The Offering

By Esmeralda

Epilogue

Spike surveyed the results of his handiwork with a satisfied smirk; he hadn't lost his touch. The first agonized scream had sounded out more than an hour ago by his reckoning, the final dying gurgle emerging only in the last few minutes, when he'd grown tired of the stink of demon blood. Spike stepped casually over the remains of one of the Tavar's bodyguards to enter the kitchenette. He grimaced at the state of it, and then turned on a sink tap to wash some of the gore from his hands. He wasn't going home stinking of Tavar. The water gurgled and rattled in the pipes. Having had some experience of low-rent plumbing, Spike stepped back and so avoided being soaked when the water suddenly gushed forth in an uneven, jerky spray. He leaned forward again somewhat gingerly, and scrubbed the sticky blue blood from his skin.

He'd had no intention of leaving anyone alive when he'd entered the apartment, that being the only way to absolutely guarantee that no one would ever talk. He'd dispatched the bodyguards with efficient glee, but awarded the Tavar's boy-toy a relatively gentle death - snapping the orange-eyed youth's neck. A half-breed, Spike noted in passing, and he wondered if that was the fate that had been intended for Doyle: a host to the Tavar's parasitic desires. The thought had fuelled Spike's rage as he'd turned his attentions to the quivering bulk on the sofa. It had begun predictably, with pleas of ignorance and innocence. Then it tried to buy him. Spike's hatred had increased with each offer that dripped from it's slack, shapeless lips.

He'd quickly discovered that the tentacles tore away from the Tavar's body with relatively little force, the holes oozing dark, sticky blood. He heard the tenants in the apartment next door turn up the TV volume to try and drown out the Tavar's screams. Spike had no real concerns that any one would try and intercede on the Tavar's behalf. Tavar demons usually had their filthy mitts into everything. He doubted that anyone in this building - demon or human - would mourn Lezzam's passing. Spike remembered the anguish in Doyle's face and the worry marring his lover's features, and he drew out the Tavar's suffering accordingly. Unlike Angelus, however, Spike took little satisfaction in prolonged torture sessions. His attention span tended to wander, and he quickly grew tired of all the whimpering and sobbing. For him the real rush was witnessing that moment when a victim looked at him and saw death approaching. The rest was just window-dressing.

Spike scraped the last of the blue gunk from under his fingernails and stepped back through into the main room. He did a check for written records or accounts of transactions. Satisfied there were none, he left without bothering to search for items worth looting. The lesson Angelus had imprinted on him all those years before was one of the few that had taken - he wouldn't dirty his hands with a Tavar's haul. A frightened face peeped out from an apartment down the hall as he walked to the stairwell. Spike sneered, and the face emitted a frightened squeak and ducked back inside. Dawn was still some hours away, but after ducking down a few side streets Spike chose to take the sewer tunnels the rest of the way home. It was
quicker and quieter, and all he wanted to do now was get back to Xander.

They'd left Angel and Doyle's apartment around midnight. After wandering home, Spike had told Xander that he had some business to attend to - alone. Xander had looked like he wanted to argue until Spike had hinted that he was settling something for Doyle. Then Xander had reluctantly agreed to stay behind, although Spike had suffered a stony glare as he'd left. Spike had never had any intention of taking Xander back to the Tavar's apartment, partly because he didn't want his lover anywhere near the bastard, and partly because he didn't want Xander to be a witness to the carnage he knew would follow his arrival. Spike was loathe to acknowledge as much, even to himself, but Wesley's constant prattling was giving him pause for thought. For the first time, Spike found himself wondering what effect he might be having on Xander's immortal soul.

Wesley had persisted that they were being naïve in the extreme if they really believed that Xander's soul wasn't being affected by exposing it to blood, death and murder on a nightly basis. Spike had glibly replied it was only alternate nights, but he'd unwillingly taken the words on board. He hadn't turned Xander when the chance had arisen after Penn's near-fatal attack, because he had wanted his Xander, not some soulless facsimile. What if, instead of ripping out Xander's soul, he was destroying it slowly by increments? Xander was happy to ignore Wesley's dire warnings and advice. Spike would have been happy to do likewise, but he was older and arguably wiser about such matters. He knew the taint of evil, and he'd seen what
became of humans who hung around vamps - those that didn't end up as instant happy meals. The darkness consumed them until finally it drew them over.

Would the fact that he truly loved Xander spare the young man from the darkness that was at the core of his being? Angel didn't seem overly concerned, and Spike knew his Sire was still watching out for the boy, but then again Angel had his own worries - such as a half-demon with a knack for landing in trouble. No, he was going to have to think very carefully about all this. He wasn't about to let Xander go; Wesley could scratch that off his to-do list. But he had to be absolutely sure that by loving Xander, he wasn't also irreversibly ruining him. There was always a way around these things, Spike had found, if only you looked hard enough and long enough. He resolved to start looking.

Spike unlocked the various bolts and wards that protected their home and let himself in. He'd expected to find Xander asleep, or, preferably awake and waiting for him in bed. He didn't expect to find his lover fully clothed, sitting on the sofa, with a look of abject despair on his face. No, Spike corrected himself as he crossed the room, and Xander looked up. Not despair - sorrow. Dark eyes were liquid with tears. Spike sat quickly and was grateful when Xander grabbed his hand. Nothing he'd done then.

"Luv?"

"I phoned Giles." Xander's voice was croaky, suggesting he'd been upset for some time before Spike had come home.

"Bit late for a chat." Spike decided to keep his tone gentle and light until he knew what was going on.

"He'd left a message on my cell phone. I played it just after you left. He sounded weird, so I got worried."

