Prologue

She'd found him trussed and hanging from the cave wall. Scabby holes through his
wrists, arms stained with rusted red, skin raw beneath the leather bindings. Standing,
watching, Buffy had been so hit by such an intense sense of unreality, of relief,
that for a spare moment she had been unable to move. Instead, she had stared with
fascinated horror at the carvings of intricate and agonizing beauty that were
etched into his chest and stomach, and then at marks of a less artistic nature
that marred his delicate face. Black and bloodied eye, cracked lips, chipped bones,
broken jaw. Another litany of pain and damage, heightened still more when his
swollen tongue had formed fearful, defensive words of bluster and denial.

In that uncertain moment, frozen and waiting for the inevitable flood of motion
and emotion, Buffy had recalled a childhood memory. She had seen herself standing
in a darkened church, gazing up at the image of a tortured man, watching flickering
candlelight dance across a calm yet tormented face. Her small hand had been clasped
tightly in her nanna's withered fingers as she listened intently to a tale of
sin and suffering and redemption, about a saviour who had been crucified in order
that she be saved.

But the allusion had been fleeting. Spike wasn't suffering for someone else's
sins; not when he had so many of his own to grapple with. And while crucifixion
may have been a punishment of criminals, as well as sons of God, Buffy knew this
torture had not been about justice, that it couldn't even the score. It was a
sick, twisted parody, designed by a creature that Buffy had immediately determined,
with doubtless certainty, was going down.

Her procrastination had lasted but moments, before she'd remembered the knife
in her hand, the purpose in her being there. She'd cut him down, helped him walk
out of the eerie basement, through the silent school halls, into the cool night
air. She'd been acutely aware of her arm around him, of the proximity of their
bodies, of her skin against his. He'd been so cold, much colder than the crisp
night air, his body empty of the blood that gave a him a kind of life.

The journey had been painful and utterly silent except for the occasional gasp
of pain and the jarring, vaguely sickening sound of crunching ribs. Shell-shocked
and battered herself, Buffy had been unable to find even words of comfort, afraid
that once she started, she wouldn't be able to stop, that the walls that protected
her heart would come tumbling down beneath the whirlwind of released emotion.

So much to say, but nothing to be said.

Yet, as she'd looked into the face of her rescued vampire while she helped him
climb painfully into the passenger's seat of her mother's Jeep, Buffy had seen
such relief and adoration and love reflected in his silent countenance that her
own dampened with tears.

The walls around her heart had shuddered, but still held.

The rescue had been Buffy's crusade alone. She had driven to the school herself,
unable to ask her friends to join her, unsure of how they would even respond.
But, when she met his gaze beneath the pale streetlights, felt the intensity of
his emotions, Buffy had been glad she was alone. What transpired in that carpark
had been a special moment for the two of them, a private confirmation of their
tentative and painful friendship.

"I knew you'd come for me," he'd said then, his voice cracking but determined.

"And I knew you'd wait," she'd replied evenly.

She had smiled slightly at him, reaching up to tentatively brush his cheek. He'd
leaned into her touch, eyes closing, drawing comfort from a gentle, tangible connection.
Perhaps the first he'd ever known with a soul. Finally she'd broken the contact,
closed the passenger-side door and climbed into her side of the vehicle.

"Come on Spike," she'd said, throwing the car into drive, "We're going home".


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter 1

Half an hour ago, as they drove back along silent streets, it had all had seemed
so easy, the distance between finding him and coming home calculable in mere miles.
But now, standing on the threshold to her house, her arm still firmly around Spike's
narrow waist, Buffy understands that the journey can not be measured with such
precision. The barriers between the then and now are less tangible, more mutable.
And yet, oh, so very real.

Reality hits harder than a Fyarl Demon's punch.

Dawn stands before them in the hall, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, her stance defensive.
Sentinel and guard against vampire corruption. Xander's little helper.

"What is he doing here?" she asks, voice petulant.

"Dawn, I don't have time..."

"You never do."

"I can't do this Dawn. Not tonight." And Buffy wonders if she can do any of this.
She's never been a quitter, but sometimes it is just all too much. The angry,
resentful little sister, the wounded, lost vampire clasped in her arms, the inexperienced
and vulnerable Potentials, the friends who expect too much of her. All are in
her home, her life, invading her sleep as she tosses and turns and looks for answers
that always elude her.

"Please, Dawn," she says tightly, trying to keep the aggravated edge out of her
voice, "not tonight. I want him here. It's my choice. Okay?"

"Well, I don't." Her voice is cold and sharp as ice. "And I have to live here
too, you know."

Buffy almost laughs at that. As if she needs reminding that everybody lives here
now. Her mother's house has become home to more and more, even as it falls down
around them. Smashed windows, busted doors, fried microwave and shattered television;
the ruined trappings of the not-quite-suburban life she had clung to after her
mother's death.

Too tired, too emotionally drained to start a fight now, Buffy settles for the
easier alternative. "Dawn, it's really not any of your business."

Instantly, she knows she's hit a sore spot. Dawn's eyes narrow even more, and
the explosion follows. "How can you say that? How can you think I shouldn't care
that you're letting your attempted rapist into our house?"

Too late, Buffy feels Spike stiffen beside her, muffle a groan, and begin to shrink
back. Her instinct is to tighten her grip on him, but she stops herself, fearing
she will only hurt him more. Instead, she lays her free hand on his bicep, moves
herself even closer, though space is already a premium between them. He's still
stiff as a board, but he halts his retreat. Her hold on him remains, and she hopes
that it is enough to keep him from falling.

Still standing on the threshold, Buffy feels the first stirring of something unfamiliar
and discomforting. Desperation, the need for peace and to end this now. The sudden
need to protect Spike from her sister's words is startling, but she sets the feeling
aside, stores it where it can be examined in more reasonable times. Forfeiting
words, she catches Dawn's gaze, and a new, silent contest begins.

Spike watches the battle of wills with distracted and blurred disinterest. So
hard to focus, so bloody painful. He can't bring himself to even care who wins,
isn't sure he even knows who is right. What is he doing here, where he is so clearly
unwanted, being comforted by the woman whom he has hurt so profoundly? Oh, he
had known she would come; he had clung to that belief with every inch of his being.
But this kindness, this apparent desire to heal him, this was unexpected, and
brought its own form of torment.

Smuggled in the cargo hold of a jerky cargo plane, newly soulled and barely cogent,
Spike had taunted himself with visions of his unwelcome return to Sunnydale. Had
girded himself to face his love's hatred and anger, planned to watch from afar,
to do what he could to help, until she caught him and drove a stake through his
heart. He had never expected that he would again be so close at her side, her
hip resting against his, her scent engulfing him. Could not have prepared himself
to walk the fine line between gratitude and desperate, unwanted hope.

A hope that terrifies him, even as it is the one thing in his life he clings to.

Spike is acutely aware of Buffy's small hand on his bicep, another on his waist,
the places where her skin touches his own. Her touch is hot, almost burning, but
it's comforting and real, and tendrils of heat radiate beyond the limits of her
small handspan, lighting and enlivening where he is darkened and dead. He is leeching
the warmth and life from her, and he knows it is wrong. He should leave, save
her from his tainted existence, but being away from her again is unthinkable.
Not while the cold and despair recede in steady beats, timed to the rhythm of
her beating heart. He's a selfish pillock, a right bastard. But maybe, with Buffy
beside him, he can stay here, get better, get it right. Prove he has a soul, just
as she wanted.

Finally, without another word spoken, Dawn grudgingly stands aside, her resentment
palpable in every stiff-limbed movement. He should probably be relieved that she
is letting him in, but he can't summon up any kind of pleasure beyond the relief
that, with Buffy victorious, the yelling has probably stopped. Hates, now, this
kind of conflict, where once he would have loved being the center of such dramatic
attention.

He looks briefly at Dawn, trying for a "thank you," but the hurt, hatred and anger
in her expression is too raw to bear. He looks away. Coward. But too late, the
image is filed away, to be sought again during the long hours of daylight, when
self-flagellation is his pastime of choice.

Thankfully, Buffy's arm tightens around him and she murmurs a gentle encouragement
as they take a tentative step toward the stairs. Together. And suddenly, it's
good. This comforting togetherness. Almost too good. It's closer to her than he's
ever been. A bloody miracle, because this time she is holding him. But then he
remembers that together means two, and he is less than one.

He wonders whether he'll ever be complete again, and if she'll want him if he
is.

She releases him when they reach her room and he hangs limply against the door
frame, not sure what to do as he watches her turn down the sheets on her bed.
Of course, he knows what it looks like she is doing, but then he thinks he must
be delusional again. Probably back in the cave, about to wake up and face the
music. Because he can't be back here, in her room, the place that has haunted
his dreams for a year, surrounded by her things and witnessing her bedroom ritual.
It would be too much to wake up now, with his feelings this high. It would break
him. He might just let It win.

But this looks real, smells real, feels real. He knows his Buffy, can sense the
life and goodness in her, the strength and beauty. This is she. It has to be.

He notes, then, the tawny color and circular pattern of the sheets. Startling,
jarring, to realize that she'd changed the bed coverings during his absence.

But of course she did. Life goes on without him. Always has.

"How long was I gone?" he asks, and she jumps ever so slightly at the sound of
his voice in the silence.

"A while. Weeks," she replies without looking at him.

Weeks. The word hits him hard. He'd lost track of time, moments registered only
in the catalog of pain and torture. Did she search for him all that time? The
gash on her cheek, the shadows under her eyes, were they because of him, too?
He knows he shouldn't want that they are, Slayer should have better things to
worry about that a kidnapped vamp. But there is that hope again, that painful
longing for confirmation that she cares; that she did this for him; that he somehow
matters. To her.

He looks again to the bed, wishes he'd taken more notice of how the sheets used
to be. Recalls a time when he'd known everything about Buffy's bedroom: the arrangement
of her girlish possessions-- and her warrior ones, the color and brand of her
sheets, the days she did her washing, the scent of the detergent she used, the
noise of her bed as it creaked beneath her slight weight. He dreamed of being
allowed to hold her here, surrounded by her things, to pull her slight body against
him and revel in the embrace of her private life. Once, he'd known every little
detail, and now he can't recall what was on her bed the day he was actually in
this room, the day this nightmare began. When did he stop noticing?

His musings are interrupted as she comes back for him, the answer to his confusion
in her eyes and on her lips.

