Sang et Ivoire

By Holly

Chapter Forty-Four

He felt it.

An ache streaked across his back, and he felt it. A pounding echoed in his ears, and he felt it. Water dripped against his skin, and he felt it.

It felt so good to feel.

What an amazing sensation. Nearly four years dwelling in the heart of human candor rendered all vibrations new and unexplored: lodged somewhere within his conscious as the oddest sense of déjà vu. Something that existed within the depths of logic. Cold, dark, and unidentified. Feelings he never expected to again experience enveloped him with chilling possession, tightening every muscle in his body, stretching his brain until he thought it would ooze from his ears - forcing his eyes to escape behind their sockets as a silent scream fought its way to freedom. Agony? Perhaps a bit. But what was done was done.

Disconcertion was in order. After all, having a soul ripped away was supposed to do that. All at once, he felt limber and energetic, though he remained stationary on the ground. His lungs filled with air that he didn't need, veins coursing with life - as though reflecting the best feed of a century.

It was odd to feel pain and ecstasy at the same time.

It was odd for pain to fade in the leeway of pleasure.

The soul had made him ache. It had made him alive. It was gone.

Good things never last, of course. Vampires in all senses were forbidden to feel anything. Consequences weigh heavily when they breech that unspoken barrier placed by nature between themselves and mortal man. A few minutes were granted before the first wave struck, attacking his gut with such force that it would have killed him were he not already dead. The next did not wait, nor was it any simpler to endure. Eyes flashed with the continuous silent recitation of Why? Why? Why? Do I dare? His throat tightened with a soundless scream, a hand struggling to find his eyes, to bat the images away.

And just like that, they left him. Every lasting image. What a wondrous sensation.

It was gone. After feeling the self-inflicted torment Angel put himself through in first person, a strange impression of both loss and rebirth coursed through him in the greatest relief. All strains of self-loathing for something he could not change had left him. The promise was no longer empty. When he woke that first morn, so many years ago, he had never seen himself in this position. The regain of something he never coveted; the will to look at the world through rose colored glasses, and feel nothing but indifference.

He understood pain. He had tasted his share time and time again, enjoying it often. The thrill of the hunt, of the kill, of a torture session involving railroad spikes. The taste of good blood. Motives came in all shapes and sizes, however ineffectual. Because he was bored. Because he was irritated. Because it was fun.

All familiar pangs were gone. All except one.

Because of her. All because of her. She who had led him here. She who had fueled his holy crusade. She who had given him life after taking it so many times. She who supplied his lungs with such blissfully unnecessary oxygen. Over and over again she had gone to him to die, and yet he was the one who fell cold. Spike had placed himself in the midst of the deadliest stare imaginable all for the feel of her skin under his. He had endured bitterness that came in the guise of pointed hate to cover her self-resentment. For her, he allowed himself to take the fall. Oh and how that stung! To be hurt time after time for her own misgivings.

How it felt to hurt her...

But so much had changed. When he last awoke after earning his reward, he had not a friend in the world. An incredibly hurt Slayer resided on the other side of the planet, unknowing of his redemption. An acquaintance waited in London to offer him an unlikely hand in amity. A Witch was suffering the consequences for her descent into madness. An evil was brewing, waiting for the signal. Waiting for the opportunity to change everything forever.

Spike had never known remorse or guilt. As a bloodsucking fiend, he had taken life after life, drank from countless suppliers, and did so with a song in his heart. And that was the way it was - the way he accepted it. The way all vampires accepted it. A soulless demon was not supposed to bear a conscience. No, no, that would get in the way. Chip or no chip, nothing was believed to affect his Jiminy Cricket. And truthfully, nothing had for a hundred years.

She had given him feeling. Feeling! He was Spike, the Big Bad, the baddest of the bad. No woman, no human woman was supposed to make him feel. But the demon could not lie. The demon knew love and loved the Slayer. The enemy. No matter how many times she brushed him off, he came back. No matter how she attempted to push him away, how she hurt him without a care, he always returned whenever she was in the slightest danger. Whenever she raised her voice in his direction. When he saw what he had nearly done to her, he would have gladly shoved a stake through his heart, if only to save her from himself.

He had hurt her. Hurt the woman he loved.

But that was over now. An inconsistency he would have to grow accustomed to. Something unforeseeable from every angle but one. It was all very vexing.

