Yes. But... it's a long story."

"I have time."

"More scotch," Spike muttered, downing nearly half of the bottle in one go. He offered it again to Wesley, who demurred. "I asked her to. She did. It didn't work right. I started acting like my human self. We had to get rid of it. Red thinks it didn't work because I had one already."

Wesley reached out behind him, feeling for a chair. Realizing that he'd left it halfway across the room, he instead moved forward, placing his hands on the side of Spike's tomb and using it to support himself. He forced himself to blink. Then he forced himself to breathe. "You already had one?"

"I know it doesn't make a lot of sense," Spike replied. "But that's what she said. Can't say I care for the idea."

Wesley started to speak, then reached out for the bottle. Once Spike supplied it, Wesley nearly finished the rest himself. "All right," he said, once his eyes had stopped watering. "No. Not all right. Dear God..."

"I tried to change the subject," Spike pointed out. He offered Wesley a cigarette.

"No," Wesley replied, "but thank you." Shaking his head, Wesley added "Maybe later."

"Fair enough," Spike said, taking one himself and leaving the pack where Wesley could reach it.

Wesley eyed it for one last moment, then made himself return to the matter at hand. "You have a soul."

"Don't keep rubbin' it in," Spike said, lighting the cigarette. "It's just a theory."

"Just a theory," Wesley replied. "Of course. Not important, really. Silly for me to worry about it. Only throws a prophecy which is over four thousand years old completely into question, but it's not as if that matters. What did those old prophets know anyway?"

"Go ahead and finish that, mate" Spike said, gesturing to the bottle.

"Thank you," Wesley said, doing just that. He wiped his mouth when he was done. "You know," he added wistfully, resting his hip against the tomb, "I once considered chartered accountancy."

"That's nothing," Spike said, reaching behind the tomb and producing what appeared to be a bottle of brandy. "I took my degree in Greek Literature."

Wesley looked up. "Really? Where did you go to university?"

"Cambridge, you?"

"Oxford."

"Figures," Spike sat back and took a drink from the new bottle, clearly enjoying the current digression. "What'd you study?"

"History, languages, Anthropology - the usual Watcher requirements," Wesley replied. "No time for anything else. Except extensive extracurricular studies in demonology, of course. Sadly, never once in all of that did I come across a reference to the possibility that there could be two vampires with souls. Seemed as though the world could barely handle the one."

Spike shook his head, taking another drink. "Shit. Look, we don't know I have a soul. And so far no one's even guessed I had a destiny. I'm sure your prophecy means Angel. Poncy crap like that is right up his alley."

"The prophecy did say 'the'," Wesley said. "There were many words which were - are - in dispute, but I don't believe that was one of them. There was nothing to indicate there could be more than one vampire involved."

"So that's all right then," Spike said, offering Wesley the bottle and waiting while Wesley took a drink. "Angel becomes human, I stay my usual charming self."

Wesley handed the bottle back, then took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "So if Angel remains a vampire until he fulfills his destiny, then nothing we do now will make him human." Wesley put his glasses back on, continuing to think aloud. "However... he could die. Or become evil again. These things are still an issue. Angel, himself, must somehow be preserved."

"He's already dried up," Spike said, "but it couldn't hurt to pickle him too." Off Wesley's look, Spike held up a hand to forestall any objection. "Keep him safe, by all means. Just don't be too sure you'll know when he fulfills his great and glorious destiny. He may not know himself, 'til he wakes up with a pulse."

"It will most likely not be for a long time," Wesley said, "Undoubtedly not until centuries after I am gone but ... it is Angel's destiny. I am going to do everything in my power to see that he attains it."

"Seems like a silly thing to waste your free will on." Spike said mildly.

"I know." Wesley admitted. He sighed. "It's not as though the prophecy predicted the failed Watcher who would help him in this. But I have to. He - he means everything to me. I would do anything for him. Anything."

Spike was silent for a long moment. "No. You don't have to. But you are anyway." He looked down at his hands. Wesley began to suspect that Spike was describing more than Angel and Wesley's relationship. "It was never a question of turning away, only of how you could be there. Even when it meant turning your back on everything and everyone that you thought mattered."

"Precisely." Wesley said. "You know, the Watcher Council thinks I've gone renegade." Spike looked up, but Wesley was unable to meet his eyes. "And I don't have to imagine my father's response."

"Old man not fond of vampires, then?"

"No," Wesley replied. "He's not fond of much."

"Sorry," Spike said.

"It doesn't matter." Wesley looked at his watch. "I should go. I told Angel and everyone I'd be back by ten." He walked to the door. "Said I was looking for a new source of grympi root in Santa Barbara."

Spike hopped down and followed Wesley toward the doorway. "Better take a shower before you see Angel, then. You're gonna have my scent all over you."

Wesley turned. He cocked his head and his mouth quirked in a small grin. "And I didn't even have to buy you dinner." The was a pause between them before Wesley felt compelled to add. "Are - are you going to be all right?"

"Oh yeah." Spike gave a nonchalant shrug. "Never better. Filled with piss and vinegar. You?"

"I'm fine. Or at least, I think I will be," Wesley replied. "Thank you Spike."

Spike looked as disaffected as ever. "You're welcome."

Wesley gave Spike a small smile before finally walking out the door and readying himself for the long ride home.

Fin.