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

When Spike wakes a second time, it is to the bright light of late morning and
the blaring of a stereo in an upstairs bedroom. The music is tacky and witlessly
irritating. British Pop. Bloody offence against good taste and good reason. Probably
belongs to one of the ankle-biters. Spike briefly entertains the thought of storming
upstairs and ripping the ears off the mini-skirted, glitter-nailed bint that was
listening to it. But the image gave him significantly less pleasure than it should.

Bleedin' soul. Puts a damper on all his fun.

Lying back, Spike tries to recapture the elusive remnants of sleep. He's not ready
to wake quite yet; not if there is any chance of snatching back the dream-like
memories of last night. His mind is still awash with a kaleidoscope of images
that hardly seem real; that he would not have believed could be real were it not
for the feel of warm, potent slayer blood rushing through to his extremities.
He inhales deeply, relieved to find the scent of their encounter still lingering
in the air and attempts to drift into blissful fantasy again.

A squeak from the upstairs door draws him rapidly back to full consciousness as
his acute senses scream awareness of a new presence making her way down the stairs.
Smells like Buffy, but different, a touch lighter yet older... and darker.

Dawn.

The rush of adrenaline and a slight whiff of fear are not quite masked beneath
the ozone-like scent of her spray-on deodorant. One of them flowery scents advertised
by wankers giving flowers to some random bird on the street. Nothing spontaneous
about this, though. Despite her fluttery heart, Dawn takes the steps with cautious
determination.

Gonna say her piece.

Spike braces himself for what he knows will be a draining conversation.

When she finally speaks, her voice is steady, only a slight quaver hinting at
underlying fury.

"I saw her leave here this morning."

With a sigh, Spike opens his eyes and turns to face her. His Little Bit, perched
on the stairs as nervously as a bird on a wire.

"Did you now?" he asks, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

His fingers itch for a fag. Been a while since he'd thought about one of those.
Strange he didn't crave one last night.

Focus.

Her large blue eyes meet his is an icy stare.

"You're fucking again, aren't you?"

There is still something faintly Victorian about Spike, enough that it stills
shocks him slightly to hear such language from the lips of such a slight girl.
All thoughts of the cigarette are gone.

"What?!" he chokes out as he sits up abruptly. He regrets the move immediately
as a small sliver of pain cuts its way through his ribs. Not entirely healed,
then. "What the heck kind of a question is that?"

She remains silent, crossing her arms, but never dropping her eyes from his. Girl
could outstare a tiger.

Spike sucks in his cheeks, searches for an answer that isn't gonna get him staked
by someone.

"Niblet..."

She's having none of it.

"I'm not your 'Niblett,' your 'Little Bit' or anything else. I'm Dawn Summers.
No, you're not even worthy of that honor. It's Miss Summers to you."

"Well, pet, if we're getting all Victorian, you'd actually be 'Miss Dawn...'"

"Shut up."

"Fine with me."

He'd rather not answer her questions anyway.

Spike knows he's usually good with words. Good with most folks, but 'specially
clever when it comes to this girl. Treat her like an adult, say something clever
and little saucy, win a grin that lights stars in her eyes. All so easy. But there's
nothing he can say that'd make this right. Her hatred feels so real, so thick
he can feel coating him like tar. He's not sure he even blames her.

Fuck. He tried to rape her sister.

So Spike decides instead not to talk, not even to think. He lies back, stares
at the ceiling. Floorboards, cobwebs, nothing much different from home, really.
Or what use to be home. Doesn't really have one of them anymore, does he? Another
problem.

Why won't she leave so he can get some more sleep?

Dawn's shuffling a bit, nerves rising and heart pounding faster. Her script wasn't
going to plan, and she was probably wondering whether to wing it. She decides
it's worth the risk

"Are you sorry?" she asks.

Spike flinches slightly. God, how could she think he was not? He sits up again,
swings his legs over the side of the cot and tries to assume a posture approaching
dignified.

"Am I sorry? Nib-I mean, Dawn... 'Sorry' doesn't begin to cover it. It's just
a word. People say it all the time. Doesn't mean anything; just something that
makes the speaker feel better 'bout themselves."

Dawn shakes her head. "I don't get that. Sounds like a totally lame excuse. Isn't
everything just a word, really?"

"'Tis different". He pauses, shakes his head, grips the sheet and tangles it around
his fingers as he tries to find the words.

He's never been reluctant to share with Dawn before. She, alone of the Scoobs,
always understood his darkness, his conflict, accepted his weaknesses without
ridicule or disdain. But so much has changed ... Spike notices he's torn a hole
in the bunched fabric. It can be patched, but never truly made right. Never restored
to what it was. Probably the same with him and Dawn. But he still wants to try.

"That night, in the bathroom, I wasn't thinking...let everything get the better
of me. I was weak and desperate, and pissed out of my brain. Not excusing myself,
just saying, I didn't go there with the intention of... of doing that."

She's still watching him with those intense, cobalt eyes; face unreadable. He
continues in the steadiest voice he can manage.

"I've never been one for introspection, Dawn. Just kinda do it, you know, live
with the consequences. 'Cept, couldn't live with that. So I went and got the soul.
Like I said, I don't believe in saying sorry. I believe in doing something 'bout
it. That's why I can't apologize to your sister, why I certainly can't apologize
to you. Cause words aren't good enough. But I'm gonna do something, do something
right. Act better. Promise it. I'm never gonna hurt your sister again." Spike
paused, meets her eyes with a fervent intensity "And Dawn, I keep my promises."

She holds his gaze for a long, frozen moment, as she weighs his words.

Then time melts. The smell of salt rises in the air as her lip trembles, her eyes
fill with glistening liquid and a sob escapes her pink-glossed lips.

"Except you don't, do you?"

She's crying now, words cracking and uneven.

"You weren't there when we needed you. You went away and you didn't say anything
and...and you went away because of Buffy... and now I know it was all about Buffy.
You never thought about me, only about Buffy."

In that brief space of moments, Dawn's simmering fury has collapsed into a messy
puddle of tears and soaking misery. She's really crying. Crying her eyes out because
of him. Another victim of his foolish ways.

Instinctively, he opens his arms and draws her willowy frame to him. She resists
for only a moment, before melting into his embrace. And it's not awkward like
it was before, his movements no longer guided by distant memories, but by a genuine
understanding of human need that spills from his soul to his heart. The need to
comfort is suddenly so natural, so real, so stunningly intense, and the words
pour out in rapid, unconscious, and, most likely, incoherent succession.

"Oh, God, Dawn. I'm sorry. . . . So sorry. . . . I'm a bad man, Dawn. A stupid,
rash, bad man. I didn't think. I should have said goodbye, wished I could. But
I couldn't. . . . Not after that. Couldn't see you again. Not, . . . not after
that...so, so sorry..."

Time passes, and Dawn's sobs slow and then stop. Finally, she sniffles, and allows
her thin arms to slide around his waist, and she clutches him to her. Oh, it's
good. Warm and wonderful and so completely unlike what he has with Buffy.

Friends.

Spike toys with the word in his head. Examines the wondrous feeling of satisfaction
when he says it. He'd thought he'd grown to love this girl before, but it was
but a glimmer of what he felt now. She's his friend and she cares for him and
there was no shame in that, no uneasiness or secret horror. It feels natural and
right, and, sod dignity, it's suddenly also very important that she knows what
it means to him.

"Die for you, I would, same as for your sister." He murmurs the words into her
hair. "I love you Dawn. I know you don't believe me, nor reason to, but I'll prove
it again. You'll see."

Her voice is muffled against his soggy shirt.

"I do believe you."

All he can do is grip her tighter.

"Ow."

She begins to struggle against him, but it's good-natured. Spike releases her
slowly, and she pushes herself back, sits up and straightens her clothing dramatically.
Wipes her face on the back of her sleeve. It's almost comical, her attempt to
present a picture of maturity despite her red-rimmed eyes and snotty face. He's
tempted to laugh, but it would probably ruin the moment.

"Okay," she says, as authoritatively as possible. "I'll give you one more chance.
But that threat? The fire? It still stands"

"Don't doubt it."

"Good."

"Right."

Another moment of silence, but this time Dawn's eyes are brighter, that star-like
sparkle is back. He can see the mischief rising.

"So, now we're like friends again and all, and there shouldn't be secrets between
friends..." She raises an eyebrow, and her pink-glossed lips curl in an almost-smile.

"...are you and Buffy fucking again?"

Spike snorts, shakes his head. Pushes himself to his feet and stalks past her
onto the stairs.
"That, Niblett, is something you're gonna have to ask your sister."
...........................