"You can stay here, at least for tonight," she announces.

He knows that she expects some reaction, wonders what. Happiness, perhaps, or
gratitude. Maybe a lascivious comment, a dash of the old Spike? But he can think
of nothing to say, struck as he is by the irony that he is being offered what
he always wanted, but for reasons that are the worst imaginable. He wants to collapse
on the bed, he wants to leave with dignity, he wants to fall to his knees and
lay kisses on her feet.

Unable to reconcile his conflicting emotions, he instead stands and stares and
tries, tries so very hard, not to burst into tears.

************

Only upon reaching her bedroom does it occur to Buffy that tying Spike to a chair
is no longer an option. Marvels that she had thought until then that it was. Or
not thought, maybe. Leaving the wounded vampire standing against the doorframe,
she busies herself preparing the room, all the while wondering what to do with
him, and whether she can do what her instincts tell her to.

She hides it well, but guilt has an iron grip on her heart. Spike's painful, awful
love for her has broken and destroyed him. He'd found a new definition of pain
and suffering since falling in love with her. She replays those words and never
doubts their truth. The physical pain of two years of bruises and breakages, torture
at the hands of Glory and the First, and from the force of her own fists as he
lay prone in that filthy alleyway. Then the emotional agony, her use and abuse
of his body, the isolation, the loneliness and the seclusion that resulted from
their cruel relationship, and now the maddening curse of the soul, the result
of a desperate quest in search of an impossible love.

And now he is back here, at her side, again waiting for her move. He is patient
and quiet now, a new look for this once frenzied, emotional creature. But Spike's
will has been crushed and he expects nothing, would likely accept whatever she
offered. Should she ask, he would mold his broken limbs into position on the chair,
surrender his broken and bloodied arms to the grip of coarse ropes. Or lay his
beaten and battered body on the floor and cling to consciousness to guard her
bed. The intensity of his love and faith terrify her. She thinks she doesn't want
that kind of responsibility. Knows she doesn't deserve it. Wonders if she has
anything to offer in return.

So she offers her bed.

"You can stay here, at least for tonight," she says.

When he doesn't move, Buffy almost rolls her eyes, momentarily affronted that
he seems unaffected by her offer of admittance into the one sanctuary she has
left to offer. Thinks he should look happy, gratified, something other than broken.
But she refrains from comment, keeps her gaze steady, looks at him and tries to
understand. She's been working on that lately, the patience and empathy, the whole
respect-for-others thing that single childom and being the Chosen One seemed to
undermine. She thinks she may have got the hang of it as she witnesses the interplay
of emotions across his face. Grief, love, pain, confusion. And fear, fear such
as she's never seen on the face of this once cocky vampire.

She sees the water glisten in the corner of his open eye, and she understands
that he is lost and waiting for her lead. A gentle smile, and she moves beneath
him, tries to take his slight weight on her shoulders. He is stiff, edgy, and
his good hand remains on the doorframe, trembling slightly. His eyes dart between
her and the bed.

"Buffy," he whispers in alarm. "Not sure this is such a good idea."

"No arguments, Spike. You can hardly even stand, and I need you well again, which
won't ever happen if you don't get some rest. Get in the bed."

"The basement..."

"...is indefensible. I don't want you taken again." She tries to capture his gaze,
make him see the resolution in her face. Instead, she witnesses the vivid flickering
of fear pass across his features, feels the quiver of his body. He pushes it down
fast, but it's too late. He is scared and he has let her know it.

Her voice is steady as she makes her vow. "They're not getting to get you again
Spike. Not the First or those creepy harbringers things or anything else. I promise."

She hopes her words are reassuring, that he hears the truth in them and believes
her, draws much needed strength. This comfort thing was never her strong suit.
Not even with her friends, let alone with a tortured and broken vampire, a creature
toward whom an inclination to be harsh still rages inside of her, tempered only
by a jumble of other emotions she is not yet ready to examine.

He nods then, believing in her words. Moves toward the bed suddenly, slipping
out of her grasp, surprising her. But he gets only a step, and she is there, catching
him when he begins to fall. He accepts her presence easily, as always, and she
leads him to the bed, helps him to sit down slowly, notes with concern his agonizingly
slow actions and his grimaces of pain. Once he is seated, her curiosity gets the
better of her and she flicks on the lamp to take a better look.

She cannot help but gasp.

Close up, under the harsh glare of artificial light, Spike's injuries are even
worse then they had appeared in that cave. Worse, Buffy concludes, then when that
hell-bitch had him. Worse, probably, than the injuries he'd sustained in that
awful fall from the tower, although she is relying on the memory of Dawn's version
of events there, which is always far from reliable.

The cuts in his chest are deep, and it is likely that only dried blood and swollen
tissue obscure her view of white bone beneath. One hand lies limply in his lap,
fingers apparently shattered, nails ripped off. He cradles it now in his other
hand, which is pale and fine, the bones standing in sharp relief again sunken,
sallow skin. She looks away, her eyes tracing his forearm, the curve of his elbow,
his biceps. The muscles are smaller now, withered beneath paper-thin skin. His
warrior body tortured and faded into that of a prisoner of war.

Buffy swallows, pushes down the rising nausea and a sudden, overwhelming sense
of panic and distress. She focuses on the practical, because that's all she can
do to keep herself from fleeing, lest she collapse under the weight of her emotions.

"I think...I think we need to clean the wounds," she finally manages to say.

He smirks softly, a flash of his old self that sends a wave of warmth through
her despite his teasing tone. "Vampire, luv. Nothin' lives in me. Not even infection."

"Yeah, but...I still need to clean the wounds." She's firmer this time. Authoritative
Buffy, that's what is needed. "And I need to strap those ribs. We don't want your
bones mending all wrong. I'll go get...stuff. And blood. You need blood."

"Yeah. Blood would be good."

She helps him get comfortable, or as comfortable as can be. Arranges the pillows,
lets him lie back against them. He's still in his blood-crusted jeans, and she
fidgets a bit, wondering whether she should offer to remove them. Tells herself
she could do it, be objective and nurse-like even. Nothing she hasn't seen before.
She looks up at him, a silent question, and sees his good eye is lit with a combination
of merriment and something sly and sexy. A beat passes between them, both contemplating
the possibilities, hesitation and temptation. But he saves her.

"Pass up the sheet, 'luv," he says, beckoning to the edge. She hands it to him
and he awkwardly pulls the covering over his lap and part of the way up to his
chest.

Jeans left on it is.

The moment should have passed, but the need for contact still tugs at her heartstrings.
Without thinking, she gently reaches out, again runs the back of her hand along
his sharply defined cheekbone, her fingers gliding down the ragged skin of his
cheek. He sits frozen, watching her with his intense blue gaze, adoration blending
with confusion and a little wariness. Unspoken emotion stretches between them
in the silence of the room.

Suddenly, she withdraws her hand with a quick shake of her head. Stands up, perhaps
a little too fast, avoids his eyes. But her voice is soft.

"Be back in a second," she promises.

She leaves him then, goes downstairs in search of pigs' blood and the first aid
kit. Dawn is thankfully gone, although the television hums dully from the living
room. She glances in, sees a row of curious eyes staring back - all black in the
dim light. Potentials, curious to see what Buffy has stored in her bedroom. She
wonders briefly what Dawn has told them, decides it doesn't matter. Shakes her
head in answer to their silent questions. It's not the time for explanations now.
Maybe later, when she has worked out what to say.

Buffy makes her way into the kitchen, takes what she needs without thinking. Such
a waste on a vampire, but again it's about the symbolism. She's not looking for
the clinical cleansing found in bottles of ointment and bandages. Spike needs
something more holistic. They both do.

Maybe, in healing him, she'll heal herself.

Back upstairs, supplies in hand, Buffy is almost disappointed to find her would-be
patient already asleep. She places the kit and blood by the bed, then retreats
to the doorway, careful not to wake him. Bandages can come later, along with talking.

Watching Spike as he lies in her bed, sheets strewn carelessly over his ragged
body, Buffy can no longer contain the feelings of relief, or sudden release. He
is home, and safe. They all are, for now. Another chapter of her life is finished,
and she can turn the page and begin the next one.

Standing there, unobserved, unguarded, Buffy feels those walls crack a little.
Exhausted, she doesn't fight, but allows herself, for one moment, to gaze upon
her former lover with fondness, to revel in feelings that are strong and real,
if too complex to dissect.

"Sleep, Spike," she whispers into the darkened room, even though she knows he
cannot hear her. "Get your strength back. We need you. I need you."

"And I'm okay with that."


Continued in Chapter 2
 

Offerings
By OneTwoMany (Sabre)

Chapter 2

"He's not getting any better."

Giles' rich baritone seeps through the floorboards from the Scooby meeting below,
as Spike's realization that he is the topic of discussion drags the weary vampire
back to the world of the living.

"Maybe he needs more blood." The higher, earnest voice of Red. Perky and helpful.
How bloody ironic that it is so often she who comes to his rescue in moments such
as this. She, who, Buffy exempted, he has probably hurt the most. He doesn't deserve
this from her, not when her mind should be filled with images of the night in
the factory, the attack in her dorm room.

"More blood?" Xander, his tone disgusted and resentful. Only to be expected. "We've
already exsanguinated half the cows in Wisconsin. How much of the stuff can one
scrawny vamp swallow?".

"Yeah," Dawn's voice now, rising from a position near Xander. "And how are we
gonna afford it?"

"My question precisely." Demon-girl, always practical. "Saving your vampire is
all well and good, but you need to eat, and money doesn't grow on trees."

A long pause, and he waits for her words, her defence. She doesn't disappoint.

"We'll find a way. I promise you guys, we'll find a way."

Lying in her bed, eyes fixed on the beige ceiling, Spike lets Buffy's voice wash
over him, feels her words sink through his skin, warming, calming, balm to both
the physical ache and the deeper, more crippling pain that tears at his heart
and mind. Always, he believes her, that she'll find a way to save him. She never
fails when it's about the people she cares for, and he now knows himself to be
one of them. But oh, Buffy, don't you know that you shouldn't care? That this
will only hurt you? That you should let me go? That I need you so much and can't
let you go.

