Title: Offerings
Author: OneTwoMany
Email: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Summary: The intensity of his love terrifies her. She thinks she doesn't want that kind of responsibility. Knows she doesn't deserve it. Wonders if she has anything to offer in return.
Otherwise known as, "My Contribution to Bub and Ceit's Bitey Fanfic Challenge".
Dedication: To everyone on Fanforum. You guys rock! And especially to BubonicPlague1348, for the confidence-boosting support, and BuffyX, for being a kick-ass beta if ever there was one.
Spoilers: Through Showtime
Rating: I'm somewhat unsure of US ratings, but likely an R all up. This part is PG-13.
Archiving: Want. Take. Have. But I'd love it if you dropped me a line so I can go check you out.
Feedback: Yes please. Email me: Onetwomany@bigpond.com, or feel free to PM me on FF, where I post as 'Sabre'.
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm not worth suing.

Chapter 2


"He's not getting any better."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another thing that touched him, rightly stained in blood.

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

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

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

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

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

Slayer, The.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Buffy!"

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

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

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

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

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

Exactly what he wanted. Too much to give up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reality's a bitch.




Next Chapter