She'd changed the shower-curtain.

It's bright yellow now, or white, but with large, printed daisies. Glaringly,
almost insultingly cheerful and ugly as sin. Soul or not, it almost made him nauseous.
But... it's probably better to start the days with an eye full of offensive décor
than to be reminded of an attempted rape.

Grinding his teeth and closing his eyes, Spike manages the single step from carpet
to tile. Strange, that he should be so distressed, when it is Buffy who was attacked.
Seems almost an insult to her, a parody of her pain. Not that he is surprised.
He'd always been too emotional for a vamp, and for a man; too readily caught up
in the ebb and flow of passion. Never easy to live like that. But not half as
hard when he had was guilt and conscience free.

Still, only right that he should suffer this torment.

Moving to the middle of the bathroom, Spike casts his eyes over the scene of his
most blistering memory. The rest of the place looks the same. Sink, lavatory,
basin laden with all kinds of girly products and several different soaps. His
observations bring a strange uneasiness. The room is a vivid symbol of humanity
in all its weaknesses and strength and propensity for change, where the most base
of human functions are transformed into something almost luxurious by the antiseptic
efficiency of the modern world.

Introspection may not be his thing, but Spike's not short on imagination or dreams.
He wonders, sometimes, what it would be like to be human again. He'd even contemplated
it briefly on that agonizing flight to Africa. He doesn't know for certain, but
he suspects Lurky'd probably have given it to him, had he asked. Wouldn't that
have given the Poof a shock? Still, he'd come down on the side of no. Spike can
hardly remember what it was like to be William, but he knows he didn't like it.
When it came down to it, he didn't think that Buffy would've been impressed either.

'Sides, what would have been the point? It wasn't the just the demon that forced
Buffy onto the cold tiles, that thrust its legs between hers. It wasn't the demon
who hadn't heard the word 'no.' It was the man. The selfish, dependent, willfully
blind man who'd been so desperate for love and affection, so truly pathetic and
delusional, that he'd devoured the slightest crumb, hung on to the most flimsy
thread, and pulled the woman he claimed to love down with him.

Spike leans over the sink, white knuckles gripping the edges of the basin. He
feels the strong urge to vomit up everything in his stomach, but is even more
revolted by the thought of loosing even a drop of slayer's blood. His undeserved
gift; his most precious possession.

"She's moved on mate, so can you."

Determinedly, Spike walks to the shower, turns on the spray and steps inside,
oblivious to the cold. He feels the water begin to wash away the grime and blood.
Imagines that it can clean his soul.

This, at least, is a start.
Chapter 5a

Reluctant as Spike was to enter the bathroom, he is nearly as hesitant to leave
it. Spike stands at the door, hand on the doorknob, listening intently for signs
of life in the house beyond. Bloody stupid thing to be doing, but he's in no mood
for questions, let alone curiosity, and the last thing he wants to do is run into
a gaggle of Slayer wannabes.

He's dressed again in the familiar black jeans and plain black T-shirt. It made
him smile when he realized Buffy had left them for him. His smile widened when
he realized they were new. Cheap, chain-store jeans, the type he'd rather have
been dusted than be seen in a year ago. But he couldn't give a fuck now, not when
she'd shopped for them; shopped in expectation of rescuing him. It was the strangest,
most touching thing he could possibly imagine. They'd never, in all their time
together, exchanged any kind of gift. He'd never had the courage to risk it; he
doubted she'd ever considered it. And yet here she'd gone and bought him clothes.
She'd even known what size to buy. Funny that, considering he couldn't remember
a single instance in all their time together when she'd paused long enough to
check the label.

The house beyond the door is quiet, but he knows it won't be for long. He decides
this lull is as good as any other. Finally, he pulls the door open, steps into
the corridor and makes his way downstairs, bare feet padding along the thick carpet.

He's almost at the basement door when the sound of Giles' voice, cool and deadly
calm gives him cause to stop.

"I see you got what you wanted."

Too calm.

"And what's that then?" Spike asks as he turns to meet the Watcher's glare.

Giles looks even older, more exhausted than usual. The lines on his face are etched
deeper, his brow furrowed in a crease, gray hairs sprouting on his receding hairline.
Humans age, and it's been a while since Spike's seen this one; but surely not
that long? Last time was during that ridiculous farce that resulted from Red's
mind-wipe spell. A year? Sounds about right, even though it seems like so much
longer. So much has happened since then.

"You know what I'm talking about." Giles' tone is severe, cutting, and Spike has
the sudden sense that he's about due for a scolding. How bloody ironic, given
that the last time they spoke he was calling the bloke 'Dad.' Definitely a moment
best forgotten.

"Know what, Watcher? Not in the mood for chit-chat, much less twenty questions.
What happened between the Slayer and me, that's our business. If Buffy wants you
to know, I'm sure she'll tell you; you being her Watcher and all." He turns back
to the stairs. "In the meantime, I'm gonna waste the rest of my day getting some
hard earned kip."

Spike's through the door and partially down the stairs before Giles' deep sigh
reaches his ears.

"Spike, please, a moment."

Spike is mildly disgusted to find that he stops immediately. He's never been able
to put his finger on it, but there's always been something about Giles that gets
his attention, despite his long-lived aversion to authority figures.

Spike remembers in vivid detail that long, awful night when Giles was a guest
of Angelus; the night that saw the birth of his uneasy alliance with the Slayer,
and the beginning of the end of his life with Drusilla. Remembers how Giles' screams
had echoed through the empty rooms of the mansion, until at last they had petered
out into hoarse groans and half-choked sobs. And yet the Watcher had withstood
it all, the worst of Angelus; had held out for duty, or pride, or for the love
of a tiny blonde girl who'd already started to pull on Spike's own heart.

It's impossible to remember that night and not feel a deep respect for Rupert
Giles; but more impossible, still, for Spike to willingly show it, even if the
bloke is fixing him with the same steel-gray gaze with which he stared down Angelus.

"What?" Spike asks, hoping his bored, tired tone hides any of those pesky uncomfortable
feelings.

"I didn't start this to make accusations." Giles' voice is as firm and as penetrating
as his gaze.

"Oh, really?" Spike raises an incredulous eyebrow. "You've got a funny way of
showing it then, mate."

"Well, if you'd stop with the dramatics and listen to me for half a moment..."

Spike bit back a retort. Okay. "I'm listening."

Giles nods, looks mightily uncomfortable as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
The silence around them begins to thicken, and Spike thinks he can actually hear
the Watcher's teeth grinding together. Obviously he hadn't expected it to be quite
that easy. Should've known ol' Spike just isn't up for the fighting these days.

Spike sighs and leans back against the doorframe. He can glimpse vivid brightness
of the day outside through the blinds. The yellow of the sun, the brilliant azure
of the sky, the richly fertile green of the grass and foliage, the occasional
burst of a more passionate color in the flowering spring garden. Vampires live
their lives in black and white and shades of gray, but the presence of the soul
has reawakened the poet in him, and a part of him now longs for color.

Finally, Giles' voice breaks through his musings.

"Buffy told me that you went and sought a soul, voluntarily. Is this true?"

"You think I lied...?" Should have known Giles' would never believe that one.
So why does he feel so disappointed?

"I don't think anything. That's why I am asking you."

Spike's feels his mouth go dry, and his fingers itch for a cigarette.

"Yeah. It's true," he says, keeping his voice as even as can be. "Went to Africa.
Got the t-shirt with bonus soul. Back here to do good. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Do you realize the enormity of this Spike?" There's just a hint of something
in Giles' voice; something that almost approaches hysteria. "Why would you do
such a thing?"

"Why, to save the world and bring peace and freedom to the galaxy..." Spike's
voice drips with sarcasm. "Why do you think I got it?"

"Buffy."

"Clever boy."

"Good Lord." Giles half sighs, half groans. He leans heavily against the counter,
one hand rubbing his temple as if the revelation has struck up a sudden, crippling
headache. Not inconceivable that it had. "Does Buffy know this?"

"Yeah. She knows."

Knows all too well. Knows the need and pain and fear. All courtesy of one horrific
night in an abandoned church when, still teetering between insanity and bleary
coherence, he divulged everything to her in a typically melodramatic display of
drama queen excess. Tears and self-pity and near immolation. No wonder she'd fled;
he was lucky she hadn't laughed. God, how could he have been such a fool?