Closing his eyes, he feels the warmth recede beneath a rising tide of self-loathing
and guilt, which crashes over his ragged sanity. It's easier, he's learnt, to
indulge such feelings than to fight them or ignore them. Tried both, he has. First,
not listening, blocking out the voices by concentrating instead on his uneven,
unnecessary breathing. Then strengthening his resolve with images of himself,
strong again, fighting at her side. He'd succeeded in neither. The seductive lure
of Scooby-discontent, soothed by his Slayer's words, had won. And now he hangs
on every word, loves that even as they smother her with words of truth, Buffy
still defends him.

The downstairs discussion has drifted now, from the damaged vampire upstairs to
the house that also needs mending. Xander and Giles are discussing handyman priorities,
considering means of fortification; Anya advises Buffy on the insurance, while
Dawn listens as Andrew blathers about the benefits of combining the cheque for
the telly and VCR and purchasing a Ti-Vo. Spike snorts softly - not a bad idea.
Elsewhere, he can hear the chattering voices of the SITs, gossiping about Joe
Millionaire and American food, until one speaks up and requests that they be more
careful about wasting food.

Wasting. Now that's a word he rightly owns. He's wasting away. He's wasting resources.
He's a waste of space.

He stares down at himself, at the sheet covering what is left of his body. His
hand, lying in rest on the white sheet, has shrunken back to its normal size,
bones almost mended, but now stark and defined against his shrunken skin. His
wrist is as narrow as a girl's. He should do something about this, get up, go
downstairs, buy his own juice using his own dosh. But instead he stays here, in
her bed, surrounded by her. Damned if he would be move, even if he could.

His musings are broken by the sound of the door closing below, loud and firm but
not a slam. Not Dawn, then. Still, a Summers. Buffy, probably off to patrol. Listening
intently, he can overhear the distant murmur of voices below. The whelp is accompanying
her, probably bitching about him. Good, at least she isn't alone. Xander may be
useless, but in his newly soulled state, Spike can not but feel admiration for
the boy, brave as he is. All those years, side by side with Buffy, lending his
heart but unable to touch hers. Spike understands that, respects it even.

Wishes he could join her, considers it briefly. Do him good, some hack and slash,
a spot of violence. But the old rush isn't rising, his demon too broken and put
to care, and the brownish-red on the sheets warns against it besides. His gaze
is drawn to another small red stain on the sheet, right above his hollowed abdomen.
He's bleeding again, the wound having likely come unstuck during his troubled
sleep.

Another thing that touched him, rightly stained in blood.

It's all about blood. Always has been, from the moment he clawed his way out of
his coffin and into the dark London night. Born to slash, and bash, and bleed.
Dru'd told him that, and oh, he loved her for it . Taken her lessons to heart,
every one of them, and every one of Angelus' tortured teachings too. Excelled
at this new form of expression, this beautiful poetry written in red, lyrics he
owned completely.

But now the slash and bash holds little attraction, and the only blood that he
intends to spill again is his own. Funny, how slight his desire to replenish it.
He should be worried; no matter how sharp and cruel the Harbinger's knife, his
wounds should long since have healed. But instead he feels only numbness while
he watches with morbid fascination as the red begins to spread across the tawny
sheets until he again drifts off into a chaotic, restless sleep.

************

She's a warrior, made to fight. Kicking, punching, slaying, staking. Instinctive,
controlled, precise. It's what she understands, what she's good at. The rush,
the power, the knowledge; unique, special, extraordinary. And all so totally her.

She thinks she's almost happy now, in this graveyard, fighting off a gaggle of
Satreach demons. Icky, creepy, scaly things, they are, the adults a particularly
unflattering shade of orange, but she knows from experience that they are tougher
on the eye than on the wits and body. More typically found curled up over a cheap
beer at Willies, or maybe enjoying someone's Siamese on a spit than picking fights.

But too bad for them that they'd wandered into the Slayer's path tonight.

Slayer, The.

The term feels comfortable, finally. Once again it's something she is, rather
than a burden to carry. Unasked for, yes, but no longer unwanted. She wonders,
now, how she could have been so resentful of her calling last year, while she
was so oblivious to everything else?

Or almost everything. Swirling leather, flashing eyes, a cocky smirk, the smell
of tobacco. She remembers the intensity with which he fought and fucked and drank
and snarked, the tender way in which he listened, or moved his callused, knowing
hands over her body. The instant recall sends an unbidden shiver down her back,
leaves a tingling in her limbs. Adds to the adrenaline and turns her lips up into
a wide, almost feral smile, as the first of the strange demons comes at her with
a drunken bellow, and launches at her in its strange, vaguely kangaroo-like hop.

Buffy stands and waits for a fraction of a second, stepping neatly to the side
at the last moment, her smile growing still broader as the Satreach gets several
steps behind her before realising its mistake. The second, on its tail, receives
a foot in the stomach, followed by a surprise as Buffy drops and throws it backward,
into its friend. The collision makes a satisfying crunching noise.

Easy, natural, fun. If only it were so easy to put the rest of her troubles behind
her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy sees Xander make an appearance, moving out
of the trees with a speed that belies his size. She springs back to her feet,
turns her attention back to the remaining handful of demons, secure in the knowledge
he'll take care of Dazed 1 & 2, while she handles their friends. Being Xander,
he'll probably just knock them unconscious. Brutish and stubborn as he can be,
he isn't usually into the unnecessary euthanasia for the terminally stupid.

Unless they are vampires who get where he can't.

The thought comes unbidden to her mind, but she ducks away from it, leaving it
standing as she quickly, releasing a high roundhouse that connects with demon
temple. The impact drops thought and beastie alike. Yet, as she sweeps her leg
out in a trip, she thinks again how she, at least, misses him. His flashy moves,
crafty skills, his running commentary and ill-placed jokes. She wants him back,
her vampire companion. Her one partner; her only equal.

Xander's voice, shouting a warning, brings her back to battle as another demon
leaps to attack.

************

"Buffy!"

Spike wakens with a start and a strangled gasp. A kaleidoscope of images flashes
through his mind, brutal and erotic at once. Flying fists, ripping fangs, long
white necks, heaving breasts, nails tearing at skin in fear and passion alike
and blood. Blood everywhere. Then Buffy, rising from the red before he pulls her
back into it. A horrible nightmare, yet no different from his dreams for a century
past. Sleep is a seductive enemy now, and he almost wishes insomnia would fight
for him as well.

Panting quietly, Spike wonders how loud his cries where were, doesn't know whether
to be relieved that no one comes to him. Closing his eyes, he extends his senses
through the house. The flock of new birds must be out, the giggly resonance of
their voices and distinctive signatures of their scents not evident to his senses.
Dawn is gone, too. Must be Friday then, Buffy'd not allow her to go prancing round
with her mates on a weekday. Might have taken the other girls, too, or maybe they
went with Red. Giles is here, somewhere below. Likely in the dining room, studying
in what is left of his library. Andrew, too, sleeping downstairs on the couch.

He is alone upstairs, then, surrounded by silence. Once a curse of his alienated
life, the quiet is now almost a blessing. No words to cut him, but also nothing
to distract him from picking at his wounds.

The scent of blood still engulfs him, and as he opens his eyes again he sees that
there is a mug of it beside the bed. The handle is still slightly warm, he'd only
just missed whoever it was who brought it. He drinks it down rapidly, the bland
taste on his tongue doing nothing to improve his mood, but the thought of anything
else would surely bring a wave of nausea. Notes with interest that his wounds
have been cleaned and re-bandaged as well, although the sticky sheets are still
the same. Best to use them as long as possible, anyway. They'd be useless after
this. Stained and filthy. Yet another waste. Another reminder that he doesn't
belong here, in Buffy's bed, indulging in her protection even as he further stretches
her scarce resources.

So very selfish, he thinks. Shouldn't the soul have put a stop to this, wasn't
it meant to make him a better man? A hero, like bloody Angel? Someone who, at
the very least, wallows alone? But apparently not his soul. Just his luck to get
the defective one. Makes him pathetic and weepy, even as every part of him demands
that he take what he can from her. He revels in being here, lying naked beneath
her sheets, breathing air heavy with the tang of sweat, leather, the detergent
of her cheap shampoo and the lingering sweetness of her mock-label perfume.

Exactly what he wanted. Too much to give up.

He can count on one hand the number of times he'd had her in a bed. The night
she was invisible, that was the first. She'd come to him intent on re-living the
glorious release of that night in the wrecked house. No thought of repercussions,
no fear of Scooby intervention, no inhibitions or shame. The whole thing had been
a riot to begin with, until he'd realized what she was really about. Next, the
cuffs, when he'd chained her hands as she lay amongst the lush rugs on the floor
of his crypt. She'd trusted him to tease her, but had protested and threatened,
eyes strangely fearful, when she'd realized he was carrying her to the bed. Scared,
perhaps, that the softness would break her where stones and dirt and metal could
not. Still, once he'd deposited her on the bed she'd turned the balance of power
as she always did, making sure the both of them gasped and cried and screamed.

That had been a good night and his cock swells at the memory. A moment's guilt,
and he allows his good hand to wander across his chest then down his stomach as
he pictures her as she was, laid out before him, golden skin, glistening with
sweat, luminous against midnight blue sheets as she writhed beneath him. They'd
fought and shagged and played for hours that night. So clear, that memory, pleasant
and perfect and unbearable in its sweetness and promise of hope.

But that memory is too sweet for his melancholy mood, and he finds inside that
his mind travels, unbidden, to an encounter more suited to his honest mood. He
remembers with glee the spot of patrolling, their dance of power, the allure of
her sweat soaked body as they laughed over the scattered dust. Such twisted images
of sex and violence are too much, and Spike gives into his need, moves his hand
to his burgeoning erection, stroking hard as he remembers the way he'd kissed
her, and she'd kissed him. Thrusting tongues, grasping hands, the connection of
superstrong bodies. The way she'd tripped him, landed on him, then the desperate
grinding motion that had brought them both off.

Lying in the grass, beneath the sparse light of the quarter moon, he had taunted
and cajoled her to stay with him. He had thought then he was charming, of course,
but knows now he was right pathetic, begging and pleading, and she'd seen right
through him. She'd taken off for home, to her little sister and welcoming friends,
and he'd gone home to his darkened crypt. Drank some, smoked, then drank some
more until, with no expectation of company, he drifted into a restless sleep,
a fitting end to another night of vowing that things would change.

