Title: Breathing For Two
Author: OneTwoMany
Email: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Summary: Learning to live.
Spoilers: Early AtS Season Five
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm not worth suing.

Spike breathes when he sleeps.

Not that she's ever seen someone who didn't breathe when they slept. Well, except maybe Angel, but she never noticed it with him, if she's ever seen him sleep at all, which she supposes she must have although she can't remember an occasion. Would she have noticed if Angel didn't breathe? Is it stranger that she notices that Spike does, or that she expected that he wouldn't? Maybe it's just that the breathing is Spike a thing. Or maybe she's only noticing because it's obvious, now, as she stares at the rise and fall of his narrow chest, his pale skin a chalky white in the weak light. It's probably wrong to look like this; to stare, really. Bad mannered. She's a bad friend. She should look away. Looking away right now.

And then Spike stirs, mutters a little, and her gaze is instantly drawn back to him as his body convulses and his hands twist into the sheets. He mutters words that are barely discernible, but agonising in tone.

"Don't...Gotta do it...NO!"

Fred starts to move toward him, bare feet covering plush carpet, but he's woken before she gets there; bolts upright in bed, gasping.

Waking like this, chest tight and head pounding, it's nothing new for Spike. Sleeping has been a bitch since he got the soul, consciousness chasing away fragments of memories he tries never to disturb during his waking hours. Bloody nightmares and memories. Back in one piece, all solid-like and real, and still it's the intangible that fuck with his so-called life.

Spike shakes his head, concentrates on feel of the sheets, the creaking of the bed beneath him. Waits for the world to clear. Finally, senses awaken and his bleary eyes focus on a slender figure standing just inside the doorway.

"Fred?"

"Yeah, it's me." She takes a few more tentative steps toward him. "Just makin' sure you're all right."

Spike nods concisely. Lies just as simply. "Dandy."

The word's almost a croak, and Spike groans inwardly at the broken, pansy note in his voice. Why the fuck is she here? Witnessing this? Seems someone's there to see his every embarrassing moment these days.

"Life's a bleedin' circus." He mutters, but he can't quite summon the snark to ask her to leave.

Fred chews her lip at his words, wonders briefly if she should leave. But she's a clever girl, and doesn't for a moment believe he's really okay, nor that he really wants to be left alone. She can hear the dullness in his usually animated voice, see the whiteness of his knuckles where they clutch at the fabric. More weirdness, because with no circulation shouldn't a tight grip make no difference? But she tells herself to concentrate on what's important, to concentrate on the strangely distressed and suddenly corporeal former vampire-ghost. And isn't that a mouthful?

She's never seen Spike scared like this, so vulnerable and nervous and, well, so quiet. Not even when that exorcist guy who tried to vanquish him to hell, or that shadow-creature thing that lived off negative energy tried to make him into dinner. Cursed or not, frustrated and incorporeal, he'd always been the one same Spike: snarky and rude, irreverent and impulsive, with a talent for showing up at extremely embarrassing moments and a knack for knowing just what to say to drive Angel insane.

Nothing like the shivery creature Angel had brought home last night, pale and naked and swamped under the weight of Angel's leather coat. So much smaller than the other vampire-man who held him. She'd never really noticed that before, when he was a ghost, just how small he was. It's painfully obvious now, though, what a little guy he is. Small and slender, skin stretched over a narrow frame, the nodes of his spine and his ribs starkly visible. But nice arms, she notices. All muscled and cut and... Stupid mind with its runaway thoughts.

"I thought you might like some blood," she offers quickly, thrusting the now lukewarm cup in her hand in Spike's general direction.

Spike perks a little at the offer. He can smell the wafting scent and it tantalizes his senses, teases the demon within him, causing it to bristle and stir at the thought of food. Bloody funny that it now gets worked-up over Angel-style hogs-juice. How the mighty have fallen.

"Ta..." he nods at the desk. "Drink it in a sec..." once his stomach stops lurching and he gets a grip on the rising creature within.

Following Spike's gaze, Fred puts the mug on the bedside table and steps back. He doesn't move immediately, and she fidgets a little, wrings her hands, and glances around the room. One of the many spare rooms, it's his now. Not bad, really, but desperately in need of a decorator. Didn't Willow mention that he was good at that? Something about fixing his crypt up for Buffy? But then, Fred's heard so much about Buffy, fancies she's probably the kind of woman it's worth acquiring all kinds of skills for. Spike went and got a soul for her and everything. In comparison to that kind of torture, what's a couple of hours of Martha Stewart?