Giles stands in silence for a long time, not looking at Spike. Not looking at
anything really, his eyes reflecting a distance that was rare in someone as steady
and grounded as he. He's processing, filing, cataloguing, Spike realizes. Doing
all those things librarians are meant to do when they get new information. Clearly
having a hard time of it too, reconciling this new revelation with the existing
mountain of contradictory lore.

"Crusty old books and dry Council sermons not prepare you for meeting a vamp who
chooses a soul, eh Watcher?" Spike asks, barely keeping the slightly malicious
amusement out of his voice.

"No". Giles answers simply. And the room lapses back into silence once more.

Eventually, Giles raises his gaze to meet Spike's again. It's steady, deadly serious,
and nearly all Ripper. His voice is just as fearsome.

"Spike, I don't pretend to know the full extent of what happened between you and
Buffy. Nor, do I ever want to. I've learnt that when it comes to Buffy, it is
best not to pry into her personal affairs. As I told her, I can not control her,
and I will not judge her, not even when she enters into what I consider to be
a highly imprudent relationship."

Spike snorted. "That your version of giving us your blessing, Dad?"

"Certainly not!" Giles' eyes flash with the sharp, deadly intensity of an electrical
storm. "I will never approve of Buffy's relationship with you. Just as I didn't
approve of her relationship Angel. In my opinion, the entirety of your unlives
are not worth of a moment of her time. But I am saying this. You have a soul now.
Maybe you don't understand the enormity of it. I'm not sure that any of us do.
But it is clearly an amazing thing and I don't think it was coincidental that
it is happening now."

"Coincidental to what?"

"Coincidental to this; to what is coming. To what is already here. This foe is
greater than anything Buffy has ever faced. Greater than anything anyone has ever
faced. She needs friends who will stand behind her, no questions asked. Can you
do that Spike?"

Stunned at the faith that Giles is seemingly placing in him, Spike can only nod
his head once. "Yes."

"Very well. Then you do not have my blessing, but you do have my acceptance."

"Er...Thanks. I think."

Giles sighs deeply. "Very well then Spike. Now, get dressed. We have work to do."

...............................


Standing on the porch, Buffy watches in mute surprise as Spike and Giles go at
it with staff and blade. Thrust, parry, twirl. Elegant blocks, complex foot movements,
crafty changes in stance, all made look easy through Spike' exquisite grace and
Giles' years of experience. She feels her lips begin to curve into a smile at
the sight of the awe plastered across the faces of the young women who stand watching.
This display is probably the last thing they expected to see tonight - the last
thing she expected, for sure - but it's far from unwelcome.

Unconsciously, Buffy's gaze is slowly, inevitably, drawn to Spike in particular,
and she finds herself scrutinizing his movements. To the girls, he doubtless looks
amazing, sleek, and nimble and totally deadly, but her practiced warrior's eye
immediately recognizes his weakness - The slight caution in his movements, the
odd stiffness, the occasional flitter of his eyes and the brief grimaces that
are quickly hidden. He's still injured, and she can can't help but feel a little
- offended, or disappointed? - that her Slayer's blood isn't a total cure-all.

Still, not bad; big improvement from last night, when walking was an issue. She's
a walking vampire-fountain-of-life. Sometimes, being the Slayer really did have
it's bonuses.

The demonstration comes to an end, and Giles beckons Rona to come forth and take
the blade. The girl is hesitant, scowling reluctantly, her street-wise attitude
not quite disguising the shy trepidation in her face. She's clearly not pleased
at being singled out as the demonstration model, to be put through her paces like
a prize pet while the others sit back and watch. She's gonna have to get used
to it, though. Being watched is all part of the fun Slayer package.

Buffy's always been watched; by Giles, the Council, her friends, her two vampire
lovers, unnamed chroniclers, various demons, the Powers, and who knows what else.
She feels that she's lived her life in a fishbowl - blurry faces belonging to
unfathomable beings watching her every move for their personal enjoyment. Or maybe
not a fishbowl, but a stage. Hadn't she sung that once? That's life's a show for
everyone, but the Life of the Chosen One plays out on a particularly grand and
gorgeous stage. It's a spectacle for a sell-out crowd. No wonder she's acquired
the acting skills to deserve a standing ovation.

In the yard below, Spike and Rona circle each other slowly, the girl cautious
and serious, the vampire slightly grinning in that intense, vampiric way that
still frightens Buffy, reminding her that Spike remains The Other. He starts his
attack suddenly, jabbing the staff. He's slow, but not exactly gentle, and they
both yelp as the wood cracks against Rona's ribs. She retreats slightly, but her
dark eyes are ever more determined, her posture wary and ready. When Spike tries
to same attack again, she blocks it easily, and her next series of parries is
more impressive still. The girl's got spunk, Buffy has to give her that.

Buffy's never had that, that training to be a Slayer; never knew a time when being
one was something to work towards and practice for. She'd learned and adapted.
But even after all of these years, it's all still an act; an extended, obsessive
period of method acting designed to present a comfortable and acceptable fa‡ade,
a persona to appear in chronicles and histories, to satisfy the demands of her
mysterious destiny.

And she'd fooled everyone... Except Spike. She'd never been able to fool Spike.
But then, she'd never needed too. With him, there was so little need for pretense.
So little point, really. Those steely blue eyes saw straight through her artifice
and lies. Spike wasn't interested in perfect Buffy; he didn't need her to be a
hero to hang onto. He knew her, understood, and always - always - loved her.

Spike looks up and sees this, her face appearing to brighten even in the dim evening
light. His gaze is lean and hot and hungry, where hers is green and cool, and
as she meets its stare, she feels the last of her lingering doubt evaporates beneath
the penetrating fire of his blue-flame eyes. This is her Spike, here before her,
fully souled, but still with all his passion and wit, still possessed of that
intense and adoring love that threatens to consume him from within. All here,
and all hers, should she want it.

And, oh, how she does.

Spike's still looking her, his lips curled in an endearingly cautious half-smile.
They exchange a brief, indescribable looks. A mutual acknowledgment that they
will talk, later. She forces down the rising heat, the sudden feeling of dizziness
as Giles beckons for the next potential to take to the ring, and the training
starts again.

Unable to watch any longer, Buffy escapes into the house.

Suddenly the thought of cooking dinner for a dozen seems significantly less intimidating.

..................


"You're smoking again."

Spike glances up form his position on the steps of the Summer's back porch. Buffy's
standing in the kitchen doorway, the back-light from the kitchen illuminating
her hair and casting her slender form in an alluring silhouette.

"Er, yeah..." he responds, before trailing off uncertainly.

He worries for a moment that she is scolding him, but her smile is as wide and
bright as a distantly remembered sunrise, and her eyes are sparkling with a twinkle
of amusement that he hasn't seen on her weary face in so long. She's teasing him.
He drops his gaze to the smoldering cigarette in order to hide his delighted smile.
It's been so long since either of them has been in the mood to be playful, to
participate in any kind of their usual witty repartee.

Spike fixes his gaze on the smoke as it weaves and dances its way skyward, drawing
intricate patterns in the air before dissipating slowly into the cooler night
sky. Funny, how he notices little things like that again now - the beauty of swirling
gray, the exotic orange flare of the burning paper; simple things, unnoticed for
more than a century, are once again absorbing.

William's influence; the wanker.

Spike shakes his head slightly to clear the ghostly cobwebs.

"Nabbed it from your Watcher," he replies with a shrug.

"Giles smokes?"

He can hear the laughter in her voice; tinkling little bells that cause his skin
to dance and his heart to soar. She's in a rare mood tonight, charming and tantalizing
in all her girlish good humor. He wonders what's gotten into her, and whether
he can seal it in.

"When he worries for you, yeah. Not his brand, though. Think he bought them for
me. Rupes is an okay bloke, once you get to know him."

"Giles mentioned over dinner that you'd had a chat."

He did? That surprises Spike, and he wonders briefly how much to say.

"We came to an understanding. Of sorts."

"I'm glad, Spike."

Buffy covers the few paces between the porch and the steps, and then plunks herself
down next to him. The move's a strange combination of clumsy and graceful, like
she's coordinated but couldn't care less. It strikes him as an open move, devoid
of pretense and posturing. He continues to watch her out of the corner of his
eyes as she fidgets for a second, then folds her hands in her lap and follows
his gaze into the night.

This is a familiar position, hip to hip, parallel stares. But this quiet companionship,
the giving of conditional comfort had seemed foreign to him before, even unnatural.
He'd let his heart guide him and put on a good show at it, such a good show, in
fact, that the seed of their friendship was planted here. Now, nearly two years
later, it's finally in bloom.