Only she'd returned. He'd woken to find her surrounding him, ripe, reddened lips
making a path down his neck and chest and her hot little body wiggling against
his. His hands had clasped the sheets as she'd traced his nipple with her tongue,
zeroing in and biting down with such force that he'd felt a ripple of agony. At
the memory, his hips lurch off the bed, a gasp escapes his mouth and he almost
comes. Pleasure and pain, sex and violence, right and wrong. Messed up, fucked
up, all blending together in his exquisite, golden goddess.

Eyes squeezed shut, he summons the image again. Buffy, moving down his body, hair
falling over his chest as her nails leave pale pink marks across his skin. Remembers
how she had paused when she'd reached his straining cock, hazel eyes meeting his
from beneath darkened, mascara-thickened lashes. He'd known at that moment that
it wasn't about love or fun or even pleasure. She was getting off on the power,
the freedom, the knowledge that he would do anything, expect nothing. He was hers,
body, heart and absent soul. But as her hands had traced his thighs, and her lips
had closed around him, he'd not cared a bit.

The bittersweet memory of her games is enough to bring him off. A few quick spurts,
easily cleaned up, mess disposed of quickly in the trash. A fitting end to his
reminiscing.

Reality's a bitch.

************

"That was possibly the lamest demon attack ever," Xander says as they make their
way onto her driveway. His hands are buried in the pockets of his baggy fatigues,
his gait a little tired but still steady.

Walking at his side, Buffy recognizes the feeling and has to agree.

"Uh huh," She groans, "A handful of Satreach demons isn't my idea of a challenge.
And hog-tying them and keeping them for the girls seems...wrong. I can't believe
there are so few vamps. Usually that'd be a good a thing, but how am I ever going
to get the girls used to combat if we never get a decent fight?" She throws her
hands in the air, a picture of righteous frustration. "Vamps. Never around when
you need them."

Xander shakes his head. "Love to, Buff, but diet, remember?" He pats his stomach.
"Single man, now. On the prowl. Must look...prowl-like."

She giggles at that. "I think you look fine, Xander. But if you insist on losing
a few extra pounds, I totally support you."

"Thanks, Buff. If I look fine now, I'll look even finer when I'm trim, taut and
terrific. Maybe snag me the woman of my dreams."

His mirthful brown eyes meet hers, and something passes through them. There are
moments between them, moments like this, when Buffy wonders if Xander is hinting
at the possibility of something more. They share a comfortable trust, an admitted
love. Companionship, reliability, security. Isn't that what romance is meant to
be about, what sensible people choose? Not the short-lived passion found in novels,
but an enduring friendship built on foundations of stone?

She's thought about Xander, especially over this summer, contemplated the ease
with which they fell into being a 'family'. Dawn would approve, had all but said
so. And she believes that Xander would take her up on any offer, despite whatever
may linger between he and Anya. But such thoughts were fleeting. A three-bedroom
bungalow and a man with a nine to five job are not for her. Xander may fall into
adventure, but his priorities in life are increasingly mundane. House, car, job
- no, career. She, Slayer, Chosen One, can't fit into that mold. She's not even
sure that she ever wanted to, and knows she doesn't now.

So she responds as best she can, a gentle smile, a pretense of ignorance.

"She's out there, Xander. And when you find her, your weakness for twinkies won't
mean a thing".

He takes her brush-off in his stride. Probably used to it, if he even meant it
as she feared he did. "Here's hoping. Anyway, have to be on-site tomorrow morning.
Might actually get some work done. Marvel at that concept."

She smiles a little wider. So easy, this relationship. "So, I'll see in you tomorrow?"

He nods, fishing car keys out of the letter box, along with the requisite junk
mail. He'd learnt the hard way it wasn't clever to leave sharp metal objects in
a pocket when on patrol.

"Bright and early. Or dim and late. Either way, I'll be there".

With a jaunty wave, he turns to unlock his car, it's silver coloring darkened
in the night. A nice car, symbol of success, the comfortable mundanity she rejects.
She stands and watches as he swings open the door, as he starts the care engine
and backs into the empty street.

A sigh escapes her, and she briefly scans the advertising pamphlets. Can't see
much in the dark, which she is vaguely relieved about. Money is short, and a sale
at The Limited would do her in. Still, she squints in the darkness as she wanders
up the driveway to the porch, reaching the steps before she remembers that the
front door is boarded shut, repairs still not completed. Yet another item on Xander's
extensive to-do list. She'll have to remind him tomorrow, beg yet another favor.
Or maybe she'll just put Andrew to work. Little weasel needs to start earning
his keep.

Rounding the back of the house, she carefully deposits the junk mail in the garbage.
No sales, no temptation, she thinks, and feels remarkably proud of herself as
she approaches the back door. So proud, she almost misses the petulant undertones
of Dawn's voice as it wafts softly across the yard.

The words are muffled, but Buffy knows what they are about. Dawn is rarely reticent
with her thoughts, and her opinions on Spike know no restraint. Yet there is a
difference between actual discussion and verbal sparring, and conversations about
the vampire invariably become the latter. Buffy wants Dawn to understand, but
knows she fails to explain. She has tried for the rational, the sensible, the
'we need him to fight' and 'he has information'. But the arguments are weak and
Dawn, possessed of their mother's insight, and a hardened heart more similar to
Buffy's own, is not so easily fooled.

So Buffy finds herself perversely interested in this seemingly bitter conversation.
She stands at the kitchen door, hand on the knob, listening to her sister's complaints,
hoping to find insight from words not spoken to her.

"I still don't get it. Why's he still lying around, hogging Buffy's bed? Aren't
vampires supposed to heal fast or something?"

"Yes, Dawn, they usually do," Giles replies. "Spike's injuries are grievous, yet
even that can not account for such remarkably slow healing. I am beginning to
question whether he is making progress at all, whether, indeed, he will get better."

"Good." Dawn's words, more vicious than a Harbinger's knife, and Buffy almost
winces as they slice. "I hope he doesn't.".

"Dawn..."

"I don't want to hear it, Giles," Dawn cuts him off. "Not if you're going to defend
him, too."

"Far be it for me to 'defend' Spike, Dawn." Giles' tone is steady, with perhaps
a slight undertone of irritation. His patience, too, is wearing in places. Still,
Buffy holds no illusions that Giles is protecting Spike. He has always treated
Dawn with a certain indifference and confusion, uncertain as he is about her place
in the world, her value. "But he has a soul now. A soul he fought for. It is a
remarkable thing. Spike deserves our help and compassion, Dawn, if not our trust.
My advice is that should try to give them to him."

This is the first time, Buffy realizes, that she has heard one of her friends
enunciate such an opinion. Words she needed to hear, even if they are not said
to her. She lays her forehead against the door, feels the relief wash over her.

Yes, Giles, thank you.

She is disappointed, but not surprised, that Dawn is less than impressed.

"I can't, Giles. Not after what he did! You do know what he did?"

"I know what he did, Dawn. I know what Buffy has told me. But it is for her to
discuss with you, not me."

"You think I'm too young."

"No. I think it is none of your business." He pauses, and Buffy can imagine him
removing those glasses, serious eyes boring into her sister's. "Dawn, I have learnt
that one can advise your sister, offer good counsel. But you can not rule her.
She makes her own decisions, and now more than ever we must trust that she knows
what she is doing. Can you do that Dawn? For Buffy?"

There is a pause, and Buffy uses the opportunity to push open the door. "Do what
for me?" she asks with feigned indifference.

"Buffy," they chorus. Both look surprised, Giles a little guilty, Dawn more than
a little annoyed.

Her sister's blue eyes dart to the door, then back to her. "That was so lame.
I know you were listening. Borrowing stalking habits from your rapist boyfriend.
You really need help." She turns, storms out, and Buffy knows that something has
happened her, something beyond the conversation she had just overheard.

Giles sighs, rubs a temple, then fixes Buffy with his intense blue gaze. "She's
been petulant all night, Buffy. Not to mention loud. I think...I think you probably
need to go and talk to Spike."


Buffy quietly pushes open the door to find him standing against the bed, half-dressed,
battered jeans slung low on narrow hips, but back still bare. Even in the dull
light of the bedside lamp, she can make out the greenish smudges and darker, blue-tinged
stains the that sully the expanse of pale, smooth skin. He stands awkwardly, right
arm raised at an odd angle as he tries to pull a black t-shirt over his head and
shoulders.

"What the hell you do think you are doing?" her words startle him, and he shudders
and tilts a little, coming close to falling before gaining control. It scares
her to see him like this, so battered that he doesn't detect her presence, that
he sways like a sapling in the wind at the sound of her voice.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" He responds gruffly, voice muffled by cloth.
"Getting dressed, aren't I?"

And yes, he is, except that 'getting dressed' is a generous description of the
awkward, painful movements, many of which seem dedicated more to staying upright
than pulling on clothes. The sight is absurd, and were it not for the warning
from Giles, and simmering anger, she likely would have laughed.

"You can't be serious," she says.

He struggles a little more, pulls the t-shirt over his head. He turns to face
her, revealing a stomach and chest still bandaged, white skin and whiter gauze
stained with red. Impossible not to notice how frighteningly slender he's become,
gapping clothing and jutting bones. He looks vulnerable and fragile, but the sharp
lines of face are settled in determination and when he speaks again his voice
is steady.

"Bloody serious. Gettin' out of here."

"And going where?"

"Don't matter."

He is still fighting to get the shirt all the way down, and she quickly moves
to help him. He guesses her thoughts, steps back jerkily, as if afraid of her
touch. Collides with the dresser, scattering a picture frame, pens, the empty
mug. They both stand shocked for a moment, like deer stuck in the glare of their
own high beam emotions.

"Sorry," he begins to lean over the to collect the mess, but flinches painfully.
Broken ribs mean he can't bend down. Another moment, searching for what to do,
then he seems to abandon the idea of cleaning up, decides instead to finish dressing.
"Boots," he mutters, moving further away again.

She kneels down to pick up the discarded items herself, watches his bare white
feet shuffle across the room as he moves away from her. Long toes; she remembers
how sensuous they feel against her calf. Feels her color rising, like the drops
of left-over blood had spilt from the fallen mug and now stain the carpet. But
it's ruined already, what's one more mark?

As she collects the pencils, she asks, "Spike, please, what brought this on?"

"Nothin'. Nothin' but a sudden burst of dignity."

"Spike..." She stands, replaces the discarded items on the dresser without taking
her eyes off him.

"I won't have it, Buffy. Everyone talkin' 'bout me, like I'm a cripple or a waste.
Need to get outta here. Let you sleep, here."

