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.

"That was possibly the lamest demon attack ever," Xander says as they make their way onto her driveway. His hands are buried in the pockets of his baggy fatigues, his gait a little tired but still steady.

Walking at his side, Buffy recognizes the feeling and has to agree.

"Uh huh," She groans, "A handful of Satreach demons isn't my idea of a challenge. And hog-tying them and keeping them for the girls seems...wrong. I can't believe there are so few vamps. Usually that'd be a good a thing, but how am I ever going to get the girls used to combat if we never get a decent fight?" She throws her hands in the air, a picture of righteous frustration. "Vamps. Never around when you need them."

Xander shakes his head. "Love to, Buff, but diet, remember?" He pats his stomach. "Single man, now. On the prowl. Must look...prowl-like."

She giggles at that. "I think you look fine, Xander. But if you insist on losing a few extra pounds, I totally support you."

"Thanks, Buff. If I look fine now, I'll look even finer when I'm trim, taut and terrific. Maybe snag me the woman of my dreams."

His mirthful brown eyes meet hers, and something passes through them. There are moments between them, moments like this, when Buffy wonders if Xander is hinting at the possibility of something more. They share a comfortable trust, an admitted love. Companionship, reliability, security. Isn't that what romance is meant to be about, what sensible people choose? Not the short-lived passion found in novels, but an enduring friendship built on foundations of stone?

She's thought about Xander, especially over this summer, contemplated the ease with which they fell into being a 'family'. Dawn would approve, had all but said so. And she believes that Xander would take her up on any offer, despite whatever may linger between he and Anya. But such thoughts were fleeting. A three-bedroom bungalow and a man with a nine to five job are not for her. Xander may fall into adventure, but his priorities in life are increasingly mundane. House, car, job - no, career. She, Slayer, Chosen One, can't fit into that mold. She's not even sure that she ever wanted to, and knows she doesn't now.

So she responds as best she can, a gentle smile, a pretense of ignorance.

"She's out there, Xander. And when you find her, your weakness for twinkies won't mean a thing".

He takes her brush-off in his stride. Probably used to it, if he even meant it as she feared he did. "Here's hoping. Anyway, have to be on-site tomorrow morning. Might actually get some work done. Marvel at that concept."

She smiles a little wider. So easy, this relationship. "So, I'll see in you tomorrow?"

He nods, fishing car keys out of the letter box, along with the requisite junk mail. He'd learnt the hard way it wasn't clever to leave sharp metal objects in a pocket when on patrol.

"Bright and early. Or dim and late. Either way, I'll be there".

With a jaunty wave, he turns to unlock his car, it's silver coloring darkened in the night. A nice car, symbol of success, the comfortable mundanity she rejects. She stands and watches as he swings open the door, as he starts the care engine and backs into the empty street.

A sigh escapes her, and she briefly scans the advertising pamphlets. Can't see much in the dark, which she is vaguely relieved about. Money is short, and a sale at The Limited would do her in. Still, she squints in the darkness as she wanders up the driveway to the porch, reaching the steps before she remembers that the front door is boarded shut, repairs still not completed. Yet another item on Xander's extensive to-do list. She'll have to remind him tomorrow, beg yet another favor. Or maybe she'll just put Andrew to work. Little weasel needs to start earning his keep.

Rounding the back of the house, she carefully deposits the junk mail in the garbage. No sales, no temptation, she thinks, and feels remarkably proud of herself as she approaches the back door. So proud, she almost misses the petulant undertones of Dawn's voice as it wafts softly across the yard.

The words are muffled, but Buffy knows what they are about. Dawn is rarely reticent with her thoughts, and her opinions on Spike know no restraint. Yet there is a difference between actual discussion and verbal sparring, and conversations about the vampire invariably become the latter. Buffy wants Dawn to understand, but knows she fails to explain. She has tried for the rational, the sensible, the 'we need him to fight' and 'he has information'. But the arguments are weak and Dawn, possessed of their mother's insight, and a hardened heart more similar to Buffy's own, is not so easily fooled.

So Buffy finds herself perversely interested in this seemingly bitter conversation. She stands at the kitchen door, hand on the knob, listening to her sister's complaints, hoping to find insight from words not spoken to her.

"I still don't get it. Why's he still lying around, hogging Buffy's bed? Aren't vampires supposed to heal fast or something?"

"Yes, Dawn, they usually do," Giles replies. "Spike's injuries are grievous, yet even that can not account for such remarkably slow healing. I am beginning to question whether he is making progress at all, whether, indeed, he will get better."

"Good." Dawn's words, more vicious than a Harbinger's knife, and Buffy almost winces as they slice. "I hope he doesn't.".

"Dawn..."

"I don't want to hear it, Giles," Dawn cuts him off. "Not if you're going to defend him, too."

"Far be it for me to 'defend' Spike, Dawn." Giles' tone is steady, with perhaps a slight undertone of irritation. His patience, too, is wearing in places. Still, Buffy holds no illusions that Giles is protecting Spike. He has always treated Dawn with a certain indifference and confusion, uncertain as he is about her place in the world, her value. "But he has a soul now. A soul he fought for. It is a remarkable thing. Spike deserves our help and compassion, Dawn, if not our trust. My advice is that should try to give them to him."

