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 3

The solution to the Spike-problem presents itself the next morning, when Buffy retrieves an old sick-bay cot from the high school basement. She'd vaguely recalled seeing it on one of her previous trips into the bowels of the school, had even thought about setting it up for Spike then. But her priorities had been elsewhere and her emotions still jumbled from the soul revelation and the aftershocks of the bathroom and the church and she'd left him to lie amidst the dirt and rats.

She's ashamed of how she acted then, when he was so fragile and in need of her help. She's listened to the counsel of her friends, agreed with them that it was only to be expected. He had hurt her badly and wasn't she supposed to stay away from men who did that? But the words exchanged with vamp-boy Holden in the graveyard echo in her head. Spike had loved her, really loved her. They had hurt each other, but it was he who had done the extraordinary to make amends, while she ducked and weaved and ran.

How different would things be, had she been there for him, had she stayed and helped him be quiet? Would the First have gotten its claws in so deep? Would all those people buried in that house still be alive? Would Spike still be so broken?

Buffy puts the cot in her car, then pays her usual visit to Xander on the construction site. Notices, with some pride, that she still attracts glances and soft whistles from the men. Notices, too, that Xander gets a couple of pats on the back, overhears the teasing words:

"Harris, it's ya missus' checking up again."

"...under the thumb..."

"How'd a kid like you get a chick like that?"

She suspects that Xander doesn't correct such assumptions about their relationship, but doesn't mind too much. She understands the need to hide beneath a pretense of normalcy, if not success. She smiles broadly as he makes his way down the scaffolding and toward her, even plays up a little for their audience.

Once she explains her plan to Xander he wastes no time in heading home at lunch. Sets to work boarding up the basement with scrap found on-site.

"Not exactly Helm's Deep, but it'll do," he says as he puts the final touches on the reinforced timber that stretches across where the basement window had been.

Safe as houses, Buffy thinks, standing amongst the ruins of her own. She knows nowhere is really safe, not when their enemy is intangible and omnipotent and controls the gateway to hell.

Xander is obviously proud of his work, even if not entirely satisfied with its purpose. He's still not pleased with the idea of Spike in the house at all, but she supposes the basement is a step up from her bed on the Xander-kosher-meter.

"Well, I'm finished here. Want me to come around later? Help take the Undead English Invalid downstairs?" he asks.

Buffy shakes her head, declines his offer. Spike is clinging to what little dignity he has left, and involving Xander in the moving process seems wrong, perhaps even cruel. Besides, she has no need for buffering or human security blankets, not anymore. She wants to do this alone, to heal and trust together.

"Nah. We're good," she says.

She really, truly hopes that they are.

Giles watches as Xander's car disappears down the street, ferrying the boy back to his blueprints, raw timber and tools of trade. The young man is spending more time at his job every day and even the tasks he completes for Buffy have an increasing tendency toward the mundane. Giles knows with a certainty born of experience and age that Xander will be the first to leave Buffy's world, to build a wall between his reality and hers that will eventually be insurmountable.

Buffy lingers in the kitchen, nibbling slowly on a thin sandwich as she gazes into nothingness. It pains him to see it, but that blank, thousand-mile stare has become as typical of his Slayer as her quips and high-spirited antics use to be. As infuriating as she was, Giles misses that bouncing, happy girl in her colorful clothing and impractical shoes, but he doesn't have the faintest idea how to coax her back. But then, he also knows that she can never again be that same girl-the harsh realities of the world have taken their toll on her, and some things can never be recovered.

The former Watcher makes his way into the kitchen, leans back onto the counter with a sigh. Is shocked to see her jump noticeably at the sound of his voice. She must have been far away indeed.

"I assume you spoke with Spike?" he asks evenly.

Buffy finishes chewing before she answers. Chooses her words with unusual care. "We talked. He's moving into the basement again."

Giles nods. The situation is still far from ideal, but better the basement than an upstairs bedroom. The Watcher in him had accepted, reluctantly, that Spike had changed, that he deserved help and forgiveness. But no amount of rational acceptance of the uniqueness of Spike's soul could calm Giles' revulsion at the thought of the vampire lying in Buffy's bed, his dead, corrupted flesh touching her sheets. The vampire may have done an admirable thing, but his relationship with Buffy, and the trust she placed in him, remained of continuing concern.

"Giles, I need to know what's wrong with him."

Giles sighs deeply, runs his hand over his face. What indeed? Despite his best efforts, he doesn't quite know. To his mind, there are better things to research than cures for injured vampires, but he nonetheless looked into things as best he could and now offers up what little he can.

"It would seem that the Bringers' knives are in some way enchanted. A single wound from such a blade has proved deadly to many a potential Slayer, where an attack from a regular weapon would not. I assume that the knives have a similar effect on Spike."

Buffy takes this in quietly, face inscrutable. "Which means what, exactly?"