From his words, she knows. Giles was right. Dawn, the conversation outside, the
one in the kitchen, he heard them all. Still proud, her Spike, despite the raging
insecurities, his finger-tip grip to on sanity. Proud, but easily wounded. Having
let her and her sister pierce his armor once, he's now defenseless against their
incessant attacks. She hopes she can repair the damage.

He's holding onto the bed-head now, shaking a little from exhaustion. Likely not
going anywhere, whatever his bluffs. The temptation to point this out, to say
something more, is strong. Reason comes naturally to her, and she can think of
a million reasons that would make him stay, solve this problem now. You're being
controlled by the FE. I don't want you to leave because I can't watch you. You're
a danger, a menace. You need guarding.

But suddenly it's important to her that this be his decision, not a detention.

She lays a calming hand on his arm, gently pushes him back. "Just stay tonight.
I'll work something out tomorrow." Touching him like this, with gentle caresses,
is still strange to her. Does it feel as awkward to him as it does to her?

"Spike, please, stay."

Head tilted, he absorbs her words, eyes heavy with confusion. Finally he nods,
deflated, moves into her grasp. As she helps him back beneath the covers, the
she wonders again at this magnificent creature, killer of her kind, who conquered
his inner darkness even as she succumbed to hers. That he still has such faith
in her astounds her; just the power she has over him excites and terrifies her.
Only this time, she knows she's not going to misuse it.
Chapter 3

The solution to the Spike-problem presents itself the next morning, when Buffy
retrieves an old sick-bay cot from the high school basement. She'd vaguely recalled
seeing it on one of her previous trips into the bowels of the school, had even
thought about setting it up for Spike then. But her priorities had been elsewhere
and her emotions still jumbled from the soul revelation and the aftershocks of
the bathroom and the church and she'd left him to lie amidst the dirt and rats.

She's ashamed of how she acted then, when he was so fragile and in need of her
help. She's listened to the counsel of her friends, agreed with them that it was
only to be expected. He had hurt her badly and wasn't she supposed to stay away
from men who did that? But the words exchanged with vamp-boy Holden in the graveyard
echo in her head. Spike had loved her, really loved her. They had hurt each other,
but it was he who had done the extraordinary to make amends, while she ducked
and weaved and ran.

How different would things be, had she been there for him, had she stayed and
helped him be quiet? Would the First have gotten its claws in so deep? Would all
those people buried in that house still be alive? Would Spike still be so broken?

Buffy puts the cot in her car, then pays her usual visit to Xander on the construction
site. Notices, with some pride, that she still attracts glances and soft whistles
from the men. Notices, too, that Xander gets a couple of pats on the back, overhears
the teasing words:

"Harris, it's ya missus' checking up again."

"...under the thumb..."

"How'd a kid like you get a chick like that?"

She suspects that Xander doesn't correct such assumptions about their relationship,
but doesn't mind too much. She understands the need to hide beneath a pretense
of normalcy, if not success. She smiles broadly as he makes his way down the scaffolding
and toward her, even plays up a little for their audience.

Once she explains her plan to Xander he wastes no time in heading home at lunch.
Sets to work boarding up the basement with scrap found on-site.

"Not exactly Helm's Deep, but it'll do," he says as he puts the final touches
on the reinforced timber that stretches across where the basement window had been.

Safe as houses, Buffy thinks, standing amongst the ruins of her own. She knows
nowhere is really safe, not when their enemy is intangible and omnipotent and
controls the gateway to hell.

Xander is obviously proud of his work, even if not entirely satisfied with its
purpose. He's still not pleased with the idea of Spike in the house at all, but
she supposes the basement is a step up from her bed on the Xander-kosher-meter.

"Well, I'm finished here. Want me to come around later? Help take the Undead English
Invalid downstairs?" he asks.

Buffy shakes her head, declines his offer. Spike is clinging to what little dignity
he has left, and involving Xander in the moving process seems wrong, perhaps even
cruel. Besides, she has no need for buffering or human security blankets, not
anymore. She wants to do this alone, to heal and trust together.

"Nah. We're good," she says.

She really, truly hopes that they are.

***************

Giles watches as Xander's car disappears down the street, ferrying the boy back
to his blueprints, raw timber and tools of trade. The young man is spending more
time at his job every day and even the tasks he completes for Buffy have an increasing
tendency toward the mundane. Giles knows with a certainty born of experience and
age that Xander will be the first to leave Buffy's world, to build a wall between
his reality and hers that will eventually be insurmountable.

Buffy lingers in the kitchen, nibbling slowly on a thin sandwich as she gazes
into nothingness. It pains him to see it, but that blank, thousand-mile stare
has become as typical of his Slayer as her quips and high-spirited antics use
to be. As infuriating as she was, Giles misses that bouncing, happy girl in her
colorful clothing and impractical shoes, but he doesn't have the faintest idea
how to coax her back. But then, he also knows that she can never again be that
same girl-the harsh realities of the world have taken their toll on her, and some
things can never be recovered.

The former Watcher makes his way into the kitchen, leans back onto the counter
with a sigh. Is shocked to see her jump noticeably at the sound of his voice.
She must have been far away indeed.

"I assume you spoke with Spike?" he asks evenly.

Buffy finishes chewing before she answers. Chooses her words with unusual care.
"We talked. He's moving into the basement again."

Giles nods. The situation is still far from ideal, but better the basement than
an upstairs bedroom. The Watcher in him had accepted, reluctantly, that Spike
had changed, that he deserved help and forgiveness. But no amount of rational
acceptance of the uniqueness of Spike's soul could calm Giles' revulsion at the
thought of the vampire lying in Buffy's bed, his dead, corrupted flesh touching
her sheets. The vampire may have done an admirable thing, but his relationship
with Buffy, and the trust she placed in him, remained of continuing concern.

"Giles, I need to know what's wrong with him."

Giles sighs deeply, runs his hand over his face. What indeed? Despite his best
efforts, he doesn't quite know. To his mind, there are better things to research
than cures for injured vampires, but he nonetheless looked into things as best
he could and now offers up what little he can.

"It would seem that the Bringers' knives are in some way enchanted. A single wound
from such a blade has proved deadly to many a potential Slayer, where an attack
from a regular weapon would not. I assume that the knives have a similar effect
on Spike."

Buffy takes this in quietly, face inscrutable. "Which means what, exactly?"

"It means that in all likelihood, he will heal. But the process will be slow,
much as it would for a human."

"How long?" She has placed the sandwich back on her plate and is again watching
him with that frustratingly unreadable expression.

"It's impossible to say. Weeks, maybe. Months. He is living on a diet of pigs'
blood, Buffy. Healing may be slow." Giles pauses at that, considers his next words
carefully. Buffy's faith is Spike is curled and any broaching risks an explosion.
"I also can not discount the possibility that the problem is psychological."

A flicker of something crosses his Slayer's face, but it is gone so fast that
he wonders if it was just his imagination. Instead, her determined hazel eyes
catch his.

"I can," she says firmly. "Giles, if Spike could be up and helping me, he would
be. I know it."

Giles sighs. Another reminder that Buffy's faith in Spike is only to be expected
these days. He pinches the bridge of his nose, debates the wisdom of tackling
this head-on. He doesn't want to start a scene like the one the night before,
but cautionary words are in order, even if she does not want to hear them.

"Buffy, what Spike did for you, in getting a soul, it is a remarkable thing. Unprecedented.
I am rather stunned myself, and I imagine it is overwhelming for you. But, soul
or not, Spike is still a vampire."

He pauses, meets her eyes and tries to reveal the love that he doesn't have the
words to express.

"Buffy, I want better for you than that."

She looks back to her half-finished sandwich, dark lashes falling against her
cheeks as her eyes close briefly.

"It's not like you think."

He wants to believe her. Watches her carefully, but has no way of knowing whether
he can. It has never been easy for him to comprehend her emotions, but the reasons
for his confusion are so different now that what they were. The teenager he'd
taken into his care had been open, eager, impulsive and petulant, never reticent
in expressing her emotions. He knew what she was feeling, thinking, even as he
struggled to understand how and why she could act like that. But this woman before
him is a different creature altogether, and he can not even guess at the depth
of sentiment that lies behind her closed façade.

"Are you quite sure?" he asks.

She takes her time in answering, and he imagines he can hear the cogs working
in her brain. Wonders if she is searching for the truth, or perhaps only for a
version of truth she thinks will satisfy him. When she finally answers, her voice
is controlled but firm. "I do care for Spike, Giles. I don't want him to hurt
anymore. I...that's...that's all I can tell you now."

Giles nods and sighs deeply. "You've done what you can, Buffy. The rest is up
to Spike."

Buffy takes another bite of her sandwich, and doesn't answer for a long, long
time. When she does, her words chill him to the bone.

"We'll see, Giles. We'll see."

************

She collects him shortly after sundown, when she no longer has to worry about
stray sunbeams peeking through fractured walls and the remains of windows. He's
awake and waiting for her as she enters the master bedroom, already sitting up
on the edge of the bed. He fixes his intense gaze on her and raises an eyebrow.
The gesture elicits a shiver down her spine, memories of old Spike with bedroom
eyes and seductive words and quicksilver movements that electrified every nerve
in her body. How difficult this must be for him, a creature of boundless energy
and vigor, to be confined like this, lying listless and pained in the care of
the people whose calling it is to destroy him.

"Basement's boarded up again, so we're moving you back downstairs," she explains.

He accepts this with a nod. That was surprisingly easy. Likely he realizes that's
it's a compromise all round, one that takes him out of Scooby wrath, but keeps
him under her care.

"Ready?" she asks as she moves beneath him, arm settling around his waist. He
nods, and they stand up slowly. She hears cracking as stiff joints move into place.
His arm slung across her shoulders is heavy, but she likes the weight. Spike never
hesitates to lean on her; he trusts her strength in ways that Riley and Angel
never had.

Spike is still wearing the black t-shirt he'd struggled into the day before. The
material is corse and rough beneath her fingers. Worn, much like its wearer. She
feels a slight disappointment at the lack of skin contact. Another barrier between
them, undermining the intimacy of what should be a familiar posture. Everything
feels more clinical and detached than it did the night of the rescue. They have
rebuilt their walls and the space between them, and the air is heavy with uncertainty.

"This'll be a barrel of laughs," Spike mutters, legs wobbling in almost comical
fashion.