This is the first time, Buffy realizes, that she has heard one of her friends enunciate such an opinion. Words she needed to hear, even if they are not said to her. She lays her forehead against the door, feels the relief wash over her.

Yes, Giles, thank you.

She is disappointed, but not surprised, that Dawn is less than impressed.

"I can't, Giles. Not after what he did! You do know what he did?"

"I know what he did, Dawn. I know what Buffy has told me. But it is for her to discuss with you, not me."

"You think I'm too young."

"No. I think it is none of your business." He pauses, and Buffy can imagine him removing those glasses, serious eyes boring into her sister's. "Dawn, I have learnt that one can advise your sister, offer good counsel. But you can not rule her. She makes her own decisions, and now more than ever we must trust that she knows what she is doing. Can you do that Dawn? For Buffy?"

There is a pause, and Buffy uses the opportunity to push open the door. "Do what for me?" she asks with feigned indifference.

"Buffy," they chorus. Both look surprised, Giles a little guilty, Dawn more than a little annoyed.

Her sister's blue eyes dart to the door, then back to her. "That was so lame. I know you were listening. Borrowing stalking habits from your rapist boyfriend. You really need help." She turns, storms out, and Buffy knows that something has happened her, something beyond the conversation she had just overheard.

Giles sighs, rubs a temple, then fixes Buffy with his intense blue gaze. "She's been petulant all night, Buffy. Not to mention loud. I think...I think you probably need to go and talk to Spike."

Buffy quietly pushes open the door to find him standing against the bed, half-dressed, battered jeans slung low on narrow hips, but back still bare. Even in the dull light of the bedside lamp, she can make out the greenish smudges and darker, blue-tinged stains the that sully the expanse of pale, smooth skin. He stands awkwardly, right arm raised at an odd angle as he tries to pull a black t-shirt over his head and shoulders.

"What the hell you do think you are doing?" her words startle him, and he shudders and tilts a little, coming close to falling before gaining control. It scares her to see him like this, so battered that he doesn't detect her presence, that he sways like a sapling in the wind at the sound of her voice.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" He responds gruffly, voice muffled by cloth. "Getting dressed, aren't I?"

And yes, he is, except that 'getting dressed' is a generous description of the awkward, painful movements, many of which seem dedicated more to staying upright than pulling on clothes. The sight is absurd, and were it not for the warning from Giles, and simmering anger, she likely would have laughed.

"You can't be serious," she says.

He struggles a little more, pulls the t-shirt over his head. He turns to face her, revealing a stomach and chest still bandaged, white skin and whiter gauze stained with red. Impossible not to notice how frighteningly slender he's become, gapping clothing and jutting bones. He looks vulnerable and fragile, but the sharp lines of face are settled in determination and when he speaks again his voice is steady.

"Bloody serious. Gettin' out of here."

"And going where?"

"Don't matter."

He is still fighting to get the shirt all the way down, and she quickly moves to help him. He guesses her thoughts, steps back jerkily, as if afraid of her touch. Collides with the dresser, scattering a picture frame, pens, the empty mug. They both stand shocked for a moment, like deer stuck in the glare of their own high beam emotions.

"Sorry," he begins to lean over the to collect the mess, but flinches painfully. Broken ribs mean he can't bend down. Another moment, searching for what to do, then he seems to abandon the idea of cleaning up, decides instead to finish dressing. "Boots," he mutters, moving further away again.

She kneels down to pick up the discarded items herself, watches his bare white feet shuffle across the room as he moves away from her. Long toes; she remembers how sensuous they feel against her calf. Feels her color rising, like the drops of left-over blood had spilt from the fallen mug and now stain the carpet. But it's ruined already, what's one more mark?

As she collects the pencils, she asks, "Spike, please, what brought this on?"

"Nothin'. Nothin' but a sudden burst of dignity."

"Spike..." She stands, replaces the discarded items on the dresser without taking her eyes off him.

"I won't have it, Buffy. Everyone talkin' 'bout me, like I'm a cripple or a waste. Need to get outta here. Let you sleep, here."

From his words, she knows. Giles was right. Dawn, the conversation outside, the one in the kitchen, he heard them all. Still proud, her Spike, despite the raging insecurities, his finger-tip grip to on sanity. Proud, but easily wounded. Having let her and her sister pierce his armor once, he's now defenseless against their incessant attacks. She hopes she can repair the damage.

He's holding onto the bed-head now, shaking a little from exhaustion. Likely not going anywhere, whatever his bluffs. The temptation to point this out, to say something more, is strong. Reason comes naturally to her, and she can think of a million reasons that would make him stay, solve this problem now. You're being controlled by the FE. I don't want you to leave because I can't watch you. You're a danger, a menace. You need guarding.

But suddenly it's important to her that this be his decision, not a detention.

She lays a calming hand on his arm, gently pushes him back. "Just stay tonight. I'll work something out tomorrow." Touching him like this, with gentle caresses, is still strange to her. Does it feel as awkward to him as it does to her?

"Spike, please, stay."

Head tilted, he absorbs her words, eyes heavy with confusion. Finally he nods, deflated, moves into her grasp. As she helps him back beneath the covers, the she wonders again at this magnificent creature, killer of her kind, who conquered his inner darkness even as she succumbed to hers. That he still has such faith in her astounds her; just the power she has over him excites and terrifies her. Only this time, she knows she's not going to misuse it.




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