Friends.

He thinks they're friends. Hopes they are. Still sometimes hope for more than
but...But Hope is a mercurial little bitch; sweet and painful in turn, and he
doesn't let her seduce him too often. Right now, though, he feels himself giving
into the sweet agony of Hope's embrace, allowing her to remind him again of how
so close, and yet how far he is to that which he so craves.

And yet, even as he longs to reach across and take her hand, to touch her and
love her, a part of him thinks that this - this friendship - is enough. Spike
reminds himself of how blind he was last year, how damnably stupid as to believe
that frantic, grasping shagging and random acts of violence could amount to a
real relationship. He'd been kidding himself the whole time; convinced himself
that if she was fucking him - pitiful, evil, disgusting him - then she must have
felt something, some connection beyond the physical. Why else would she debase
herself? But, oh, he knows her now. Knows with the clarity of hindsight that it
was never about him. It was always about her and her need to punish herself for
being alive. She'd not seen him at all, and certainly never loved him.

You don't feel love for just a Thing. You use it.

Funny thing is, Spike still can't truly think of unsoulled vampires in quite such
simplistic terms. He wonders if even Angel can. He's no problems dusting the ones
he doesn't know, the barnyard bloodsuckers that are a dime a dozen in Sunnydale.
He'd never had a lot of time for minions, so nothing much had changed on that
front.

But then there is Dru. Evil and twisted as she was, the mention of her name, the
memory of her soft hair and white body, of their century of togetherness, still
kindles a certain dark fire in his heart. Did she love him? He doesn't know. But
he loved her, right? Would've died for her. Probably still couldn't kill her,
ranting threats aside. No, he can not think of Dru as a thing. Not yet, maybe
never. Doesn't even know if he wants to.

Bloody hell, the soul is making him melancholy tonight.

"It's a beautiful night," Buffy comments suddenly, breaking through his thoughts
and offering him a reprieve from his depressing inner monologue.

He has to smile at that. Damned if he'd admit it out loud, but she's right. The
clouds have begun to clear and the nearly full moon casts silver shadows across
the yard. Best of all, she's sitting beside him, heart calm and steady, color
in her cheeks and mouth turned up in a smile. Beautiful indeed.

"You're in a blinding mood tonight, Slayer."

"Huh?" She raises an eyebrow in confusion, brow creasing slightly in a way that
makes him grin.

"Happy, pet. You're happy." Another drag from his cigarette, a long exhale. He's
scrupulously remembering to blow the smoke from Buffy's cancer-sensitive human
lungs.

Buffy shrugs a shoulder, pushes a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. "Surprised,
huh?"

He shrugs a little. It is and it isn't. "Long while since I said that, ain't it?
'Tis good to see."

'Cause, if he believes her friends, believes her, then Buffy is often happy. Just
never when she's around him.

"Well, I've got a lot to be happy about," she says determinedly. "I had a great
day at work. I came home to find Dawn in an unusually happy mood. Then I see you
and Giles, with the working together. And you up and about and being helpful and
teacher-y." She flashes that gorgeous smile again, the one that reaches her eyes
and lights up all of her features. "That was a good moment. So, yeah, I guess
I am feeling remarkably generous and open-minded about everything right now."

"That right? Your feeling 'generous' are you?" Spike smirks softly, figures he
can get away with a bit of fun. "You know Slayer, 'm still feeling a bit weak.
Seeing as you're feeling so 'generous' and such... 'Nother taste of the good stuff
would heal it right up..."

He's careful to keep the words gently teasing, without a trace of serious intent.
He's not sure how to handle this new easiness between them. But he hopes his eyes
reflect the depth of his gratitude.

The glint in Buffy's eye is a delight to see, and her reply almost makes him fall
off the stairs. "I'm sure we'll find plenty of opportunities to let you... taste
me."

Spike's stomach drops, and it's as if the seat beneath him falls away as well.
'Shocked' isn't a strong enough word, but his mind refuses to submit another.
His jellied brain refuses even to comply with his subconscious' demand that it
closes his gaping mouth. And then, this thinking process stops entirely as she
reaches over and threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck,
and begins to caress the skin there gently with her slightly callused fingers.
The movement is soft, gentle, and intimate, much like the pattern of his thumb
on her wrist the night before. He feels her touch reverberate through every part
of his body.

He knows this can't be happening; the flirting, the touching, the sexual innuendo
behind the offer of more 'tasting.' He must be dreaming, or deluded, or maybe
both. Or perhaps she's simply joined him in Gah Gah Land. He'd thought when he
was a kid madness was contagious; this must be proof.

"Buffy..." he begins, but his voice cracks and dies. Fuck.

"Shh, Spike," Buffy coaxes softly, much as she would a child. "Don't say anything.
Just...enjoy the night."

Spike usually follows his blood, lives by the motto. But right now, he's not sure
that's such a great idea, lest he mess up this most amazing of moments. Buffy
is so calm, so beautiful like this, skin white and hair glistening silver beneath
Artemis' light. He feels his still heart ache, his love and adoration and desire
sore. He knows thousands of lines of poetry, masters a-plenty, and not one does
her justice. His strong, amazing Slayer.

A long moment passes as Spike struggles for control of his turbulent emotions,
and his rebellious body. He can't leave it at that. Impatient, demanding as always,
he needs to know what this is about. Finally, he swallows and licks his lips.
Looking at her is suddenly too much, so when he speaks, he addresses some spot
on grass between them.

"We back together then?" he asks.

Buffy draws a quick, harsh breath, body tense. But she exhales slowly, her clothing
rustling softly as she turns to look at him. The seconds seem like hours as he
waits for her response.

"Do you wanna be? Back together?"

Her words cut through flesh and bone as a sword, penetrating him to the core and
leaving him speechless. For a moment, Spike wonders if he has misheard, and then
if he has misinterpreted. Only a question, he reminds himself sharply, not an
offer. But his answer escapes his lips before he fully has tome to think.

"Do I... Do you need to ask? Course I do! God, Buffy, more than anything. I'd
do anything for you. Be anything..."

Only, the words aren't true. Not really. And as he they pass his lips, his voice
fades and he looks away; buries his gaze in the garden, somewhere amongst the
strawberries. Silence suddenly falls between them, and the night air grows thick
and heavy beneath the weight of memory. Spike can sense the burning blood rise
in Buffy's cheeks, can feel the slight shudder of her body and then the rise of
her heart as she wraps her arms around herself.

"I thought we went over this last night."

"Did we?"

"Spike..." Her voice fades beneath he silent gaze.

He grinds his teeth as he searches for words. When he finally speaks, it is with
unusual slowness and consideration. "Last night, you said you were scared of hiding,
of bottling everything up and lying to yourself. So am I. I love you Buffy. You
know that. Love you more than anything. But I don't want to be your security blanket
again. I don't..." His voice cracks. Becoming a habit, that is. He looks up, pleads
with his eyes as much as his voice. Please understand. "I couldn't bear it, Buffy.
Not again. Please don't ask it of me."

As he finishes, Buffy's features relax, and he can almost feel the ripple of her
body as the relief washes over her. He can certainly smell the slightly salty
tang of the tears that suddenly glisten in the corners of her large, green eyes.

"Oh, Spike..." Buffy allows her hand, long forgotten on the back of his neck,
to glide across to cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "You're not going
to be my security blanket again. I don't even need one anymore. Security blanket-free
me!" She pauses for a second, perhaps waiting for a smile, but he can't quite
manage one. The liquid pools in her eyes begin to overflow, tears leaving trails
down her cheeks, but her voice is soft as silk. "No more hiding, Spike. I want
us to go in there now, together, hand in hand. You and me. You as my boyfriend.
They can deal."

Spike wonders if he heard that right, because suddenly there are insects in his
head, buzzing wildly, worse than the chip, tickling his mind with images. Last
night; this...this declaration, what she is offering, it's almost too much. He
stares at her for a moment, assessing her countenance, confirming to his screaming
mind's satisfaction that, this time, she is being honest, with him and with herself.

Her face is open, clear, and he knows she's telling the truth. Spike finds he
has no choice but to close his eyes against the wave of relief, happiness and
desire.

Boyfriend. Stupid term, but it makes him deliriously happy anyway.

Spike feels her lips against his eyelids, first one, then the other. He opens
his eyes to meet hers, bright and caring. And then everything feels to be melting
as her captures her lips in what feels, to him, like their first real kiss.
Chapter 5b

It's the first time that she's really kissed Spike. Like, really, truly kissed
him and meant it and been all there - mind, body and soul.