Buffy glances at him, tries to smile. "Hey, your idea to move, not mine. You want
to stay here, that's fine..."

He cuts her off with a shake of his head. "Let's get this over with, then."

Spike makes a brave and silent descent, but Buffy can sense his pain. He has neither
pulse nor heartbeat by which she can judge his exertion, but he takes deep breaths
despite the broken ribs, a subconscious revelation of the effort of walking down
two flights of stairs.

They both breathe a sigh of relief as she helps him onto the cot.

"Well, that was a picnic," he says, wincing and grimacing as he lowers himself
onto the cot. Its metal frame squeaks beneath his slow, painful movements. "At
this rate, I'm sure to be helpin' with the girls sometime 'fore they're in nappies
a second time."

It was, she supposes, an attempted at humor, but it falls flat in the ominous
darkness of the basement. The injuries should be healed by now, and both of them
know it. She wonders how scared he really is, beneath that strange combination
of bravado and depressed resignation.

She hands him a cup of blood that is resting on the ironing board. "Drink this.
You need it."

He tilts his head, smirks a little. "That I do."

Their fingers touch lightly as he takes the mug and Buffy feels a rush of prickly
ants run up her arms and into her stomach. Not desire, she tells herself firmly,
stamping hard on the lingering caterpillars in her belly.

She withdraws her hand quickly, obviously so, but if Spike notices her haste he
hides it well. He downs the blood in a single swallow, face remaining neutral.
Holds the mug out to her again with a slightly shaky hand.

She's amazed how Spike accepts everything so willingly these days. He used to
complain so much; "Fills you up, but it's right disgusting," "Worse 'n charred
and weeviled porridge and not half as nutritious," "I'd rather be buggered by
a centaur than down the stuff in public." But now it's another thing he accepts
almost gracefully, thanking her for its meager benefits with his crackly voice
and haunted, liquid eyes.

She takes the empty mug cautiously. "I'm sorry it doesn't seem to be helping more."

"Pigs' blood may be good for the soul, luv, but it's not doing much for the body,"
he replies as he lays back painfully, eyes blinking closed.

No, it isn't. Even Giles has admitted as much. His current diet is not doing a
thing, and she needs to change it.

She places the mug back on the bench, and turns to face him again. Watching him
lie beneath the thin blanket on the narrow cot, she realizes she'd forgotten how
small he is. When was the last time she even noticed? Soulless, Spike's physical
size had been irrelevant. Clothed in that billowing coat, possessed of the strutting
swagger, his presence had drawn the eye as he seemingly filled the room, his small
frame hidden beneath an aura of bravado and fearsome accomplishment. Even naked
and exposed in the rubble of that decrepit house, he'd still seemed so much larger
than life.

Larger than death even.

Strange, that he's so much more complete now than he was then, and yet he appears
so very diminished.

Small. Tired. Kinda broken.

Buffy's eyes pan up the bed-ridden vampire's body, drawn again to his face. The
contrast of light from the single bulb and the deep shadows emphasizes the sharp
definition of his nose and his hollow cheeks. Where the brightness hits his skin,
she can make out a lattice of fine lines, deepening around his eyes and across
his forehead. The youthful smoothness of his once-timeless beauty is gone. Like
Angel before him, he is aging, withering beneath the weight of guilt and the strain
of near starvation.

How old was he when he was turned? She'd never asked him that. Never asked him
much at all, really. Hadn't been particularly interested in his life or history.
Sure, she'd listened to what he had told her that night in the Bronze, but in
a typical display of self-absorption, she'd filtered out the parts that had not
been related to her. He'd spilled his life-story to her - or a version of it -
that night in the Bronze, and yet he is still so very much a stranger.

Suddenly, she longs to have that night back again. Drink beer and eat buffalo
wings and play pool amid the pungent odor of cigarettes and leather and whiskey.
Crack jokes and flirt and share a grin at the snide looks from the ignorant college
kids mocking the freaks by the pool table. Smirk with self-satisfied glee at the
over-endowed slut-bombs who made eyes at Spike as he lined up a shot with his
effortless grace. Laugh and relax, talk and listen. Listen. Care. Enjoy.

They would leave only after the last call for drinks. Wander outside together
to replay that alley scene beneath the setting moon. Only this time the foes would
be real, and she and Spike would fight side by side, on equal footing. She imagines
the exhilaration of a hard won battle; feels the coiled adrenaline that longs
for release. Fangs and fists and stakes, blood and dust, their partnership on
display for all to see and admire. How beautiful they would be together beneath
the dim glow of neon lights - fluid limbs and fancy footwork, two pale dancers,
cloaked in black but lighting the darkness. Then, afterwards, their enemies vanquished,
catastrophe averted, they'd head home, where they'd drink hot chocolate and watch
awful television until the sun peeked over the horizon. And the next night, they'd
do it all again.

But such dreams are a fleeting indulgence, a sinful pleasure followed rapidly
by deep and bitter anguish. For the image in her mind is not of the tragic, tortured
man who traveled to the ends of the world and back to give her what she wanted,
but rather of the old Spike, bedecked in his trademark duster, with his wicked
grin and flashing eyes and hint of deadly fang. He's so different now, so calm
and quiet, restrained, almost timid. It's difficult to imagine the sunken man
before her bouncing with Tigger-like glee at the thought of a hunt and she wonders
if it is wrong to resent that. To not want what he has sacrificed everything to
get for her.

Only he has been hunting, Buffy reminds herself, and there's an empty house and
a basement covered in dust to prove it. He's far from harmless, even now, and
she can't help but fear that curing him will hand an involuntary weapon over to
the First.

She twists her hands, shuffles her feet nervously, wonders if she can do what
she has planned. Wonders if she even should. What she has in mind goes against
every fiber of her being. But it's Spike, and he's different, and she cares. She
wants to care. So offer it she must.

Spike's tired voice interrupts her contemplation. "You got something to say, Slayer?
Out with it."

The slight snark in his words causes a flame to rise within her, a small reminder
of what she misses, what she wants back. She bites her lips, takes a breath.

Chickens out.

"Would human blood help?" she asks quickly, the substitute words falling free
with minimal forethought.

He snorts at that, as if she were asking if his fangs were sharp or whether he
liked wearing black. "Course it would help. But I won't be having it."

"You could, you know. From Willy's... or, um...the hospital..." And again with
the foot shuffle.

When he doesn't answer immediately, Buffy studies the pointed toes of her mock
leather boots intently as she draws patterns in the dust on the basement floor.
Notes distractedly that the very fact she can do that probably means the place
needs a clean. Like much of her life, really. She hides so much away in the darkness,
out of sight and out of mind, until catastrophe forces an airing.

She hears him sink into the pillow, can sense his indecision. But when he finally
speaks, his resolve is clear.

"No," he says firmly. "No, not after what happened the last time. I can't. I won't."

For a moment, she can not help but be pleased with his answer. She is giving him
permission to drink, to quench the demon she knows is raging inside him, to heal
fast and thoroughly and be rid of the pain. And he is rejecting it. This is real
change, and pride swells inside of her.

Then the contrary frustration hits. Like all things Spike, this is becoming a
drama she hasn't the time for. Morals are all well and good, but she needs him
up and fighting by her side, not withering away amongst the discarded refuse in
her messy basement. He's useless like this. And more than that, he's painful to
watch.

For a stretch of seconds, Buffy feels emotion and sense warring within her, until
her pragmatic nature wins out. He needs the blood, and she's in no mood to be
patient.

"Angel used to-" she begins, but Spike cuts her off.

"I don't care what Angel used to do. I'm not having no more soddin' human blood.
Had enough already." His voice catches on the final note. He averts his eyes hastily,
as if searching for something on the floor, the sheets, the walls. Searching for
something that isn't her.

Buffy sighs, swallows, then cautiously, as if reaching out to a wounded bird,
she covers the short distance to the cot and sits gently on the edge. He doesn't
move.

"Spike, it's blood from a hospital bag. No one gets hurt...."

He growls, a ferocious sound from somewhere deep in his chest. Does she imagine
it, or do his eyes flash yellow? Certainly, his voice is filled with anger and
frustration that cuts deep into her sensitized skin.

"You're not gettin' it, are you? Where the blood came from won't make a bleedin'
inch of difference to me or my overworked conscience! No drinking, no biting,
no needless brawling, no leaving this bloody basement. No nothin' that'll add
to this...to this misery..." His hand paws at the shirt above his heart, and he
looks at her with liquid eyes. "I can't stand anymore of it. I won't have it.
Not even for you!"

"Spike..."

His voice collapses to a whisper. "I don't want to hurt anybody, Buffy. Please.
Never again."

She silences him with a finger on his lips. She's gone about this the wrong way.
Roundabout routes and blurry watercolors never worked between them; she should
have been open from the beginning.

"Problem solved," she says softly, "Drink from me."

He starts at that, a sudden movement which clearly brings him pain, then looks
at her like she has suggested he take a midday bath in holy water. His eyes grow
wide as saucers, his mouth opens and closes, clearly lost for words. Imagine that.
Spike speechless. She almost smiles.

Finally, stammers out a single, strangled word. "What?!"

"I want you to drink from me."

She reaches out to touch him, but he jerks out of her reach. The cot squeals beneath
him, a harsh noise that cuts through the thick, still air and grates like sandpaper
on her already raw, exposed nerves.

"Are you out of your bleedin' mind? If I won't drink blood from a bloke I don't
give a toss about, what makes you think I'd drink from the woman I..." His voice
catches violently, and after a moment he rephrases, "...from you."

She lets her hand drop gently to the sheets beside his thigh, deciding to wait
a few moments before she tries to touch him again. Instead, she imagines the walls
built around her heart collapsing, tries as hard as she can to channel the escaping
fervor of sentiment into her eyes.

"Because it's different," she replies. "Because I want it."

Please, please understand.

"Oh, you want it? Well, that makes all the difference!" He laughs loudly, refusing
to meet her gaze. "Buffy, this isn't Anne Rice. If you want me to bleed you, I
have to rip your skin open with my teeth and suck. It'll hurt like a bitch. It'll
probably scar."

"You won't hurt me, not really."

Of that, she is less certain. Everything between them is fragile and potentially
painful. Like walking over fine crystal and feeling it shatter beneath your feet
and then cut deep.

Gently, cautiously, she reaches out and takes his hand where it is still grasping
his shirt. His fingers are limp in her grasp, and tremble slightly at her touch.
She smiles gently, meeting his gaze.