Spike had been perverse. He loved pain, fed off it. Every punch seemed to satisfy more than hurt. Or so things had before he knew his love for her. Then it was thrust and parry; Buffy fought enough for both of them. The confession of love buried within his throat only fueled her rage. He was a demon, after all, and it was conventional knowledge that demons could not love.

But he had. Spike had loved with more fervor than many humans ever experience. Even before the dream changed his unlife, a softness covered by layers of rough exterior shaped him to care for Drusilla. He knew that she had never wholly loved him - never like he had her. A century has passed with her by his side, and he would have laid his life down for her if it were asked of him.

At that, Porphyria's words concerning his maker came flying back. A true punch in the gut - viable and constructed with the intention of ruin. A lingering spark of hatred blooming for the demon that had stolen the Slayer's body flared with recognition. Spike shook his head, eyes sealed shut. He did not want to look around. Did not want to feel anything. Four years of feeling had been more than enough.

The man burning inside whispered it was fair trade for all the suffering she had endured since his return.

God, how things had changed.

It was then the realization struck. Blunt and forceful - strong enough to drive a weaker man to tears. Buffy loved him. Loved him. She had told him so with the utmost sincerity. Over and over again, tears pouring down those glorious cheeks, dampened hair clinging to her forehead. She told him before she knew. She, Buffy Summers, the Slayer, loved Spike. A feeling indiscernible to any breed swept through him, applying the tender touch to his aching conscience. The conscience was still there. He doubted it would ever leave.

It was final, then. Spike was back. The same who had saved her. Saved her so many times from vampires, demons, herself, in his dreams.

In the end, it was she who tried to save him from the monster within.

The mental civil war was armed and ready to last a decade, but he could not allow himself to sulk forever in the darkness. Aside his newly defined conclusive state, Spike blinked wearily before finally forcing his eyes open and sitting up with a blessed flex of muscle. He was only vaguely aware that someone was lying across his lap. There was nothing but the cold - the cold and a strange immunity to it all.

Then the reality of his situation swept inward, engulfing him in a tidal wave of remembrance. Drawing in a sharp breath, his hand shot out experimentally and collided with the satin of soft skin. No movement. Spike gave way to patience - it was not something he was commonly known for - and turned her onto her back. The visage he beheld was enough to chill the darkest heart. Her skin was cold, the scar stretching her cheek the picture of blood against ivory.

She wasn't moving, and there was no way to estimate how well she would be when she awoke.

Swallowing, Spike lifted her in his arms, cradling her head before it fell back. He pursed his lips, running a finger against the cut in her face. It burned with pain that he could not feel. The stake wound at her chest was still moist - blackened against a light, tattered blouse.

He couldn't allow himself to stop and think. In the next instant, he was on his feet, Buffy in his arms. Keened eyes prowled his surroundings for sign of life to little avail. His insides flooded with contempt, and a growl rumbled through his body. "'Ey!" he called through the vacant grotto, nothing but the drowning echoes of his own voice bothering to answer. "You din't play the trade fair, stupid git! You were s'posed to give 'er back! 'Ey? Answer me!"

Angry cries died down endless tunnels. There was no rejoinder.

Desperately, Spike looked back to Buffy. A lump formed in his throat, and he again set her down, propping her against a slab of rock. In new light, he could see the paintings that offset inhumanly pale skin.

For long minutes, all he could do was stare. The face of a continuous plight - the dozing angel looking back. Floods of warmth contracted the shivers wracking his body. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since he last saw her face. Since he had the opportunity to simply watch her. New revelations soared with blessed awakening.

He wanted to talk to her. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to do all the things previously denied. Most of all, he needed to hear her say it. Say it to him, to him and mean it. After everything, he didn't believe he needed anything with more potency.

Spike expelled a breath and reached forward, feeling her face. "Buffy?"

No answer.

"Slayer?"

No answer.

His next thought was impulsive and brash, and by the time he rethought his actions, his fist had already compacted neatly with her face. Though the force was minimal, it still sent her defenseless body to the ground. Still, no answer. He frowned and leaned forward, pulling her to him tightly. He had to fight the urge to bury his face in her hair. To simply lose himself here, forget the outside world and lie beside her until the end of time.

Of course, that would get very tedious. Spike thoroughly abhorred being jaded. That, and if he didn't get something to eat soon, he was sure to wither away.