"It means that in all likelihood, he will heal. But the process will be slow, much as it would for a human."

"How long?" She has placed the sandwich back on her plate and is again watching him with that frustratingly unreadable expression.

"It's impossible to say. Weeks, maybe. Months. He is living on a diet of pigs' blood, Buffy. Healing may be slow." Giles pauses at that, considers his next words carefully. Buffy's faith is Spike is curled and any broaching risks an explosion. "I also can not discount the possibility that the problem is psychological."

A flicker of something crosses his Slayer's face, but it is gone so fast that he wonders if it was just his imagination. Instead, her determined hazel eyes catch his.

"I can," she says firmly. "Giles, if Spike could be up and helping me, he would be. I know it."

Giles sighs. Another reminder that Buffy's faith in Spike is only to be expected these days. He pinches the bridge of his nose, debates the wisdom of tackling this head-on. He doesn't want to start a scene like the one the night before, but cautionary words are in order, even if she does not want to hear them.

"Buffy, what Spike did for you, in getting a soul, it is a remarkable thing. Unprecedented. I am rather stunned myself, and I imagine it is overwhelming for you. But, soul or not, Spike is still a vampire."

He pauses, meets her eyes and tries to reveal the love that he doesn't have the words to express.

"Buffy, I want better for you than that."

She looks back to her half-finished sandwich, dark lashes falling against her cheeks as her eyes close briefly.

"It's not like you think."

He wants to believe her. Watches her carefully, but has no way of knowing whether he can. It has never been easy for him to comprehend her emotions, but the reasons for his confusion are so different now that what they were. The teenager he'd taken into his care had been open, eager, impulsive and petulant, never reticent in expressing her emotions. He knew what she was feeling, thinking, even as he struggled to understand how and why she could act like that. But this woman before him is a different creature altogether, and he can not even guess at the depth of sentiment that lies behind her closed façade.

"Are you quite sure?" he asks.

She takes her time in answering, and he imagines he can hear the cogs working in her brain. Wonders if she is searching for the truth, or perhaps only for a version of truth she thinks will satisfy him. When she finally answers, her voice is controlled but firm. "I do care for Spike, Giles. I don't want him to hurt anymore. I...that's...that's all I can tell you now."

Giles nods and sighs deeply. "You've done what you can, Buffy. The rest is up to Spike."

Buffy takes another bite of her sandwich, and doesn't answer for a long, long time. When she does, her words chill him to the bone.

"We'll see, Giles. We'll see."

She collects him shortly after sundown, when she no longer has to worry about stray sunbeams peeking through fractured walls and the remains of windows. He's awake and waiting for her as she enters the master bedroom, already sitting up on the edge of the bed. He fixes his intense gaze on her and raises an eyebrow. The gesture elicits a shiver down her spine, memories of old Spike with bedroom eyes and seductive words and quicksilver movements that electrified every nerve in her body. How difficult this must be for him, a creature of boundless energy and vigor, to be confined like this, lying listless and pained in the care of the people whose calling it is to destroy him.

"Basement's boarded up again, so we're moving you back downstairs," she explains.

He accepts this with a nod. That was surprisingly easy. Likely he realizes that's it's a compromise all round, one that takes him out of Scooby wrath, but keeps him under her care.

"Ready?" she asks as she moves beneath him, arm settling around his waist. He nods, and they stand up slowly. She hears cracking as stiff joints move into place. His arm slung across her shoulders is heavy, but she likes the weight. Spike never hesitates to lean on her; he trusts her strength in ways that Riley and Angel never had.

Spike is still wearing the black t-shirt he'd struggled into the day before. The material is corse and rough beneath her fingers. Worn, much like its wearer. She feels a slight disappointment at the lack of skin contact. Another barrier between them, undermining the intimacy of what should be a familiar posture. Everything feels more clinical and detached than it did the night of the rescue. They have rebuilt their walls and the space between them, and the air is heavy with uncertainty.

"This'll be a barrel of laughs," Spike mutters, legs wobbling in almost comical fashion.

Buffy glances at him, tries to smile. "Hey, your idea to move, not mine. You want to stay here, that's fine..."

He cuts her off with a shake of his head. "Let's get this over with, then."

Spike makes a brave and silent descent, but Buffy can sense his pain. He has neither pulse nor heartbeat by which she can judge his exertion, but he takes deep breaths despite the broken ribs, a subconscious revelation of the effort of walking down two flights of stairs.

They both breathe a sigh of relief as she helps him onto the cot.

"Well, that was a picnic," he says, wincing and grimacing as he lowers himself onto the cot. Its metal frame squeaks beneath his slow, painful movements. "At this rate, I'm sure to be helpin' with the girls sometime 'fore they're in nappies a second time."

It was, she supposes, an attempted at humor, but it falls flat in the ominous darkness of the basement. The injuries should be healed by now, and both of them know it. She wonders how scared he really is, beneath that strange combination of bravado and depressed resignation.