"Spike, touch me."

He blinks, tilts his head as confusion clouds his eyes. "What?"

She guides their hands to her lap, lays them across her thigh and her open palm
across his. "I said, touch me."

She feels his fingers tense and twitch, but he makes no immediate move to close
his grasp. Instead, they stay like that for a moment, gazes frozen on their touching
hands, the air around them heavy with anticipation. Skin on skin isn't new, not
even since the soul. Back to back in battle, a hand grasp to pull him to his feet,
her arm on his waist as he limps beside her. But touching him like this, voluntary,
unnecessary, gentle, this is different. He hasn't touched her like this since
last year, before the soul, when a gentle caress usually resulted in a scorching
burn. She has never touched him like this at all.

Then, slowly, his hand curls around hers, until their fingers intertwine. She
closes her grasp too, their hands tied. She watches their union, the details compelling.
His skin is white against her gold, his fingers thicker but similarly callused.
Warrior's hands, both. His nails are square, male, bitten to the quick. She remembers
when he used to paint them black. Kind of misses that, too, the old costume, even
if the punk thing did make him look kinda gay. She can't help but smile a little
at the memory.

Swallowing, Buffy looks up from their interlocked hands to his face, capturing
his wary gaze. She squeezes his hand gently and watches as his eyes light up.
In the depths behind them, she witnesses something stir, something deeper, darker,
richer and intense. Her body responds instantly, fingers tingling and heart jumping.
Her hand feels, still in his grasp, grows heavy with sweat.

Yet still, he makes no move to touch her further. Makes no move at all, other
than the irregular, unnecessary rise and fall of his chest and the slight tremor
of his grasp.

"Close your eyes, Spike," she orders softly, and he does, long smoky lashes falling
obediently against his pale cheeks. "I think, maybe, you don't believe me. That
I mean this. That's okay, you know. I get that you have doubts. I've said a lot
of things, asked a lot of things to you, that I didn't mean."

He begins to respond, but she raises her hand, finger lingering close to his lips.
He must sense her motion, because he falls silent again, allows her to continue.

"But that's over now, Spike. It really is." She lets her other hand to fall gently
onto their already clasped hands. Watches his eyes flutter beneath the lids, his
expressive face flitter from surprise to pleasure and back. "I don't have your
way with words. I'm more one for action. But I understand sensation, hearing,
sight, feel. Can you feel me, Spike?"

"Yeah...I feel you, luv." His voice is but a whisper. He is breathing more and
more heavily now, chest rising in and falling in an animated parody of life. His
hand, still holding hers, is shaking more violently, too, and she's transported
back to that moment of on her couch on the night of her return. Remembers how
he tenderly held her bleeding hands as she sat frightened and confused, an anchor
in a sea of fear and pain, quiet amongst the crashing waves and crackling thunder,
the storm of living.

"Really feel me, Spike. Feel my blood moving through me, feel my pulse....feel
my heart. Feel that I'm not afraid to touch you. I'm not creeped out or pissed
off or anything else that you seem to think I am. Can you feel me, Spike? That
I mean that?"

His response is a slow nod of his head, followed by a tightening squeeze on her
hand.

Yes.

Buffy releases a slow breath, imagines the ominous weight of history release itself
as she exhales. It's important that he understand this, that he know that she
has thought about this, that she wants it. And, oh, does she want it. She's thought
about it constantly in the days since she has been back, considered it from all
angles. She wants to share this with him - her life, her blood. Her trust.

She wants to help him to heal. To finally give back something, something real.

"I'm tired of hating and blaming, of hiding and running away. I'm tired of bottling
everything up inside, of being too scared to say what I mean or do what I want.
But most of all, I'm tired of lying to myself. I'm not going to do that anymore,
Spike. If you don't trust my words, trust in my body, in what I've always shared
with you before. Feel me when I say this, from my soul to yours: I trust you Spike.
I trust you not to hurt me."

She pauses to let the words sink in.

"And I want to do this."

Spike opens his eyes and slowly raises his head. His pupils are wide, emotions
raging as torrid as the seas. "Buffy," he says, his voice tight, slightly panicked.
"Buffy, you don't know what you're asking."

But she can see his resolve weakening, sense the desire rising within him, the
passion unfurling.

"I think that I do." She knows that she does.

She feels the seconds stretch between them, long and slow and steady as he works
through her revelations and his own labyrinthine emotions. She wonders, unwillingly,
if she has perhaps made a terrible mistake. Thinks that, maybe she has offered
too much too soon? Or demanded, more like. She'd assumed he'd want this, but what
if he didn't? Stupid, to make such a fool of herself. Stupider, too, to think
that he would leap at this, the chance to further indebt himself to her when she
has shown so little ability to manage existing dues.

She shifts restlessly, starts to move her hand as she begins to move off the bed,
get out of there. Go some place where she could cry, or hit something, or preferably
both.

At her slight movement, he tightens his grip, holds her fast, and even before
he speaks she feels she knows that the power and intensity she sensed awakening
in him is now on its feet and preparing to roar.

"Okay."

His voice is low, deep, like gently rumbling thunder, and Buffy feels the word
roll over her, slow and heavy and warm. She is acutely aware of the sound of her
breathing, of her heart racing, the feel of her warm, rich blood pumping through
her body. The beat of her pulse sends echoes in her head which such intensity
she is surprised the cot isn't thumping.

"More than okay," he adds, eyes darkening from a stormy gray to an intense and
seductive midnight blue.

Slowly, deliberately, Spike turns her palm over. His touch is gentle, firm, suddenly
tremble-free and erotically confident as his thumb begins to draw lazy circles
over the pulse point in her wrist. She gazes at the movement, absorbed by the
hypnotic, circular motion. It's such a slight gesture, a million miles from the
brutal explorations that had characterized their relationship previously, but
the effect is profound, and a wave of longing, lust and undeniable desire hits
her with such intensity that she feels she will drown.

Spike's small, pink tongue darts from between white teeth to moisten his lush
lower lip. The sight sends a flame of pure desire down Buffy's spine and into
her groin. She feels a swarm of superheated butterflies come alive in her stomach
as she remembers in vivid detail just where that tongue has been, the oh-so-clever
things he can do with it. What it felt like on her breasts, her navel, her clit.
The taste of it in her mouth, the flavor of Marlboros and Jack Daniels and that
intense, darkly erotic tang that is so uniquely Spike. The way he made her tremble
and scream.

His voice breaks through her trance. Raw and gravely, "You sure about this, pet?"

"Yes. Very sure...yes."

Oh, how very sure. She wants to know the velveteen softness of Spike's wicked
tongue again; wants to feel it on her neck as his sharp teeth tease her skin.
Longs to writhe beneath his skillful hands as they caress her back, her thighs,
between her legs, to feel the weight of his body as it settles against her; to
feel the completeness as his cock fills her.

With dreamlike slowness, wrapped in memories and sensation, Buffy tilts her head,
brushing the hair away and, like a woman in thrall in some cheesy vampire film,
exposes her throat to his waiting fangs.

But he doesn't lean into her neck. Instead, Buffy finds herself frozen by surprise
and a strange sense of surreal dismay as he raises their joined hands to his mouth.
She fears, for a moment, that he has changed his mind, that he doesn't want this,
doesn't want her. But then her runs his tongue gently over the small pulse point,
lapping at the cooled sweat, and her lingering disappointment, that traitorous
doubt, evaporates like water poured on hot coals.

Spike's forehead shifts, the brow deepening, stark ridges rising from beneath
pale skin. His pupils, still fixed on her, contract and distort as the crystal-ice
irises shiver and shatter, revealing a riveting gold. His grip on her hand tightens
as his demon surges through him, and suddenly this is very real. Almost too real.
She's never been this close, this intimate, with Spike's demon before. Her Slayer
senses awaken, the mystical power inside her roaring and rebelling, indignant
at the idea of intimacy with a creature she is empowered to slay. She stamps on
them, hard. Her choice to do this, hers alone, destiny be damned.

Spike is watching her still, demon eyes intense and unblinking, laced with a desire
and adoration so intense that she is left breathless and trembling. A silent question
passes between them, acknowledgment that this is the final moment, the point of
no return. But Buffy committed to his journey the moment she collected him from
the shelter of her bedroom, perhaps even from the moment she rescued him from
that cave. There is no room for U-Turns, no going back.

The Slayer nods her consent.

A flash of fang, and his mouth descends on her wrist. Buffy experiences in hazy
slow motion the sensation of taught skin stretching and breaking. The pain is
sharp, sudden, intense. Pain to remind her she is alive, and she has never felt
anything quite as enlivening as this.

The effect is electrical, a jolt from something powerful and dangerous to touch.
Explosive. Fire and ice and pleasure and pain shoot through her, leaving a trembling
heart and limbs of warm treacle. She feels the butterflies in her stomach burst
forth, sees the world around her disappearing for a moment into a chaos of vivid
colors and movement, until clearing, there is only Spike. Her hot hand clasped
in his cool grasp, his warm tongue on her fevered skin, his eyes fevered, swirling
amber and blue chiaroscuro, brimming with Spike's intense and open emotions. Hunger
and need, desire and pain and gratitude and, most of all, love.

Such terrible, absolute love.

She can feel the journey of her blood, from her heart through her veins, to where
it flows from her body into the moist, inviting warmth of Spike's mouth. It's
more than vitamins and minerals, red and white cells. It's healing life and power;
memories, burdens, fears, even identity. She imagines that she can feel her essence,
her being, pulsing through him, closing and healing his wounds, both physical
and mental. She wants to pour herself into him, body and soul, rejoice in the
feelings of liberation and connection and love.

Almost unconsciously, Buffy feels herself moving into Spike. Her free hand tangles
in his hair and she pulls herself closer until their joined hands are trapped
between their heaving bodies. She needs to touch him, to feel him, inside and
out, and her hand travels through his hair, round his neck, down the planes of
his face, his chin, his fabric-covered chest. She slips her fingers beneath his
t-shirt, caresses his smooth abdomen, before moving over the hem on his jeans,
and then lower still. He's hard, of course, and strains beneath her touch. Growls
low in his throat as he clutches her to him with a fervor that would crush an
ordinary woman.