And, wow, it's good.

They start slowly, lips touching gently and softly, breaking apart after each
brief contact and starting again. Quiet, tentative, taking the time just to get
to know each other again. Licks and nips at that lush lower lip - who knew a male
pout could be so enticing? Tastes just the tip of his tongue. Her hands run up
and down his arms, his back, cup his cheek and the base of his neck. She can feel
the warm, damp heat pool in her stomach trickle into her groin.

Time passes - seconds, minutes, Buffy's really not sure - and hands and lips grow
bolder, more urgent. The spark of passion ignites quickly in her burning heart,
spreads like wildfire across her body, enlivening every nerve. She feels alive
- truly alive - the beat of her heart pounding through her body, the sound of
her breathing deafening. There's a buzzing between her ears, and it grows louder
and louder, becomes a roar as a tsunami of raw need rushes over her, ripping through
the last of inhibitions and barriers and leaving her quivering, panting and desperate
for more. Desperate for Spike.

Moaning what sounds, she hopes, like his name, Buffy grabs Spike's solid upper
arms hard, pulls their bodies together, forces his mouth open and plunges her
tongue inside. He growls beneath her, the low, rumbling sound vibrating through
his body and into hers, teasing her already raw nerves into a frenzy of sensation.
His tongue is smooth, wet, but sensual as velvet. He tastes of cigarettes and
whiskey and all things deadly and dark.

He entwines his tongue with hers, strokes and fights in turn. Oh, his long, clever
tongue, his wicked mouth. How she's missed this. How she's missed him. She deepens
the kiss further; ups the passion a little more, allows their mouths and teeth
and tongues to alternately conflict and caress; a reflection of the very nature
of their clashing, contradictory relationship.

Never one to be left behind, Spike's reciprocating with equal need, pulling her
into the nonexistent space between their bodies, clasping her with a strength
no mortal man could ever hope to match. His body begins to vibrate enticingly
as he makes that low, growly noise deep in his throat that he must know turns
her on. The hairs on her arms bristle in response and she feels a flood of liquid
between her legs, the duality of her slayerness laid bare as her body both craves
and rejects that which is so obviously not quite human.

It's lust that wins out easily as Spike's knowing fingers trace up her arm, into
her hair, along her back and then down her arm again; wrist to shoulder once,
twice, then a third spine-tingling, limb-melting time. Her arms are soft and pliable
as he finds her hand with his, squeezes gently, the sensation rippling up her
jellied nerves. She squeezes in response, kisses him that little bit deeper. This
sexy handholding is fast becoming their "thing."

She feels him raise their joined hands, pull them into the spare space between
their breasts. He places them over her pounding, over-worked heart, then pulls
back from her mouth to meet her gaze. His crystalline eyes are nearly black, pupils
wide and dilated, but shot with flashes of rippling gold. Man and demon in one,
so very much the essence of her Spike. He holds her eyes for another second, his
look all intense devotion and tenderness, and then drops his gaze to where their
fingers lie intertwined on her rapidly rising and falling chest.

"Source of both our lives," he whispers quietly, voice ragged but powerful all
the same.

Her heart skips a beat, pounding out its agreement beneath his touch. Blood to
blood, her life to his, a bond forged in battle and pain and sharing healing.
But she's lost for anything to say, be it profound or mundane, and so she goes
the action route again. Leaning into him, she captures their hands between them
as she twists her free hand into his hair and kisses him with everything she has.
She hopes that he can feel her wholehearted agreement, her acceptance of their
bond and partnership, even if she can't quite say the words yet.

Spike's trapped hand releases hers, his palm opens to caress her breasts, her
ribs, then down her flank to the small of her back. A path of fire smolders on
her skin in its wake. His other hand still grasps her upper arm, fingers digging
into her skin with a near-brutality born of urgency and need and inhuman passion.
A sudden flash of movement, tight muscles flexing, and he pulls her into his lap
as she climbs closer to him herself, determined to eliminate every unwelcome inch
of space between them.

Clasping each other, bodies melded together like this, hands exploring and chests
pounding, it's vividly, evocatively reminiscent of their coupling the night before.
She can feel her blood pulsing through her again, beating at the covered holes
in her wrist, moving with such urgency that it is heating to near boiling beneath
her skin. The bite marks, the nerves down her arm, even the already-fading scar
on her neck, tingle in expectation and her body shudders dramatically at the memory.
Something within her cries out for more.

Unbelievable, she thinks distractedly, that they'd never tried the biting before.
She'd allowed him to penetrate her in every other way, with cock and tongue and
clever hands, through his darkened, tempting gaze and slick, smooth words, but
never with his fangs. He must have thought about it. Had he been afraid of her
reaction if asked? That she'd say "no"? Or maybe that she'd say "yes".

She thinks that if he had dared ask, she probably would have let him. He would
have gotten quite a surprise. God, if he asked now...

It's not just the physical, although that was fantabulously satisfying. She's
simply never been so close to anyone before, never opened up and let anyone that
far in. Closeness is good. She knows that now. Wants to create it again, and again,
and again. No more fears, no more hiding...

Buffy's thought processes fizzle out again as Spike scoops her up, turns their
bodies over and settles her against the soft, wood of the porch. It groans slightly
beneath them, and her hyper-sensitive body can feel the grain of the wood beneath
her, smell the slight dampness and the worn lacquer that coats the boards. He
positions himself across her possessively, holding her down with his slight weight.
It's familiar, and comforting, but way too polite. She grabs his hips and hauls
him fully on top of her. He doesn't resist, indeed shifts for maximum contact.
They both gasp as he presses his hardness against her softness, as she yields
and bucks beneath him.

Their combined sounds are exceptionally loud in the still, night air, and seem
to echo through the trees, bounce off an air so thick with passion that it's almost
tangible. Spike breaks the kiss to stare at her in alarm, but right now, Buffy
can't bring herself to care. It's late and, besides, what's one more spectacle
for the neighbors? God knows this place is freak show enough. Filled to the brim
with the weird and wonderful and not-so-unique. Filled, too, with duty and solemnity
and things that, for this moment, she'd rather just forget in favor of making
out with her boy on the porch.

Determinedly, Buffy raises one leg and wraps it around Spike's, pulling him as
close as she can. An instant later, he reaches down, runs his hand along her thigh
and then pulls her other leg into the same position. Yes. Good, good, good. She
pushes herself up against him, and he starts to grind himself into her, pointedly,
almost desperately, swallowing her escalating moans with a brutally intense kiss.
She responds by running her hands down the plane of his back, over his tight,
hard ass and then back up, under the T-shirt,t-shirt, pushing the fabric up as
she goes. Spike's skin is cool and dry, familiar in its difference to her own.
Her hands are drenched with sweat, red and flushed against his milky white.

Spike continues to push himself against her, eliciting shocks up her back and
tremors through her limbs. His fingers continue to trace a line up the muscles
of her thigh, under her skirt, drawing small circles on her skin.

Only to draw to a trembling halt on her hip.

....................

Spike's not quite sure how it came to this. Wonders if perhaps he really is still
dreaming that there's a hot, trembling Slayer beneath him, holding him close,
wanting him near, allowing him to tease her, and love her and touch her with everything
he is. No, not a Slayer. The Slayer. His Slayer. His Slayer, letting him kiss
her with love and tenderness and passion, kissing him back like she really means
those same things too. Like she doesn't just want this, but wants him.

It's a dream, it's gotta be a dream. Except it can't be, because not even in his
most glorious delusions has he imagined anything quite like this.

It's good. Beyond good. Splendid. Marvelous. Bleedin' fantastic.

Totally, fucking terrifying.

Her closeness, the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, wet and ready
and willing beneath him, the knowledge that she wants him, the concern in her
eyes. It's almost too much, and he's losing control.

His dick is achingly, painfully hard, his hands are trembling, his balls feel
like lead and he is seriously scared that he is about to come in his pants for
the second time in twelve hours. Fuck this, what was he? Eighteen again? Or even
twenty-five? A trembling virgin who got off on the thought of Cecily's décolletage
and the stocking clad ankles of the daringly dressed New Women? A pathetic child
in a demon's body, desperate and sad and liable to do anything for love... No,
not again. Never that again.

Suddenly, he needs to stop. Needs to take control, to think. Needs to make sure
she wants this, that she's okay with this after...after what happened. Before.
Needs to take this somewhere else, someplace not rushed or urgent. Need to not
shag her on the porch beneath her sister's bedroom window.

But also needs to do this now, to finish what they've started before he literally
bursts.