With another sigh, he rose to his feet, pulling Buffy into his arms once more. The duster lay abandoned on the ground. With a tight grin, he slid it over his shoulders, balancing the precious cargo with talent many would envy. It was a practice he had perfected when caring for Drusilla.

Spike's mind was racing, tripping over in itself in an effort to beat other components to the better ideas. Directly following his own restoration, he had retreated respectively to London where he presumed to live out the end of civilization alone.

That brought a single name to mind. Giles. Giles would know what to do.

The platinum vampire paused. How was he supposed to explain this to his benefactor? To the man who had been a reliable colleague for nearly half a decade? Ripper was William's friend; he had never been a supporter of the demon inside. A thousand plus encounters had been enough to prove that much.

Spike... you're not welcome here... We are not your friends. We are not your way to Buffy. There is no way to Buffy.

Things were different. Everything was different. Giles knew him as the man and the demon who sacrificed everything in the namesake of salvation. Coldness flushed his insides, but there was not time to think about that. He had to consider what was in the Slayer's best interest, and that was definitely a visit to her Watcher.

After that, there very well could be miles to go.

It was dark outside the cave. He had no idea how much time had passed since first entering; it felt he had just awoken after sleeping a thousand years. By the rumbling in his stomach, he concluded it had been at least a couple days. He wondered absently if the impact of Giles's drug was responsible for Buffy's prolonged rest. After all, she had awoken a good day before she was due to by the demon's decree.

God, he hoped so.

Spike stopped once more before stepping into the night. "'F she doesn' wake up," he told the silent demon. "I'll be back. You can count on that. An' so help me, I'll rip your bloody head off."

There was no reply. The threat was empty, of course. He didn't suspect he would last long against the sprite lone on a battlefield; but he would do it. Suicide or not, he would do it.

The first steps outside were cold and unusual, as though he occupied a stranger's body. Spike drew the fresh night air into his useless lungs, clutching the Slayer close to his body, against the leather of the coat he had earned so long ago. The coat she would battle him for if - when - she awoke.

If she doesn' see it's me - really me - and stake me first.

That was ridiculous. She loved him. Buffy loved him. She had told him so.

She had started loving him. It was William she loved by last declaration.

Spike shook his head in aggravation. Bloody rotten time to go through these sodding dramatics, he thought. Must be some lingerin' nancy-boy concern. Teaches me to become a poofter.

The library. A place of previous sanctuary. His home. At that minute, he couldn't think of a place further from himself, but it was the nearest haven. It was also the most logical location to establish an understanding with Giles. If he knew the Watcher, he had likely boarded a plane to England not two minutes after they last spoke.

Dread began spooling in his stomach. Despite recent developments, he did not want to lose Ripper's support. There was no way to gauge his reaction, though perceptivity came with knowledge. He had spent four years proving that he was not the impassive demon everyone had believed him to be. There was empathy and support. There was friendship.

There was a long trip ahead.

At that moment, he concluded it didn't matter what Giles thought. Or what Buffy's opinion of him was - whether or not she loved him.

She does, o'course. She said so.

But it didn't matter. Nothing did. He had to get to London. To that library run by wankers that, for whatever reason, thought he suited him perfectly. A library. Spike grinned tightly to himself in somber reflection. Words and excuses began forming effortlessly in his head; things he could tell the administration regarding his future in that occupation. Professor Hawkins was aware of his resignation, and he thanked the Powers That Be that he had forgotten to call and reinstate himself prior to bringing Buffy to Africa.

Thinking was too tiresome, especially after the past few days. There was only one objective to concern himself with. London.

Beyond that, there were questions only time could answer.

Bloody impatience.

*~*~*

There was nothing like cutting it fine.

Spike threw the door open just as his back began to sizzle. The keys were left dangling in the lock; it was suicide to go back and pull them inward. It was early enough for the library to be closed to the public, and perhaps if he cared more, he would have given consideration to potential plunderers - more likely, demons - returning from an evening of partying. But there was no thought beyond getting Buffy upstairs.

When he saw he was not going to beat the sun, he had removed the duster and again laid it across her body. Lingering tidbits of forethought battled through random spurns of ideas. He forced himself to a stop before stepping directly through one of the sunbeams.