She hands him a cup of blood that is resting on the ironing board. "Drink this. You need it."

He tilts his head, smirks a little. "That I do."

Their fingers touch lightly as he takes the mug and Buffy feels a rush of prickly ants run up her arms and into her stomach. Not desire, she tells herself firmly, stamping hard on the lingering caterpillars in her belly.

She withdraws her hand quickly, obviously so, but if Spike notices her haste he hides it well. He downs the blood in a single swallow, face remaining neutral. Holds the mug out to her again with a slightly shaky hand.

She's amazed how Spike accepts everything so willingly these days. He used to complain so much; "Fills you up, but it's right disgusting," "Worse 'n charred and weeviled porridge and not half as nutritious," "I'd rather be buggered by a centaur than down the stuff in public." But now it's another thing he accepts almost gracefully, thanking her for its meager benefits with his crackly voice and haunted, liquid eyes.

She takes the empty mug cautiously. "I'm sorry it doesn't seem to be helping more."

"Pigs' blood may be good for the soul, luv, but it's not doing much for the body," he replies as he lays back painfully, eyes blinking closed.

No, it isn't. Even Giles has admitted as much. His current diet is not doing a thing, and she needs to change it.

She places the mug back on the bench, and turns to face him again. Watching him lie beneath the thin blanket on the narrow cot, she realizes she'd forgotten how small he is. When was the last time she even noticed? Soulless, Spike's physical size had been irrelevant. Clothed in that billowing coat, possessed of the strutting swagger, his presence had drawn the eye as he seemingly filled the room, his small frame hidden beneath an aura of bravado and fearsome accomplishment. Even naked and exposed in the rubble of that decrepit house, he'd still seemed so much larger than life.

Larger than death even.

Strange, that he's so much more complete now than he was then, and yet he appears so very diminished.

Small. Tired. Kinda broken.

Buffy's eyes pan up the bed-ridden vampire's body, drawn again to his face. The contrast of light from the single bulb and the deep shadows emphasizes the sharp definition of his nose and his hollow cheeks. Where the brightness hits his skin, she can make out a lattice of fine lines, deepening around his eyes and across his forehead. The youthful smoothness of his once-timeless beauty is gone. Like Angel before him, he is aging, withering beneath the weight of guilt and the strain of near starvation.

How old was he when he was turned? She'd never asked him that. Never asked him much at all, really. Hadn't been particularly interested in his life or history. Sure, she'd listened to what he had told her that night in the Bronze, but in a typical display of self-absorption, she'd filtered out the parts that had not been related to her. He'd spilled his life-story to her - or a version of it - that night in the Bronze, and yet he is still so very much a stranger.

Suddenly, she longs to have that night back again. Drink beer and eat buffalo wings and play pool amid the pungent odor of cigarettes and leather and whiskey. Crack jokes and flirt and share a grin at the snide looks from the ignorant college kids mocking the freaks by the pool table. Smirk with self-satisfied glee at the over-endowed slut-bombs who made eyes at Spike as he lined up a shot with his effortless grace. Laugh and relax, talk and listen. Listen. Care. Enjoy.

They would leave only after the last call for drinks. Wander outside together to replay that alley scene beneath the setting moon. Only this time the foes would be real, and she and Spike would fight side by side, on equal footing. She imagines the exhilaration of a hard won battle; feels the coiled adrenaline that longs for release. Fangs and fists and stakes, blood and dust, their partnership on display for all to see and admire. How beautiful they would be together beneath the dim glow of neon lights - fluid limbs and fancy footwork, two pale dancers, cloaked in black but lighting the darkness. Then, afterwards, their enemies vanquished, catastrophe averted, they'd head home, where they'd drink hot chocolate and watch awful television until the sun peeked over the horizon. And the next night, they'd do it all again.

But such dreams are a fleeting indulgence, a sinful pleasure followed rapidly by deep and bitter anguish. For the image in her mind is not of the tragic, tortured man who traveled to the ends of the world and back to give her what she wanted, but rather of the old Spike, bedecked in his trademark duster, with his wicked grin and flashing eyes and hint of deadly fang. He's so different now, so calm and quiet, restrained, almost timid. It's difficult to imagine the sunken man before her bouncing with Tigger-like glee at the thought of a hunt and she wonders if it is wrong to resent that. To not want what he has sacrificed everything to get for her.

Only he has been hunting, Buffy reminds herself, and there's an empty house and a basement covered in dust to prove it. He's far from harmless, even now, and she can't help but fear that curing him will hand an involuntary weapon over to the First.

She twists her hands, shuffles her feet nervously, wonders if she can do what she has planned. Wonders if she even should. What she has in mind goes against every fiber of her being. But it's Spike, and he's different, and she cares. She wants to care. So offer it she must.

Spike's tired voice interrupts her contemplation. "You got something to say, Slayer? Out with it."




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