Needs to do anything, really, but lie here paralyzed with his hand up the Slayer's
skirt.

Buffy makes his decision for him, takes control, but thankfully softly, gently
not in the General-like manner she's been adopting lately.

"Spike? What's wrong?" she asks calmly, as she stills her hands. Her beautiful
face is as open as he's ever seen it, and even the shadows can't hide the warmth
and concern that radiate from her. Nor, if truth be told, the slightly worried,
anxious look in her eyes.

What isn't?

Spike swallows hard, concentrates on taking control of his willful, rebellious
body.

"Buffy...this, this is wrong. Me here, like this, after...everything that's happened.
It's too much...I don't deserve...I mean, we need time."

He feels Buffy's body relax beneath him, the sudden tension draining from her
limbs again. Her hand resumes its passage up and down his back, stroking more
gently this time, and he feels nerves settle in response to her touch. When she
speaks again, her voice is even, steady and comforting. It's so long since anyone
has spoken to him in such a way, probably just as long since Buffy has spoken
to anyone at all like that.

"We've been over this Spike. I forgive you. You forgive me. Time to move on."
Reaching up, she kisses him again, then adds with a teasing smile, "Yadda, yadda,
yadda."

Yes, move on. Move on. Move on to the sex, which they're so good at, and then
move past it and onto something more this time, too. And, oh, how he wishes he
could box up all those fears and regrets and leave them by the roadside as he
rides away. But letting go of the past is always so difficult, and he clings to
emotional mementos like a drowning man clings to a thrown rope.

Spike drops his head to Buffy's shoulder, rests his face in the hollow of her
neck. Buffy's skin beneath his nose is soft and smooth and smells of soap and
sweat and lingering body lotion.

"Just never thought we'd get this far again," he admits. It's almost a sob, and
he can't believe how pathetic he sounds; how pathetic he is, lying here between
the slayer's legs, surrounded by the sweet scent of her arousal, and blubbering
like a baby.

Get a grip, mate.

Now.

He gently nuzzles deeper into the area between her clavicle and her neck as he
concentrates on recapturing control over his traitorous body. He's almost there,
when her next question gives his precariously balanced emotional equilibrium a
vicious push.

"Is it different?" she asks quietly. "This? You know... with a soul?"

Spike raises his head abruptly, stares at her. For a moment, the need to protect
himself is sharp and intense, and he's tempted to lie. To say what the lady-killing
Big Bad should say. But he can't, he's so tired of pretending, and the honest
truth tumbles out unbidden.

"I... So far? Yeah, I would think... well, not the mechanics, don't think, but
maybe the connection... I mean, never burst into tears before...." He draws a
shuddery breath, decides to just come clean. "I'm not rightly sure. Least, not
yet."

A second later, Buffy's eyes widen with surprise as the full purport of which
he just said hits her.

"You mean, you've never? With a soul?" She nearly squeaks out the question.

He sucks his cheeks in. Opened a potential can o' worms now, another reason for
her pity. But what's the point in denying it? Better to make a bit of a boon out
of it, maybe. He forces his lips into what he hopes passes for a sexy smirk.

"Like that, wouldn't you slayer?" he asks. "Getting to deflower the Big Bad and
all?"

She doesn't bat an eyelid. "Maybe I would."

He can't help it, she's too adorable and plucky, so sexily coy that he just has
to laugh. A second later, and she's giggling too, burying her face in his shirt
to muffle the sound or wipe the tears. He's not sure what's so funny, and isn't
convinced that she is either - unless she's cracking up at how totally ridiculous
he is, which is a likely if somewhat disconcerting possibility.

Doesn't really matter, though, not when it feels as good as this. Not when she's
actually happy. Happy with him.

Finally, she pulls back from him, captures his eyes with a warm, open gaze.

"Spike, I want you. Okay? The rest? So over it. But we don't have to do anything.
Not if you don't want to."

"Want to do everything...but take things slowly, yeah?"

She nods. "Can do. I think."

He shoots a quick look up at the bedrooms above them. "And maybe also take things
elsewhere?" he adds as an afterthought.

"Good idea." She says as she pushes him off her gently, climbs to her feet and
then offers him her hand. "C'mon Spike, let's go to bed."

Bed.

The word has an instant effect on him, and he can feel the blood rush south as
the words escape her lips. Her bed, her room. Finally her lover. He feels like
he's about to faint from the happiness. Or maybe just from lack of blood in the
brain. He's so completely, painfully hard that he doubts there's any blood left
for any other functions.

Grasping his hand in hers, Buffy leads him inside, and he follows her as always.
Will follow her to the ends of the Earth; would walk there himself if she ordered.
Still, he's not sure how he makes it up the stairs, not when he's this hard and
high and Buffy's firm little ass is swinging mere inches from his face. It's a
matter of concentration, he tells himself, of putting one foot in front of the
other, of not tripping and making an even bigger ponce of himself than he already
has.

Once the landing is reached, it's a dozen quiet steps down the carpeted hallway
until he finds himself standing paralyzed and mute in her bedroom doorway for
the second time in just three nights. Releasing his hand, Buffy busies herself
turning down the covers. The new sheets are pale and blue, the quilt-cover an
intricate quasi-patchwork, the kind of cheap but attractive thing you picked up
at the local Home Decor. Spike chooses not to dwell on how he knows that.

The scent of two slow-burning sandalwood candles covers the faint aroma of his
vampire and pigs' blood. Did she light them in preparation for tonight? It causes
a shiver of pleasure to think that she did. The Slayer; his seductress.

As she turns back to him, Buffy pulls the band from her hair, lets the golden
waves fall over her shoulders. It's possibly the most erotic thing he's ever seen.
He's suddenly not exactly sure what he's meant to be doing.

"Buffy?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, she stands, walks back to him, runs her hands down
his cheeks and up on tippy-toes, kisses him. Kisses his nose, his eyes, his cheeks
and forehead, everywhere she can reach. He tries to capture her lips, misses,
and ends up kissing her cheek, then her temple. They break away and smile, the
look on her face happy and indulgent. She's glowing.

The air crackles with nervous expectation.

"Welcome home, Spike," she whispers gently, and his unnecessary breath hitches
in his throat at her words. Maybe, finally, he's found a place where he belongs.

He's not exactly sure how, but they manage to stumble back to the bed, and she
pulls him down next to her, runs her hand down his cheek and leans in for another
kiss. This time, they get it right again. They set a slightly different pace now,
long, languid kisses, slow and deep. He can still sense the blood pounding under
her lips, through her veins, and his demon rumbles within him. But there is no
longer the same agonizingly frantic energy that there was before, the same need
for instant gratification. He can be gentle now; there's no contest between them,
less urgency. It's a new kind of dancing, the intricate movements of partners
with all the trust and time in the world. Gonna take it slow, accordingly. Prove
that he's good for more than a quick fuck in an alley, or a fast screw on the
crypt floor.

Yeah, gonna prove he's as good at this with the soul as without. Damn good.

He moves to kiss her cheek, teases the hot, flushed skin with lips and tongue.
He continues down the sensitive underside of her chin and neck, before gently
pushing aside her hair and running the tip of his tongue up the side of her neck,
drawn to the quivering pulse point and the messy scar. She hums at his touch,
a low, rich sound that starts deep in her throat and reverberates through her
entire body. He nips at her skin with blunt teeth in response, tries not to think
about the others who marked her, and stamps hard on his demon as it screams its
jealousy and anger. Who cares what Angel got to do to her when she was a kid?
It's he who's here now, he who she is clutching to her and bucking beneath.

Possessively, he slides a hand down her ribs, over her tummy and hipbones, and
then lower still. She gasps when he runs his fingers along the delicate crease
between leg and torso, and then over her skirt until he reaches the naked skin
above her knee. Her skin is fire to his ice, river to his desert, a clash of opposites
drawn together beneath the potent power of an electrical, emotional storm. He
grabs her knee for a moment, as much to steady himself as to seek contact with
her, and then boldly runs his hand back under her skirt, along the top of her
thigh.

Warrior's legs, she has, toned and strong. He can feel her taut muscles quiver
and jump beneath her soft, womanly skin. Steel encased in silk, that's his woman.
His hand moves higher, and he's slightly surprised but overwhelmingly pleased,
to find that the skin between her thighs is already heavy, slippery with delicious
moisture. She's ready for him, wants him, and he isn't about to disappoint her.

