One Day
Author: WesleysGirl
Email: wesleysgirl@comcast.net
Rating: NC-17
Content/Warnings: Spike/Wesley
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I am merely borrowing them, with no hopes of personal gain. I'm just an unemployed housewife with no money, and I don't expect to profit from writing this or any other fan fiction.
Spoilers: Set some time in an AU S5 of Ats.
Distribution: Only with my explicit permission, but if you ask, I will almost certainly give it.
Notes: Written for a fic challenge at Peaches Won't Be Happy. The challenge was to write a story inspired by these lyrics:

There's nothing but today.

Wesley can't remember yesterday, and tomorrow, he won't be able to remember today. He knows that he can't remember, and that's the worst part of it. Everything wiped clean nightly, like a slate being erased.

He supposes he should be glad that he can remember who he is. There are many things that he knows instinctively -- how to fix things that break, for example. He finds a wrench when the pipe under the sink is leaking and uses it to tighten the... well, there's another hole in his memory. If indeed he ever knew what plumbing parts were called, he's forgotten now.

Wesley leaves the wrench there in the hopes that its presence might jar something free tomorrow.

He wonders if he's eating the same meals every day and not realizing it.

By evening, the person who delivers things that he needs seems familiar, on the days when he visits more than once.

The next morning, Wes wakes up and once again -- he assumes -- finds himself in an unfamiliar place, unable to leave. It's a small flat, more like a hotel suite than an apartment really, but the windows are nailed shut and the door is locked from the outside. He tries everything he can think of -- everything that he's probably tried many times before.

Most days, he's given up by noon.

On this particular morning, the blonde delivers some fresh fruit, including sweet grapes that are so cold that they make Wesley's teeth ache. Some part of him seems to recognize the man, although in truth he knows he doesn't remember. Knows that he just wants to.

In any case, there's no part of him convinced that he could escape through the doorway -- the armed guards convince him of that more readily than anything else might have.

The man comes back just after two in the afternoon, this time with a steaming hot meal. Wesley has already gone through the refrigerator and found plenty of food, so he's not sure why more is being brought in. Unless they're afraid he's forgotten how to cook? In which case, why bother with the stove and all the cooking implements?

The blonde man puts the dish on the range, then turns and looks at him. "I'm Spike," he says, raising one eyebrow. "That ring any bells?"

Wesley looks at him for a long moment, hoping that something will seem familiar in this haze of amnesia, but there's nothing. "No. I'm sorry. Am I supposed to remember you?"

The man -- Spike -- shakes his head. "No. Just... I keep asking. Just in case."

"Did something happen to me?" Wesley doesn't like the way his voice sounds; like a child's.

"Yeah." Spike steps closer, and it makes Wesley uncomfortable, but he holds his ground. "Spell went wrong." The man turns away from him, stalks to the other side of the kitchenette, swears loudly. "Christ! We've had this same conversation a hundred times. You really don't remember."

"I'm sorry," Wesley says again, and he feels so lost that he folds his arms around himself.

Spike looks concerned, and comes back, putting his own arms around Wesley and holding him. "Not your fault," he says, and Wesley can't ignore the way the man is rubbing the lower halves of their bodies together. "It'll wear off eventually. They said so."

Wesley's going to ask who 'they' are, but when he looks down into the other man's eyes, Spike kisses him.

His body remembers.

They fall to the floor, panting, tearing at each other's clothing to get down to skin. Cocks slide next to each other, slick.

"Please," Wesley says, even though he's not sure what he's asking for.

Spike's repeating it, chanting it, pushing Wesley down into the carpeted floor. "Please, please," he says, like a mantra, like he's asking the world to open up for him. There are tears behind his eyelashes, and a desperate twist to his lips.

They shove against each other, frantic hips rising and falling. "God," Wesley gasps, just before he comes.

Shaking, Spike continues to move, thrusting his cock against Wesley's thigh. It's as if there's something he wants, and he knows he can't have it. When the orgasm hits him, he groans and buries his face in Wesley's throat.

They get dressed awkwardly, Wesley because he doesn't know why he's done this, and Spike because... well, Wesley's not sure. Other than the fact that Spike obviously remembers everything that Wesley's forgotten.

"We're... friends, I take it?" Wesley asks finally, pausing in buttoning his shirt when he realizes that one of the buttons had been torn off.

"Something like that," Spike mutters, turning away.

But before he leaves, he comes back and holds Wesley again, tightly, like if he just hugs him hard enough he can keep the memories in Wesley's head.

"This had been going on for a long time, hasn't it?" Wesley asks, his voice muffled against Spike's shoulder. Around the room he can see an assortment of items, all placed carefully as reminders of previous days.

He remembers none of them.

"Don't worry," Spike says, pulling back and taking Wesley's face between his palms. "Any day now you'll come out of this. Tomorrow morning you could wake up and remember everything."

When he leaves, Wesley sits on the floor, cross-legged. He covers his eyes with his hands and rocks back and forth. Tells himself that he's not going to forget again.

He doesn't want to stay here forever, not when each day is the only day of the rest of his life.

This story has a sequel called And the Next.