"And?" Spike was starting to feel worried himself. What the fuck had happened that his lover was in this state?

"And Buffy's mom died." Xander said the words as though he didn't quite believe them. "The funeral's on Thursday. I said I'd go. I said I didn't know if you'd-"

"We'll sort out some transport in the morning," said Spike. Bloody hell. Joyce was dead. He remembered the woman with the axe who'd made him hot chocolate and felt a strange pang of loss.

"I really liked her," said Xander softly.

"She was nice."

"I mean, when Willow and Buffy used to moan about how annoying their moms were. I used to want to shout - hey, try mine for size. No worries, no hassles. No recognition that you even exist. Exclusive basement accommodation thrown in virtually free. "

Spike eyed his lover sympathetically. "Not many Hallmark moments to be had, eh, Pet?" Xander was usually closed mouthed on the topic of his parents, probably because he was worried what a de-chipped Spike might do if he heard the full glorious tale of the Harris family.

"Only if they do a card that says 'Congratulations on the birth of your unwanted child,'" said Xander bitterly. "Or how about, 'Happy Mother's Day from the son you want to forget.'"

Spike had heard enough. He pulled Xander round to face him and covered the boy's lips with his own, kissing him fiercely. "This - this is real. Fuck them," he told his lover when he paused to let Xander breathe.

Xander nodded, slightly glassy-eyed. "Yours."

"Too fuckin' right. And don't you ever forget it." Spike sat back on the sofa, drawing Xander with him, resting the young man's head on his shoulder. "Now tell me the rest."

"There's not much more to tell. You know she was sick. Buffy apparently just came home one day and found her." Grief haunted Xander's voice. "God. She must have been so scared and hurting. I mean Buffy's great with the slaying. Totally 'in control'-girl. But stick her with the real-life stuff, and things just get messy."

Spike had to agree. Buffy was pretty much top notch material as Slayers went: she'd been able to find her thrill and still keep her focus - not to mention her friends and her family. But throw real-life stuff at her, and she was just another wide-eyed girl with pouty lips and blond bangs, making a pig's ear of it all. A thought struck him. "How's the Bit taking it?" As soon as the words had left his mouth he realized it was a dumb question. Xander evidently thought so too.

"How do you think? Her mother's dead and social services are probably already hammering on the door. She's got to be terrified."

"Yeah." Spike had always liked Buffy's little sister. She was cut from the same spirited mould as the other Summers women, but was less remote than Buffy. She'd brought him books and magazines when he was languishing in Giles' tub. She talked to him, not at him, chatting about school and her little chums as if he was a friend of the family who'd come to stay, rather than an evil chained-up fiend.

"Giles said there was some other stuff going on, but he didn't want to go into it over the phone. Just that if we came we were to be careful." Xander gave a sad little sigh. "Just another week in Sunnydale, I guess."

Spike frowned. He didn't like the sound of that. He pondered whether to phone Giles and try to get some more details out of him, but decided it would probably be a wasted call. Anyway, this would only be a brief visit if he got his way. They would turn up for the funeral, pay their respects, and clear out in twenty-four hours, no more. He didn't want any run-ins with Captain Cardboard, nor did he want Xander's former playmates sticking their oars in. It was bad enough they had their own homegrown Watcher now. He didn't need any more do-gooders putting nonsense into his lover's head.

"You smell funny."

"Huh?"

"Your coat. It smells - like cabbage?" Xander sat up and frowned at him.

Spike had been trying to ignore the smell. "It'll fade. Just needs an airing, that's all."

"Yeah? Well air it out here. Don't bring it in the bedroom."

"Yes, sir."

"Business, huh?"

Spike looked away. "It's sorted."

"Does Doyle know?"

Still looking at the far wall, Spike nodded. "Told him I'd deal with it."

Xander put a hand on Spike's jaw and drew him back to face him. "Thank you."

"Pleasure, luv." But Spike's smile was slightly strained. Didn't the boy care that he'd killed tonight? It was never going to weigh very heavily on his conscience, but then he wasn't supposed to have one. The Xander of only a year ago would have been disturbed at the very least. Was this the way of things now? And why did it bother him? Surely Xander's indifference was a good thing? Spike tried not to think any more about it as he shrugged out of his duster, leaving it on the sofa as he followed Xander through into the bedroom. He watched the young man undress, admiring the smooth curve of muscle playing under the skin, its pallor in stark contrast to sable-dark hair and eyes. Spike saw the undercurrent of sadness in the way Xander
moved; he could feel it sighing along the Bond they shared. He stepped up behind his lover and placed his arms around him. "Mine," he whispered against the nape of Xander's neck.

"Always."

Spike released Xander with a little push, sending the young man falling forward onto the bed. Xander wore a mock scowl when he turned over. Spike ignored it as he removed his jeans and shirt and literally jumped onto his lover.

"Ooof." Xander pushed at him. "Some of us have lungs that need to expand."

Spike obliged by moving just enough to let Xander breathe. He wasn't fooled by the lightness of Xander's phraseology. That undercurrent of sadness was still there. He looked down at his lover; knowing Xander could see him almost as clearly in the darkness of the unlit room. "It'll be all right," Spike promised softly, but he wasn't certain if he intended the words for Xander or for himself. He punctuated it with a kiss, and as Xander responded the darkness fell away and they drifted toward the dawn. Questions were temporarily forgotten. The time would come for answers, but not yet. Not now. Now was that time before sunrise, when sorrows could be eased in a lover's embrace. But already the dawn was breaking. There was never time
enough for lovers, even those touched by immortality.

To be Continued In the Sequel "The Rift"