Her eyes open and meet his and he gently tickles the warm skin on the inside of
her thigh, then higher along the silken edge of her panties and the so-soft skin
that lies outside. Her eyes dilate, lips part, and she shifts and widens her legs
a little further in response to his attentions. Boldly, he runs his finger over
her sodden panties, and she gasps and jumps at his touch, gasps and grips his
arms. He smirks, proffers a few more quick strokes, and then grabs the delicate
fabric and yanks it away. It gives easily, leaving her bare beneath the skirt,
and an intense wave of her arousal flows into the air around him.

"Hey, those were expensive!" she gasps.

Spike's allows his smirk to widen into a genuine grin, then deliberately brings
the sodden dark green lace to his nose and inhales deeply. Essence of Slayer,
dizzyingly rich and potent aroma. Fires his brain better than the best absinthe.

"Much appreciated, pet," he says, before throwing what is left of the garment
onto the bedroom floor. Makes a note to collect it later.

Buffy answers him with a patented Summers' eyeroll, but it's offset by a devilish
grin of her own. He stares as she runs her hands down her lace blouse, pulling
the material tight over her breasts, then clasping the hem teasingly. He swallows
hard, licks his lips, as she begins to pull the clothing up, revealing a swath
of golden skin stretching across sharp hipbones and sensuous, defined stomach.
She's beautiful - did he really forget how much? - and the need to touch every
inch of her is suddenly overwhelming. He reaches for her again, and she shudders
as he caresses the skin above the hem of her skirt, then runs his hands up her
flanks and over her ribs, chasing the teasing path revealed by the escaping blouse.
His hands are still slicked from his earlier explorations, and his touch leaves
a slight trial of her own arousal on her already sweat-coated body.

She's wearing a simple cotton bra and his hands stop when they reach the bindings,
determined to explore the small fabric-clad mounts. She arches into him as his
thumbs trace her nipples, throwing the shirt away in a complimentary movement.
The feel and sight is irresistible, her little breasts thrusting straight into
his hands and toward his mouth. He bends down and runs his tongue over one concealed
nipple, then across the smooth skin above the fabric, and into the valley between
her breast. She shivers under his ministrations and soon her hands are pulling
at his own clothing, pushing up his T-shirt and stroking his straining cock through
the coarse denim of his now painfully tight jeans.

Spike yields to her desires. Standing quickly, shakily - each moment without her
touch sharper and more agonizing that any deliberate torture - he tugs his T-shirt
over his head, deposits it on the floor and then tears at the buttons on his jeans.
His cock springs free, ready and willing, engorged with borrowed blood, much of
it hers. It leaps a little more when Buffy's eyes shoot straight to it. Hastily,
Spike pushes his jeans down the rest of the way, only to experiences a moment
of sheer embarrassment as he tries to kick the pants' legs off without falling
over. If Buffy notices, she lets it slide, her heated, hungry gaze and burning
emerald eyes making it clear she's got more important things on her mind than
holding this sudden clumsiness against him.

Fully aware of his scrutiny, Buffy kneels up and, after a tortuous moment's pause,
slowly slides down the zipper on her skirt, then shimmies out of it in a gracefully
appealing maneuver that is testament to the many less obvious uses for Slayer
co-ordination.

She's naked before him, and his tears evaporate in the wave of pure animal heat
that shoots through his body. Christ she's beautiful, even more so than last year.
Small and slender, deceptively fragile, but there is now an added fullness to
her form that is deliciously feminine.

"Come here, Spike." She smiles seductively, extending her hand. Spike grabs it,
kisses it as fervently as William would have, had William ever gotten within touching
distance of a real, live woman. He teases the healing wounds on the delicate inside
of her wrist. The blood rushes beneath, thick and rich and tasty, the already
intoxicating aroma enhanced by the salty tang of her sweat and the marvelous fragrance
of her arousal. The surrounding air is suddenly redolent with the essence of everything
Buffy that he thinks he can taste it.

Her small hand twists around his wrist and she pulls him onto the bed with a strength
that belies the girlish giggle that escapes her mouth. A rare, vibrant sound,
it causes him just as much pleasure as the physical touching. She's laughing,
playing with him, and he can feel her body shudder and thrum as she climbs over
his, kisses his again with a smile on her mouth. It's never been anything like
this before. Never this comfortable, this easy, this free from pretense and...
well, friendly.

He feels unbidden tears threaten at the corners of his eyes. Bloody hell, not
again. Definitely not now!

Thankfully, the tears are quickly forgotten as she fixes her mouth on his Adam's
apple, then nibbles her way over his clavicles and down his pecs. Accomplished
at this, she is now. Knows him well enough to know what works, and it fills him
with happiness and pride that she remembers so well. He can't help but squirm
as her mouth works lower, and he gasps loudly, jerks, and almost comes as she
fixes her mouth on his nipple and bites down firmly.

He feels her smile against him as she continues to lick her way down his chest
and stomach. Her tongue circles his navel, causing his back to arch involuntarily
and his toes to curl. She wiggles against him seductively as she moves lower still,
until finally he can feel her warm, wet breath against the head of his dick. A
second later, she runs her tongue up his length with absolute precision, leaving
a trial of wet heat in her wake.

"Christ!"

She makes that soft, giggly sound again, looks up at him with mischief in her
eyes.

"So tense," she murmurs, running her hand down his trembling thigh. "Relax a little,
okay?"

"Yeah, relax. With your lips on my sensitive parts? Not bloody likely, Slayer."

"Try."

Her hot mouth descends on him again, licking the head then enveloping him as deeply
as possible. Fuck, it's incredible. She's incredible. And she's enjoying this.
Enjoyed it before, too, he thinks, but not for the same reason. Not about power
this time, no struggle for control. Sharing, exploring, being...and, God, if she
keeps this up he's gonna continue the theme of the night and make a real right
fool of himself. His body jerks once, violently, in agreement. Gotta stop this
now.

"Buffy... stop."

She looked up, eyes filled with uncertainty. "You don't want me to...?"

"Fuck, yeah I do. But it's been a while and... I want to be inside you."

As soon as the words escape his mouth, he realizes his mistake, recalls the memories
that line is bound to evoke. Buffy tenses sharply for a moment, and he freezes,
bites his lip, watches a succession of emotions rush across her face. There's
fear, he recognizes that, feels it shoot from her and slice through him with vicious
ease. But it's gone fast, replaced briefly by confusion, then the calm of resignation
and, finally, determination.

"Love, give, forgive..." she whispers quietly. Then she opens her eyes, fixes
the dark green orbs on him. "...and move on."

She sounds as if she's quoting something; chanting it as a mantra. He's never
thought of her as the literary type, not one for books and slabs of text. But
she's brilliant at everything she tries, be good with words if she tried. And
wherever she picked this up, it suits him well.

She's crawling up his body now. Small, graceful, proudly feline; gold-gleaming
hair framing her face as a mane, eyes wide, bright, predatory. It sends a thrill
through his body, toes to brows, to know he is claimed by such a majestic creature.
He's hers to do what she pleases with; has been for so long now that he's not
sure what he did before his world revolved around her sun. Wouldn't want it any
other way. She kisses him again, and their tongues gently intertwine as she presses
her naked form against him for a long, beautiful moment.

Lips still touching, Spike opens his eyes to find that she is watching him too.
It should be weird, this open-eyed kissing, but instead it's richly intimate,
sensual, the connection between them almost touchable, enveloping them with it's
intensity. She's looking into his soul, baring her own. In that moment he knows
that she is his, too.

"I love you so much," he says, the words barely more than a whisper. When their
lips finally separate again, Buffy is gasping for air.

The moment is gone, and her gaze drops into hiding beneath her long, dark lashes.
"I..." she begins, and he senses the uncertainty.

"Shh...don't. Unless you mean it..."

His heart is crumbling, reality slithering like a cold serpent through his bones.
He'd gotten his hopes up too high, when this - to be wanted, needed, cared for
and desired - should be more than enough. Reckless, as always. He swallows hard
against the sudden wave of something that feels very much like nausea.

But her hand on his cheek, gentle and caressing, settles his nerves and she guides
his now blurry gaze back to hers. He is surprised to see that her eyes, too, glisten
with unshed tears.

"I do mean it. Or I want to..." Her voice fades off, and she closes her eyes for
a moment, blinks away the pooling liquid. When she opens them again, the irises
are calm and clear. She beckons between them, runs her other hand down his naked
chest.

"This is easy for me, Spike. This, physical, doing stuff. But the other, mushy,
gushy stuff? Not so much... Also, I've already out-mushed myself tonight..." She
pushes herself up so she's on hands and knees above his stomach, looking down
on him, her skin not quite touching his. His erection bobs behind her, not quite
within reach.