She's internally rambling again, mental babbling. Does it lots, because she's good at filling the loneliness and silence herself. Got plenty of experience in Pylea. Really wants to talk though, but suddenly it's all so hard. Shouldn't be, because they use to chatter away all the time. Ridiculous. Joke and exchange looks and roll their eyes across the room at oh-so-serious Angel. Maybe even flirt, but she thinks that wasn't serious. Just part of Spike. All bravado and sultry eyes and sexy swagger and a tongue that's really quite obscene.

She hopes to God that Spike isn't gone. He has to be in there somewhere. Maybe he's just suffering from shock?

"That must have been some nightmare, all that moaning and crying and ..." She begins slowly.

A beat, and Spike picks the cup up from the bureau, nods. "Yeah, well, let's just say it didn't feature free cable and flowering onions."

He takes a sip with some caution, feels the sticky, metallic taste on his lips. It flows down his throat, thick and smooth, and sends a shiver down his spine, a rush of deep-buried feeling from his stomach and his heart. Been so long since he's eaten anything, or since he can remember eating anything. Since he'd enjoyed the unique feeling of consuming blood, drinking life. So long, the fact it's pig don't matter a bit. Deep within him, his demon roars and stretches, and he can feel his body strengthen and harden in response.

Almost unconsciously, he adjusts the sheets.

"You get them often?" Fred asks.

"Huh?" He blinks.

"Nightmares?"

Oh. Right.

"Use to...before. Didn't have to sleep so much as a ghost, though, so I kinda forgot. Definite downside to being back to my touchy feely self." One of many downsides, probably. Not that he wanted to stay a ghost, fought bloody hard to find a solution. But success has brought it's own range of problems. Grass is always greener and all that.

He grinds his teeth and swirls the remaining blood in the cup, before swallowing it down. "I take it from the lack of ribbing that I didn't say anything too scandalous? No big admissions about my tender affection for the Great Green Queen? "

"No, nothing like that."

"...Cause that would explain the screaming..."

Fred giggles at the mental image. Pauses for a moment, then takes a cautious step toward the bed. Rests her hand on the edge, not quite touching him, but temptingly close.

"No, just random words and stuff. But now you've got me all fascinated. Next time I think I'll have to listen closer."

Next time huh? He raises an eyebrow. She flushes a little, continues quickly before he can open his mouth.

"And anyway, it's understandable that you're a little stressed. It's big change and all, being fully corporeal again. Being able to touch things again..."

"Yeah."

Touch things again. Yeah, he can do that. Doing that now. Holding the cup, sitting on the bed, grasping the sheets like some wilting bint from a B-Grade horror flick. Lots of touching. But not the good sort, really. Unconsciously, his eyes fall from Fred's face to her hand, where it rests on the covers beside him. She notices his gaze and seems to tremble slightly, and he feels the sudden wave of guilt, the inner insistence that maybe she's afraid of him. She's a sensible bird, she should be. But even though she's timid as a sparrow at times, Spike knows she carries the heart Boadicea. Fear's not an issue for his Fred, not when it comes to her friends.

God, he hopes he's her friend.

A shake of his head, and Spike licks his dry lips. Longs for another drink, but the blood's all gone. Needs a different lubricant for his dry mouth and sandblastered nerves, anyway. Has an intense desire for a good dose o' alcohol, and he's sure there's gotta be plenty round here somewhere. Doubts that Watcher gets through the day without a tipple of the good stuff. He almost gets out of bed at the thought, before remembering that he's the proud owner of exactly nothing in the way of clothing, and Fred isn't the kind of bird who'd respond that well to full-naked Spike. He settles for a plaintive look at the empty cup, but she doesn't seem to get it

Fred watches Spike gaze fall to her hand, then fly around the room and back to her face. Can't control a quiver of excitement beneath the simmering intensity of his gaze. Swallows hard against the lump in her throat, tries to tame the millions of hyperactive butterflies in her intestines.

Stop. Imagining. Things. Make polite conversation. Help your friend.