Then she is in his lap, instinctively moaning and grinding and surging against
him. He gasps slightly, perhaps from pain, but holds her fast when she starts
to move away, his hand firmly clutching the back of her head, buried in her hair.
She responds by clutching him tighter between her legs, pushing herself into him.
He thrusts upwards towards her warm center in turn, the movements of hips timed
to the laps of his tongue, both increasingly erratic as the tension mounts between
them.

She revels in the overwhelming sensation of emptying herself into him, in the
effect it has on the powerful creature before her. She feels powerful, possessive,
wanted, needed. Feels also, with equal intensity, the tingle of electricity that
rushes to fill the spaces left by her retreating blood, livening dim and dusty
corners of mind and body alike. The sensation is amazing, her toes curling, stomach
taut and stretched as she arches back, meets his strains, strains and cries as,
finally, the rising tide overwhelms her and her world explodes, again, in an orgy
of pleasure and color and release.

And so it ends. Buffy watches in a hazy, distracted way as Spike slowly lowers
her to the bed, his hand still beneath her head. His demonic features slip back
into human ones, the sound distant and blurred in her ringing ears. His tongue
on her skin again soft and smooth, methodical and calming. And then it is gone,
as he removes his lips from her skin. A final kiss to her tender wrist, and her
gently lowers her palm from his mouth.

The separation is almost painful, but she can do nothing but lie motionless as
she waits for feeling to return to her limbs, and the jumble of her feelings to
settle and distill. So she lies and listens to their ragged breathing, as Spike
tentatively and gently moves his limbs from beneath her.

Still leaning above her, she fixes her would the most amazing look of love, and
peace and gratitude.

"Thank you Buffy," he says, eyes calm and blue now, glistening slightly at the
corners. "Thank you for trusting me."

She nods, gently reaches up to caress his cheek. "You didn't take enough..." Enough
of her blood. Enough of her. She wants to give so much more.

He shakes his head. "I've taken too much. And you've given me everything I need."

She watches as he bites his lower lip, eyes flicking to her lips. After all they
had just shared, his apparent nervousness at just kissing her is almost funny.
He takes her smile as an invitation, and, leaning down, places a tentative kiss
on her forehead. She very nearly rolls her eyes, and she captures his face in
his hands and kisses him gently on his lips. The broad grin on his face sends
another wave of pleasure through her, and she smiles in turn. Such a long time,
for both of them, since they have smiled.

Shaking his head, Spike collapses beside her. Groans a little as his aches reawaken.
"That was amazing, luv. But I'm gonna feel it in the morning."

She giggles. "I'll probably envy you. I'm kinda worried I won't be feeling anything
anywhere until at least midday tomorrow."

His looks pleased at the comment, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles
a rare smile. "Stay here then, yeah?"

She allows herself a brief moment of indecision, turns over the downside of being
found here, like this, clutched in Spike's arms, surrounded by the aroma of blood
and sex. But she quickly discounts it. She's already been practical tonight. Now
for the overwrought and romantic.

She nods, luxuriates in the look of pure, delighted pleasure that passes over
Spike's face. Closing her eyes, she settles herself against his silent chest.
It's spare moments before she drifts off to the rhythmic feel of his hand in hers
and the low buzz of the downstairs refrigerator.
Chapter 4

Lying in the pale morning light, Spike watches his Slayer sleep.

She lies sprawled across him, her head resting below the curve of his shoulder,
her ear against his silent chest, her legs entangled with his. His chest quivers
slightly where her warm breath touches his cooler skin, and her upper arm is soft
and slightly sweat-misted beneath the gentle caress of his fingers. Despite the
weight of his guilt and his soul, and the knowledge that this must end, Spike
knows he's grinning like an idiot.

Spike wonders what he could sell, what price he would pay, to freeze this moment,
to hold back the sun and lie with her forever beneath the soft, pale light that
divides day from night. But there's no one to bargain with. Morning is rushing
toward them, he can feel its approach in his bones, and sense it in the more material
indications - the first call of birds, the silence of insects, the distant noise
of early rising humans going about their morning business. Strange that he is
almost oblivious to the passage of years, yet in moments such as these even individual
seconds pass in such intense detail.

Buffy shifts slightly, demanding his attention even in sleep. She murmurs softly,
and Spike stills, but she doesn't wake. Deliberately, with concentrated effort,
he times his intake of breath to hers. He's done this before, on those rare past
occasions when she'd allowed herself to fall asleep beside him. Taken comfort,
then as now, in the knowledge that they could move in harmony in the calm quiet
of sleep, just as in the hectic chaos of battle. But this is the first time he's
ever felt a connection beyond the simultaneous rising and falling of their chests;
the first time he has ever lain with her hand clenched in his or her blood in
his veins.

Her blood, rushing inside him. Warming and enlivening and healing. A bloody miracle,
that. He still can't quite believe it.

Running his tongue across his lips, Spike can still taste the marvelous, tangy
taste of her blood. Rich, satisfying, evocative. It's probably why sleep was so
elusive; he's still buzzed, pumped on slayer blood and the lingering affects of
arousal and adrenaline. Except the memory of their bloodletting and bonding results
in a jolt of intense, almost painful arousal, lighting every nerve of his body
again, rousing the demon within. His hand involuntarily tightens around hers.
Closing his eyes, Spike tries to get a grip on his body.

Fails.

Daring a quick glance down, Spike confirms that his morning erection is present
as always, and dangerously close to his sleeping slayer. He shifts uneasily.

Startled by the movement, Buffy stirs slightly, mutters something in a sleep-hazed
voice. He freezes. But it's too late. Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat,
the rising fear, Spike manages to say that only thing that comes to mind.

"Morning, luv."

Buffy's mussed head rises from its place on his shoulder, her hooded eyes unfocused
as she struggles to shake off the lingering lethargy.

"Spike? I..."

Time's up, and he waits for the blow. Watches her face intently as the various
emotions flit across it: first surprise and confusion, then relief, and finally
something truly surprising, something rare and golden, something he doesn't quite
dare believe might actually be happiness.

Eyes bright and face open, Buffy smiles; a wide, deep smile that awakens old memories
of sunrises and bluebells and Helen of Troy. It's all embarrassingly sappy, but
in that moment Spike hardly cares. He could almost write poetry again, except
that would require paper and he doesn't want to move. He just wants to lie and
stare.

Buffy's inquisitive voice breaks the silence.

"Did it work?"

"Huh?"

"My blood. You all healed?"

Spike blinks. Of course, the wounds. He'd forgotten about them. He supposes the
blood must have done something if that were possible. Or maybe it was her presence.
The night had been so perfect; perhaps his frayed nerves were lethargic and lazy
from carrying other, more pleasurable sensations?

Licking his lips, Spike looks down at his chest and tentatively moves one leg.
No crippling agony.

"Er...yeah. Think so..."

Buffy beats him to it, her little hands pushing up his T-shirt as she quickly
sits up.

"Let me see..."

He shivers slightly beneath her touch, but she doesn't seem to notice, intent
as she is on examining his wounds. Her fingers work gently over his stomach, his
chest, and Spike again shifts nervously. Prays she doesn't pay too much attention
to his other parts. .

Impromptu assessment finished, Buffy pronounces him fit.

"They're all scabby and yucky, but not bleeding anymore."

She flashes him a winning smile; big, big eyes filled with happiness and, he thinks,
satisfaction.

"And that's very much of the good."

Oh yeah, definitely satisfaction.

Her hands linger on his body, gently caressing the skin surrounding the nastiest
gashes. Unfortunately, the effect her touch is having on him is something quite
different. His body, already reacting to her nearness in impossibly inconvenient
ways, now begins to betray him completely. He's painfully, and obviously, hard;
the throbbing beguiling and he can feel his hands begin to tremble in that annoying
way they do when Buffy gets too close.

"Buffy...I..."

The words, whatever they were, disintegrate in his mind, and it's like he's human
again, stuck in that Victorian parlor, nervous and tender and trying to think
of something to say that wouldn't embarrass him further.

Buffy's silent too, still looking at him with that stunningly open, indescribable
expression.

A sudden flash of panic flushes across her face, and before any words leave her
mouth, he feels his heart shatter and crumble.

"Shit! It's Inservice day. I so can not be late."

She pushes herself off him fast, and he doesn't know whether to be angry and disappointed
or simply immensely relieved.

"There's this Nazi bitch from hell at work, she's just waiting for me to screw
up..."

He watches Buffy hop around the room, searching for the shoes she'd kicked off
the night before. She's delightful, all vibrant and glorious. Effulgent, his mind
offers, but he pushes it away. She flashes him another grin.

"Want anything? Need anything?"

Spike shakes his head, still shifting through his dancing emotions. This friendly,
business-like efficiency is something entirely new, and he's not entirely sure
how to deal with it. She reaches the bottom of the stairs, then turns back to
him, all pulsing energy. He guesses he should at least be relieved that she showed
no signs of ill effects from the blood-loss.

"Okay, anything you want, I think you can get upstairs for now. There's blood
in the fridge. Er...pig, of course."

Her voice hitches only a second, but her fingers go instinctively to her wrist.
Spike can't hold back a slight wave of pride, that he'd marked her there and she'd
let him. But the moment passes, and she moves to the foot of the stairs.

"Giles and Dawn and everyone are home at the moment, but I'll talk to them before
I leave. So, don't freak out. You could watch television ... or maybe, you know,
take a shower."

She adds the last part pointedly. Not exactly a suggestion. Spike flashes a soft
grin in reply, but she's not looking at him, really. Her eyes dart around the
room as clutches at the handrail and continues her frenetic little on-the-spot
bouncing.

She must have caught his look of hurt and confusion after all, because in the
next moment, she is back beside him, fingers tracing his cheek and chin as she
touches her soft, warm lips to his forehead. There's a moment's hesitation and
she kisses him again on the lips, gently and briefly but rich with meaning. They
both tremble slightly as she pulls away.

Meeting her fathomless eyes, Spike can see only see only kindness and caring,
and he feels again that horrid stirring of hope. It's unfurls deep in his belly,
stretches and crawls through his body and into his limbs; paralyzes him worse
than a tazer blast.

"I'll be back later, 'kay?" Buffy whispers. "And we'll talk."

Spike thinks he nods, but he's really that not sure. He can do nothing else but
stare after her in silent shock; the sensation of her lips on his forehead, on
his mouth, and her fingers on his cheek, lingers long after she is gone.

Finally, goofy smile back on his face, he lies back against the sheets and sleeps
soundly for the first time in weeks.