"BLOODY HELL!" he yelled irately, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. The trip was one he had made a thousand times, but never while carrying another individual. Spike paused; reviewing the footing, then took off in what was perhaps the most ineloquent voyage across the lobby since that initial day four years earlier. He fell to his knees when the danger had passed, panting as though having completed a marathon.

"That old git really was tryin' to dust me," he grumbled, though he knew it was not so.

Then he wasn't alone. It was instant recognition. The vampire whirled on his heels - rushing with hope that the Watcher was behind him though knowing in advance that such was not the case. No. It was the substitute curator, looking as disgruntled as ever.

Morning salutations were not needed.

"Fantastic," Spike murmured. "They called you back, eh?"

Dr. Fell's eyes narrowed, observing him with an air of superiority. The Cockney bit back a snarl; he hated being scrutinized. There was no immediate reply: no need when one could afford time enough to patronize.

"Your rather abrupt departure left my employers little option in the matter," was the reply - shaken as though attempting to bottle growing aggravation. "Mr. Ripper, I do realize that you have more of a tie around here than I do, but I suspect even a man of your character can realize it is trifle rude to abandon a granted occupation without forward warning."

At that, Spike allowed the growl scratching at his throat to escape. He hadn't time for this. "Terribly sorry to inconvenience you, you bloody poof," he snapped. "My lady got sick, see? Really nasty sick. I s'pose you can say in a fatal kinda way. Had to go find 'er a cure. Din't 'ave time to worry about the soddin' management. Figure'd they'd know I left once they popped by an' noticed the not here-ness of me. So sod off. Gotta get 'er upstairs."

The look on the doctor's face did not change. Unsympathetic and beyond annoyed. Rolling his eyes, the platinum vampire pushed passed him, murmuring incoherencies under his figurative breath. He got as far as the middle step before Fell spoke again.

"Do you presume that the administration is going to welcome you back with open arms? You have left twice now without expressing the slightest desire to return to your position." Pivoting elegantly, arms behind his back, the man faced him. Eyes linked. Spike had the sudden urge to tear his head off. "They were going to have your things removed as of tomorrow."

His brows perked in feigned interest. "Really? Good for 'em. Here's one for you... I don' give a bloody damn. I told you before that the job 's yours once I'm done with the place."

"The job is mine, Mr. Ripper."

"Well tha's fan-fuckin'-tastic. Works out for the best of us. There is that little part where I don' care, but 'f you can ignore that while I go tend to some busi-"

"Perhaps you're not hearing me-"

"Yeah. I'm hearin' you. I'm no longer invited. Back to the part where I don' care. I'm usin' the room upstairs."

"Mister-"

"Honestly, mate. Wha's up your wagon? I got more important things to do. Now, I'm goin' upstairs. You wanna stop me? Well, can't say it won' gimme a headache, but I'll give you somethin' to scream about. I am feelin' a bit peckish." With that, he allowed his bumpies to emerge, a vampiric roar tearing at his throat. "An' if you think I'm bad, wait till the bird wakes up."

He hoped against hope that was an empty promise. If it was Porphyria who met his eyes, he was sure to lose every reserve... but not before allowing her first dibs at the doctor.

The look on Fell's face was priceless; torn between stunned and horrified. When he could not find words, Spike grinned tightly to himself and nodded. "Tha's what I thought. Stay down there an' do your job. I'll be outta your hair, or lack thereof, soon as possible. Don' think I fancy stickin' 'round 'ere, do yeh?" The smile tickling his lips broadened. "Get over it. I'm a vamp. Big surprise. Think I got this job because of my schoolin'? You thick ponce. Oh, an' if a bloke named Giles drops by, tell 'im to come on up."

That was that. He refused to wait for a reply. There was much too much to worry himself with to pause and deal with ignorance at its best. He pushed his chamber door open and hopped fervently to the bed. His taste transformed to tenderness once convinced that the doctor wasn't going to follow him with another foray of inane inquiries.

There wasn't much he could do but study her face. Her wonderful sleeping face. Lost somewhere in a transitive dreamland. He wondered where she was. What she was feeling. What random images drifted through an unknowing subconscious. If he was there at all, comforting her in her time of need.

If she would ever wake up.

Pacing was inevitably a necessity.