"Buffy, you don't have to..."

"No, I...I want to." She says the last part determinedly. "I need to." She fixes
her intense gaze on him and draws a deep breath. When she speaks, her voice is
soft and sweet as honey.

"I love you Spike."

He knows it's the truth. She's not hiding anymore, not acting. It's just her.
His Buffy. Looking down at him, completely honest and open. He'd never, in all
these years of watching her - stalking her, really - seen her look more beautiful.

He closes his eyes against the rush of pure happiness. Her words are better than
anything he's ever experienced, far better than football, or killing a Slayer,
or even hours of rutting with Buffy on the floor of that abandoned house. Thanks
the Gods for a curse-free soul, 'cause otherwise it'd be gone right now.

Then his eyes fly open as she lowers herself onto his near-forgotten erection,
enveloping him slowly, inch by glorious inch, in her amazing heat. The moment
is so intense, so right and splendid, that he imagines his soul and demon dancing
hand in hand. And then he can think of nothing further as her tight, strong slayer
muscles clench around him, and he is lost amidst the swell of overwhelming, incredible,
impossible pleasure.

.........................

Had she really forgotten how good this feels, the cool, hard length of him pressed
into her? They're a perfect fit, always have been, his size filling her to perfection,
the borrowed blood inside of him pulsing and pleasuring her in near perfect time
to the intense, urgent throbbing in her groin and womb.

As she lowers herself onto him completely, Spike makes a strange sound, somewhere
between a whine, a gasp and a cry. Squeezes his eyes shut, and tenses beneath
her, the strain throwing every muscle and sinew in his taut, powerful body into
sharp relief. She watches his beautiful, dark lashes flutter against his pale
cheeks as his hands fall from her legs and bury themselves amongst the sheets,
clenching violently.

"You okay?" she asks softly.

"Yeah." His voice is husky and lust laden. He's already over the precipice, holding
onto the edge by his fingertips, and Buffy feels a rush of feminine pride that
she's had such an intense, profound effect on such a powerful, ancient creature.

Drawing a long, shaky breath, Spike finally opens his eyes and meets her gaze.
"You all right?"

"I'm good. Great." She smiles.

"Good."

Yes. Yes, it is.

Slowly, Buffy begins to move. Balancing on her knees, she rises above him, then
slides back down, reveling in the rich, indulgent pleasure of being filled, completed.
Her hands rest on his chest, fingers running over his hard, brown nipples. He
cries and arches and thrusts up eagerly as she rises away from him and repeats
the move again, and again.

His gaze is fixed on her, guileless and adoring, the usually cool blue irises
almost black with passion, yet glowing with the embers of heat and need and sheer
ecstasy. She watches him in turn, vision sweeping over his prone form, entranced
by the weaving, luminous patterns of candlelight on his alabaster skin. Every
so often the flickering light illuminates the raw pink skin of a healing wound,
or the ugly purple patch of bruise, and she's reminded of what he has been through,
what he has withstood for her.

So typical of Spike, bravely running barefoot over broken glass and carved crosses,
cashing in an intangible glimmer of hope for a nearly impossible love.

Eye's locked, gazes fixed, they rock and thrust rhythmically in an, ancient, intimate
dance to which they both know the steps. It's familiar, yet, like their kisses,
also very new, different. Slower, more sensual, more intimate. There's no rush
to get anywhere, to prove anything. For the first time ever she's doing this for
the both of them. For him.

The angle of his cock is perfect, hitting nerves in all the right places, sending
rolling waves of pleasure through her body. It's good... wonderful... and she
wants more, more, more. She pushes herself down on him harder, then arches and
throws her head back as a particularly tantalizing sliver of pleasure runs up
her spine and across her thighs. Spike clearly feels it too, and his cock leaps
within her.

"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy..."

Spike raises his hands to tease and caress her breasts, callused fingers kneading
soft flesh with potent urgency. Streams of ecstasy shoot from her nipples to her
groin, another burst of energy through muscles already quivering, tensing and
straining for release. Her inner muscles contract around him, and she grips him
and holds him within her for a long moment before gently rising and rocking again.

Spike's trembling escalates into shaking, his movements increasingly jerky, his
brow is furrowed in concentration, his cheeks hollow as he sucks in air. He's
close, and trying hard to make it last, and the painful-delight is written over
his expressive face.

"It's okay Spike, let it happen..."

"Can't... wanna make it good... give you what you deserve..."

"It's already good Spike. So, so good... missed you so much. Whatever you give
me... it's enough." Just a little bit longer...

"'s not. Never be enough."

Spike swallows, eyes glazed, and moves his hand from her breast, draws a line
down her stomach, and through the damp, springy curls at the juncture of her legs.
He finds her clitoris with practiced ease, fingers teasing the bundle of nerves
with an urgent, desperate action. Spike moans beneath her, jerks his hips spasmodically
and comes with a sudden cry, shooting his load deep within her. She pushes herself
into him, grinds against his hand and feels it happen to her, too. Her vision
blurs, dull candlelight growing brighter and brighter, consuming everything in
a blaze of fire and white as the straining tensions burst and explode within her,
and the delectable sensations of orgasm wash over her leaving her shuddering and
quivering.

Sighing, she collapses on top of him, rests her forehead against his. His arms
settle around her, gently stroking the curve of her back. They're both panting,
and she shares his dry, warm breath as she waits for feeling to return to her
limbs, and her breathing to slow to something less than hyperventilation.

As the last tingling sensations of climax recede, Buffy finds they're replaced
by a new wave of feeling. Something richer, heavier, penetrates her skin and bones,
heart and mind. Seeps through every wall and fills every nook and cranny and hidden
space.

Oh God, it's love. Real, thick, messy love. Love for Spike like she's never felt
before.

"I love you." She says again. It's so easy now, she wonders why it was so hard
before.

He opens his eyes and smiles at her. A real, genuine smile that reaches all the
way to his eyes, and she wonders if she's ever, ever seen him quite this happy.

"I love you too," he responds simply, pushing a strand of sweat-slicked hair behind
her ear.

Buffy smiles right back at him. "Yeah, I know. Really know, Spike. What you feel,
everything you've done for me, it's all a little overwhelming sometimes. Honestly,
you're a little overwhelming sometimes." She drops her gaze for a moment, then
looks back at him through a veil of hair. "And I can be a total bitch. But whatever
happens, I need you to know that I do love you Spike. I really, truly do."

There are tears on his cheeks, but he doesn't bother to brush them away. Instead
he pulls her damp, still trembling form to him with almost painful intensity.

"You're an incredible, amazing, wonderful woman Buffy Summers. Strong and brave
and mad as all hell. Love everything about you, even on your not-so-pleasant days.
God, I love you. Love you so, so much."

She kisses his cheek, his chest, then settles herself quietly against him, ear
on his silent chest. It's not long until he drifts off to sleep, arms still clutched
possessively around her, salty tracks down his cheeks. And then, lying silent
next to him, she simply watches him sleep.

Rest Spike. You need it.

She used to always deny it, but she knows now that Spike has loved her for years.
Loved her and worshipped her and cared for her with everything he had, no matter
how she used and abused him. She's a lot less sure of her own feelings. Thinks
sometimes that she loved him last year, when they spent their days in a pantomine
of living and their nights sweating from killing and shagging. Or maybe just loved
him as best she could, which wasn't much when her heart was nearly frozen. She
couldn't really love him, because she couldn't love anyone. But she remembers
wondering whether, if she could love him then, could they be happy together?

She smiles, lays a gentle kiss in his chest and curls deeper into his slumbering
embrace.

Here's her chance to find out.

.......................

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

And that concludes Offerings.

Wow. I used to get a bit eye-rolly at fics that ended immediately after a big
sex scene. And now I've gone and written one. Go me! I would promise to redeem
myself with an epilogue of some kind, but I'm likely to be away from my computer
for the next month (argh!) so, folks, this is it for the moment.

My humblest apologies to the (many of you, I know) who wanted more bitey. Somewhere
along the time this morphed by a challenge fic into a character piece/romance,
and as much as I tried, another bite just didn't seem right in the context of
the final chapter. But, as I say, I may yet have an epilogue in which to fix things...

Anyway, big love to my wonderful betas, Planetjess, Hesadevil, BuffyX and mschelleau,
without whom this just wouldn't have been possible. And a huge 'thank you' to
everyone who took the time to read Offerings, and especially to all the wonderful
people who gave me feedback and support. Every single comment was hugely appreciated,
and very likely licked.