Desperately, Fred blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "You breathe when you sleep. Or exhale, anyway. Which seems a bit strange, because you don't really need oxygen."

"Habit...kind of embarrassing," he answers automatically. A pause, and then he turns and flashes her something that looks a little like a smirk. "You watching me sleep then, pet?"

Wow. His words are like liquid honey, melting into her skin, and providing an immediate, buzzing sugar-high to those already-over caffeinated butterflies in her tummy.

"What? I mean, No. Well, yes. Yes, I was. But I was making sure you're all right...and it's very involving watching you sleep. I mean interesting. It's interesting. From a scientific perspective ..."

Spike chuckles a little at the rapid-fire answer. Good to know he can still cause a little panic now and again.

"I breathe because I've just never gotten out of the habit of doing so," he answers, truthfully enough. "And because it's comforting, you know. Use to be a bit uneven, but I've practiced, got the rhythm right good. Found humans appreciate it. "

A beat, and Spike drops his gaze quickly after the last sentence, realizing he has said too much and suddenly uncomfortable. It takes Fred a moment to understand the meaning in the last sentence, and she can feel the heat rising in her face the moment she does. Back to the silence. Which, of course, means she has to fill it with something appropriately foolish.

"I used to chew my hair a lot, so I get that," she offers. Oh, such a geek. "Your habit isn't anyway near as gross as that."

Spike can't help but laugh. Can't stop himself, either, from imagining Fred at 16, hair in braids, clutching books to her chest. Probably a bit like Red when he met her, although likely not dancing to trendy alt-rock at the Bronze. No bouncing blonde and in-a-band boy to drag her into that. Not entirely a good girl, though. Too pretty for that, too curious and spicy too. Probably got her first kiss in the library, sneaking in some snogging in the carrels behind the biology books. Right little minx...

"Do your lungs work?"

Spike blinks away the fantasy image to try to concentrate on the question.

"When you breathe, your chest rises and falls, so to your lungs still work?" She can't quite believe she's still asking this. Questioning the befuddled vampire like, well, like a horrible questioning thing. But she can't help it. Doesn't want to stand in silence, isn't ready to leave.

She does ask the most ridiculous things, but it's really a part of her charm. Her wide eyes and touching, clever innocence speak to a part of him he has tried to ignore for so long. But truth is, Spike's never wanted to think too much about what went on inside of him, about shrivelled organs and dead tissue and an empty stomach. Not when he knows he's got what matters - the spit and blood and spunk. What he doesn't have doesn't warrant too much thinking lest it send a bloke mad.

"Dunno, really." He answers honestly. "Guess so. Never much thought about my bits and pieces. Long as I'm moving around and flapping my mouth, I'm good."

But Fred, ever curious, can't let it go. Starts to babble in that way of hers about breathing and circulation and words he can't remember, or never knew, brain and mouth at that impossible speed. Not stoppin' her once she gets going. Tries to concentrate on the words, but instead he finds himself watching her lips. Painted pink, pale and natural. He wonders what they taste like, how sweet they would be, whether they'd wash away the salty blood.

What's she saying now?

"And so everything seems to work but your heart..."

She watches as Spike starts at the words, a small movement, but the look on his face is painful and lost. Hastily, he drops his gaze. Oh Spike. She didn't mean it like that. She really does say the silliest things at times.

A moment's consideration, and Fred takes a breath, sits down beside him on the bed. The sheets rustle beneath her, and he doesn't move. Doesn't retreat. Teeth gnawing at her lip, she reaches out gently, lays a hand on his chest. It's the first time she's touched him, a moment paused in time, and the world seems to stand still around her as their eyes lock in mutual shock at the sudden connection.

The effect of her touch is instantaneous, five points of fire burning deep on his chest. Sweet pain, burning agony. It feels as if his skin is crawling back to allow her to reach straight to his broken heart. He can hear himself gasp, and he swears his chest lurches and beats.

"So silent," Fred whispers softly, eyes flitting from his gaze to where her hand rests on his chest. "And yet, I think your heart speaks louder than any I have ever heard."

Spike swallows hard, blinks hard against what are certainly not tears at the corners of his eyes. He's not entirely sure what this is, what she wants, what he can possibly offer. Tired of mixed signals and wrong signals and having his heart torn out. But he knows he's never had the sense to steer clear of temptation, and he considers for only a fraction of a moment. Screw it. He goes for broke.