Hours passed - he didn't know how many. He occupied himself with anything he found accessible. Downing glass after glass of blood to fill his stomach, trying to finish the book he started before returning to Sunnydale and finding himself intensely bored within the first two sentences. Every other beat was another venturous glance at her face. He didn't know how best to busy himself without worrying ad infinitum that she might be gone forever. There was no way to tell. No heartbeat to monitor. No pulse to check. Nothing but the lasting evidence of her physical being to suggest she would ever again open her eyes.

But that was ridiculous. It was the drug - it had to be the drug. Until then, he did what he could for her, periodically injecting her with shots of warm blood to keep her from hunger. He spent a good hour debating how comfortable she looked against the pillows, rearranging her in different fashions with the clandestine hope that he would jar her harsh enough to bring her into consciousness. No such luck.

Night had fallen when he heard the rustling on the other side of the door. Before he could answer the calling, Giles rushed in, relief sweeping waves of panic away from his face. "Will! Oh, thank God," he said. "I barely allowed myself to hope when your replacement informed me you had returned." He discarded his coat on a table beneath one of William's favored Monet paintings. "Where is she? Did it go well? How-"

Spike was dumbstruck. At once, he felt compelled to break for the door before the Watcher realized what had transpired during those last minutes. But no. He had only run from what he was once before. No more. Not after everything. Brushing a hand through bleached strands, he stepped forward. "She's sleepin'," he replied. "Ripper... there's somethin' you oughta know. See I-"

The look he received was enough to silence any man. Giles's eyes squared on him suspiciously, comprehension flooding inward with bittersweet amnesty. "You're Spike," he concluded. There was no want of doubt.

At that, the vampire had no retort. He turned his gaze downward in the heat of interrogation. His throat clogged with a million evident observations, but he swallowed in reaction, unable to do anything but nod. Though to no certain degree, he could deny the shared sense of loss that compacted the void where kinship had once resided. In an instant, it was gone. Gone along with everything else.

The Watcher's mouth formed a solemn line and he nodded tightly to himself. Manifest regret clouded every weary strain on his face - as if he had lost his best friend in the world. "I see then. How did it happen?"

"The demon," Spike retorted. "The demon 'ad me do the trials. 'Ad to do that 'cause Porphy din't exactly want a soul. Not like I did... my first go 'round. After it was all over, 'e said some of the same, an' it basically boils down to me 'avin' to trade mine for hers." He looked up. "But don' go all poncy on me, mate. It wasn' nothin' heroic."

"I wasn't going to suggest that," Giles replied matter-of-factly, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is simply too much. You gave your soul up for her?"

"'Course." He managed to look affronted at the suggestion he would have done anything else. "Hell, you knew me well 'nuff to guess that. Actually had to beg the bastard. Said since only one 'f us came in with one that only one 'f us could leave with one."

"And you gave yours up," he repeated, dumbfounded.

"Like I had a choice." Spike twitched uncomfortably. "Can we get passed the sodding melodrama? Yeh - had a soul, gave it up like any decent chap would for the girl 'e loves." At the look he was issued, he sighed, glancing down once more. "Look. You don' 'ave to worry 'bout anythin', 'kay? I know tha's not exactly reassuring comin' from me, but I won'-"

The answer he received was blunt and honest. It surprised him. "I know." Giles met his eyes with understanding. "I know there is nothing to worry about. I..." He released a long breath. "As much as it pains me to say this... I suppose there is nothing to do but trust you."

The vampire blinked, balked, and stepped forward in confusion. "Come again?"

There was a long, collective silence.

"We are not friends," the Watcher continued a minute later. "You know this as well as I do. But you did something no one could have ever predicted, and I respect you for that." He paused. "I suppose it is safe to presume that you have decided against returning to the library."

Spike couldn't help it. He grinned. "The chances of that bein'..."

"Pardon my delusions. Understand that it has been a very long week."

"Got that right."

Giles glanced to Buffy and heaved a sigh. "There is no ending with you, is there? If it is not one extreme, it is the other."

He shrugged. "Don' blame me, mate. That poncy Will's the one who did it. I was-"

"I really don't feel like having this argument for the rest of my life," the old man retorted shortly. "Mainly because, after this month, I'm sure I've worried away my last twenty years. Though I suppose you will never reach the pivotal form of comprehension that the rest of us have. It is going to take a while to fall out of old habits."

"An' back to hatin' my guts?" Spike arched a brow. "Sorry 'f that doesn' sound like my idea of a good ole time."

"After what we've been through," Giles replied incredulously, "that would be the last of my worries." He emitted another breath and indicated the sleeping Slayer with a nod. "Has there been no change?"

The vampire shook his head. "No. I don'... I'm thinkin' that stuff I gave 'er before we left might've kicked back in after we fought."

"You fought?"

"That was the trial. I 'ad to kill 'er." He could tell that the continuous references to himself in the first person were throwing the old man off. Four years of experience had schooled him in a different direction. "So I beat 'er. Don' know how, exactly. I beat 'er. Held a stake over 'er heart an' demanded the demon to give 'er back to me. An', well, you know the rest."

The Watcher pursed his lips. "I'm sorry you had to..."

"What? Give it up? Figure you would be. Lost yourself your best-"

"No. Not that. I'm sorry you had to face her alone. I can imagine how difficult that must have been." Giles met his eyes once more with finality, support wavering away from his features, but not far. There was a sudden need to be alone, and it was felt from all directions.

The next was said out of duty rather than manifest concern. "Don't make me regret entrusting you with her."

"Mate, as of the now I got your respect. Tha's a bloody hard thing to come by if you're... well... me. Don' aim to go do somethin' stupid." Somberly, leaned in Buffy's direction, but didn't look. "More reasons than one. I'd never hurt her, Ripper. I know I did, but I wouldn't again. Not after..."

"Wi-Spike." How odd it was to hear that reversed. "If there was one thing your quest did, it was prove that very argument. I like to consider myself a good judge of character, and I would hate for yours to... well, descend. These past few years have proved there's no medium between you and your... well..." He sighed. "It's hard to explain."

The vampire nodded. "Yeh. But I get what you're sayin'."

An uncomfortable moment of quiet reflection ticked by without climax.

"I'll be downstairs, fending off Dr. Fell. He made quite a fuss when I announced who I was." Giles paused in fleeting amusement. "Correspondingly, he mentioned something about you having the face of a demon. Don't-"

Spike grinned. "Well, 'e was bein' a bloody git an' not lettin' me up 'ere to take care of the Slayer. Had to give 'im a bit of convincin' that I'm not the kinda bloke to mess with. All in good fun, o'course. Not like I could bite 'im 'f I wanted to."

"Let me know if she-"

"Like I wouldn't." He snickered. "Take it easy, Ripper. Don' bore yourself to death down there. Load of books that could put even Ole Likes to Read to sleep."

"Says he who read Siddhartha six times in one week."

"'Ey! That wasn' bloody me! I'd never-"

But he wasn't listening. Giles smiled poignantly and left without another word, closing the door quietly behind him.

That was perhaps one of the most bizarre, confounding conversations he had ever shared with another individual. Spike sat in bemused silence for long minutes. Whatever he had expected of the Watcher, it certainly wasn't support. Sure, the old man had insinuated enough over the past few years after the initial adjustment stage wore itself to the last straw, but he never thought that words would be followed with actions.

I will never want your opinion, he had told him a lifetime ago.

Spike was far from admitting to himself, much less anyone else that losing Giles's pledge of good faith was the last thing he wanted to do.

Two more hours passed with everlasting tedium. There wasn't much to occupy himself with, and while he debated rolling the telly in to attempt the impossible feat of following Passions after missing every episode of the last few years, he would not leave her side for the world.

Despite his original claim, he had somehow allowed the Watcher to get him off his regularly scheduled programming. Instead, he smoked two packs of cigarettes, often using the ends of one to light up another. It was disappointingly unaccommodating in settling his nerves.

The clock had just completed announcing the midnight hour when a moan drifted from the divan. Spike was in the process of extinguishing another nicotine delight when it tickled his ears. Every fiber of his being froze with impossible sanguinity, unsuccessfully attempting to school him to patience. He was leaning over her the next instant, eyes too eager, praying he had not been deceived by false hope.

The next instant put all reservations aside. Buffy groaned loudly and stretched, hand unwittingly brushing across his face. He couldn't help it; the reaction was immediate. He caught her skin between his teeth, fortifying the grip with a return of his own as he tasted her with his tongue.

"Oh God," he murmured. "Luv? Buffy? God, come on. Come on. Jus' a lil more, pet. Come on..."

A strangled beat of anticipation ticked by, nearly tearing him apart. It was only when he was ready to growl his frustration that her eyes finally flew open.

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