"Doesn't feel at all silent to me," he whispers.

His voice is soft, raged, beautifully intense. Like the rumble of thunder of an approaching storm. It's followed by the tingle of electricity, dancing down her spine, her limbs, the tips of her toes and fingers. Fred knows it's the release on endorphins. Body chemistry, totally biological. Easy to rationalize. But it's coupled now with an entirely less explainable sensation, doesn't even want to. It's as strong and intoxicating as that magical night at the opera, the same and yet so very different. Unique.

And so she does what she's longed to do for months, when touching him wasn't an option. What she's not dared to contemplate in the painful hours since he's been fully back, even though the possibly has danced intoxicatingly at the back of her mind.

Leaning in, she kisses him.

It's the last thing Spike expected, and yet it's not quite the shock it should be. A gentle touch, soft lips against his. Warm, ripe, willing. Different. Never really been kissed like this. Tentative, laced with a longing for more but without the expectation of it. Fuck, it's great. If he wasn't such a wanker, he'd be taking advantage of it. Prying those lips open, pulling her too him. Heat and warm and, god, touch. Solace and safety and home.

Oh, how he longs to, but the moment's so perfect and he's powerless to move.

And then she's gone.

She sits back up, eyes cast down on the bed. Spike sits frozen, except for the rise and fall of his chest and that damned, curious and unneeded breathing. She thinks she's made a terrible mistake.

Blinking back tears, Fred tries very hard not to give into the rising wave of humiliation and pain. A woman surrounded by men, so often a prize of a pedestal, it's been a long time since Fred's felt the nip of rejection, since she hasn't been an object of hunger. Stupid self, acting all impulsive, submitting to all those buzzing hormones. And stupid vampire, what did he expect, when he was all half naked and looking at her with those eyes and making comments about his heart? She wonders if maybe she's going to cry, but starts with the babbling instead.

"Oh, geez, look at me, getting all silly because you're so, um, oh God, because you're all touchable and, well, naked. I shouldn't have taken advantage like that and I know that we're just friends and that you're in love with Buffy and I'd be really grateful and much less humiliated if you would maybe believe it was just curiosity..."

"Pet..."

"And I'll just move away from you now because I'm obviously not able to control myself around you. I'm just a big barrel of hormones and that's not good. Really not good, so I'll just, er, take a few steps back and maybe you want more blood?"

"Fred!"

She stops at the sound of her name, pausing like a wide-eyed, long legged deer in headlights. Cornered prey. Thought makes him shiver for a moment, never likes raising his voice anymore. Not outside of a good scuffle anyway. Or around Angel, when it's funny. But getting up and laying hands on her isn't a great option either, not with barely a sheet to cover him and when his body is still quivering and tense from the lingering sensations on his chest and lips.

He knows he should do something, get a grip. But he's still sitting there, sheets bunched over a ragging hard-on, mouth open, and nothing coming out. There's so much he wants to say, or should say, and it's bloody frustrating because usually he doesn't have a problem with words, and talk, but he's drawing a blank right now. He swallows hard, summons the remnants of his ego and builds them back together. She's as nervous as him, skittery and angsty. Thinks, maybe, she wants him too, he can hear the beat of her heart, smell the first hints of arousal. Bloody wonderful thing, these vampire senses, and he can feel the corners of his mouth begin to turn up in a smirk.

"Can't control yourself eh?" He flashes her a white-toothed smile. "Been told I am pretty irresistible."

Was he making a joke of this? Fred can feel the blood rise to her checks. Of all the nerve!

"Well, I'm sorry you think this is so funny, but it's not, because we had a great friendship and now I've gone and ruined it and we'll never get it back to what it was and - oh..."

A roll of his eyes, then a movement almost too fast for human eyes, and Spike pulls her too him. There was just no talking to this girl!

"Don't wanna go back to where it was," he says firmly. And Fred knows her face must have betrayed her surprise, the sudden pang of pain, cause he adds quickly. "Nothing wrong with it, mind. Fuck, nothing at all. You were my anchor, luv. Never had a mate like you. Kept me sane when I came back. Whole time I was here, and yet I wasn't, and there was always you and your friendship. Appreciate it more than I can say." He draws a breath, catching her doe-like gaze. "But if you're offering more..."




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