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 4


Lying in the pale morning light, Spike watches his Slayer sleep.

She lies sprawled across him, her head resting below the curve of his shoulder, her ear against his silent chest, her legs entangled with his. His chest quivers slightly where her warm breath touches his cooler skin, and her upper arm is soft and slightly sweat-misted beneath the gentle caress of his fingers. Despite the weight of his guilt and his soul, and the knowledge that this must end, Spike knows he's grinning like an idiot.

Spike wonders what he could sell, what price he would pay, to freeze this moment, to hold back the sun and lie with her forever beneath the soft, pale light that divides day from night. But there's no one to bargain with. Morning is rushing toward them, he can feel its approach in his bones, and sense it in the more material indications - the first call of birds, the silence of insects, the distant noise of early rising humans going about their morning business. Strange that he is almost oblivious to the passage of years, yet in moments such as these even individual seconds pass in such intense detail.

Buffy shifts slightly, demanding his attention even in sleep. She murmurs softly, and Spike stills, but she doesn't wake. Deliberately, with concentrated effort, he times his intake of breath to hers. He's done this before, on those rare past occasions when she'd allowed herself to fall asleep beside him. Taken comfort, then as now, in the knowledge that they could move in harmony in the calm quiet of sleep, just as in the hectic chaos of battle. But this is the first time he's ever felt a connection beyond the simultaneous rising and falling of their chests; the first time he has ever lain with her hand clenched in his or her blood in his veins.

Her blood, rushing inside him. Warming and enlivening and healing. A bloody miracle, that. He still can't quite believe it.

Running his tongue across his lips, Spike can still taste the marvelous, tangy taste of her blood. Rich, satisfying, evocative. It's probably why sleep was so elusive; he's still buzzed, pumped on slayer blood and the lingering affects of arousal and adrenaline. Except the memory of their bloodletting and bonding results in a jolt of intense, almost painful arousal, lighting every nerve of his body again, rousing the demon within. His hand involuntarily tightens around hers. Closing his eyes, Spike tries to get a grip on his body.

Fails.

Daring a quick glance down, Spike confirms that his morning erection is present as always, and dangerously close to his sleeping slayer. He shifts uneasily.

Startled by the movement, Buffy stirs slightly, mutters something in a sleep-hazed voice. He freezes. But it's too late. Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, the rising fear, Spike manages to say that only thing that comes to mind.

"Morning, luv."

Buffy's mussed head rises from its place on his shoulder, her hooded eyes unfocused as she struggles to shake off the lingering lethargy.

"Spike? I..."

Time's up, and he waits for the blow. Watches her face intently as the various emotions flit across it: first surprise and confusion, then relief, and finally something truly surprising, something rare and golden, something he doesn't quite dare believe might actually be happiness.

Eyes bright and face open, Buffy smiles; a wide, deep smile that awakens old memories of sunrises and bluebells and Helen of Troy. It's all embarrassingly sappy, but in that moment Spike hardly cares. He could almost write poetry again, except that would require paper and he doesn't want to move. He just wants to lie and stare.

Buffy's inquisitive voice breaks the silence.

"Did it work?"

"Huh?"

"My blood. You all healed?"

Spike blinks. Of course, the wounds. He'd forgotten about them. He supposes the blood must have done something if that were possible. Or maybe it was her presence. The night had been so perfect; perhaps his frayed nerves were lethargic and lazy from carrying other, more pleasurable sensations?

Licking his lips, Spike looks down at his chest and tentatively moves one leg. No crippling agony.

"Er...yeah. Think so..."

Buffy beats him to it, her little hands pushing up his T-shirt as she quickly sits up.

"Let me see..."

He shivers slightly beneath her touch, but she doesn't seem to notice, intent as she is on examining his wounds. Her fingers work gently over his stomach, his chest, and Spike again shifts nervously. Prays she doesn't pay too much attention to his other parts. .

Impromptu assessment finished, Buffy pronounces him fit.

"They're all scabby and yucky, but not bleeding anymore."

She flashes him a winning smile; big, big eyes filled with happiness and, he thinks, satisfaction.

"And that's very much of the good."

Oh yeah, definitely satisfaction.

Her hands linger on his body, gently caressing the skin surrounding the nastiest gashes. Unfortunately, the effect her touch is having on him is something quite different. His body, already reacting to her nearness in impossibly inconvenient ways, now begins to betray him completely. He's painfully, and obviously, hard; the throbbing beguiling and he can feel his hands begin to tremble in that annoying way they do when Buffy gets too close.

"Buffy...I..."

The words, whatever they were, disintegrate in his mind, and it's like he's human again, stuck in that Victorian parlor, nervous and tender and trying to think of something to say that wouldn't embarrass him further.

Buffy's silent too, still looking at him with that stunningly open, indescribable expression.

A sudden flash of panic flushes across her face, and before any words leave her mouth, he feels his heart shatter and crumble.

"Shit! It's Inservice day. I so can not be late."

She pushes herself off him fast, and he doesn't know whether to be angry and disappointed or simply immensely relieved.

"There's this Nazi bitch from hell at work, she's just waiting for me to screw up..."

He watches Buffy hop around the room, searching for the shoes she'd kicked off the night before. She's delightful, all vibrant and glorious. Effulgent, his mind offers, but he pushes it away. She flashes him another grin.

"Want anything? Need anything?"

Spike shakes his head, still shifting through his dancing emotions. This friendly, business-like efficiency is something entirely new, and he's not entirely sure how to deal with it. She reaches the bottom of the stairs, then turns back to him, all pulsing energy. He guesses he should at least be relieved that she showed no signs of ill effects from the blood-loss.

"Okay, anything you want, I think you can get upstairs for now. There's blood in the fridge. Er...pig, of course."

Her voice hitches only a second, but her fingers go instinctively to her wrist. Spike can't hold back a slight wave of pride, that he'd marked her there and she'd let him. But the moment passes, and she moves to the foot of the stairs.

"Giles and Dawn and everyone are home at the moment, but I'll talk to them before I leave. So, don't freak out. You could watch television ... or maybe, you know, take a shower."

She adds the last part pointedly. Not exactly a suggestion. Spike flashes a soft grin in reply, but she's not looking at him, really. Her eyes dart around the room as clutches at the handrail and continues her frenetic little on-the-spot bouncing.

She must have caught his look of hurt and confusion after all, because in the next moment, she is back beside him, fingers tracing his cheek and chin as she touches her soft, warm lips to his forehead. There's a moment's hesitation and she kisses him again on the lips, gently and briefly but rich with meaning. They both tremble slightly as she pulls away.

Meeting her fathomless eyes, Spike can see only see only kindness and caring, and he feels again that horrid stirring of hope. It's unfurls deep in his belly, stretches and crawls through his body and into his limbs; paralyzes him worse than a tazer blast.

"I'll be back later, 'kay?" Buffy whispers. "And we'll talk."

Spike thinks he nods, but he's really that not sure. He can do nothing else but stare after her in silent shock; the sensation of her lips on his forehead, on his mouth, and her fingers on his cheek, lingers long after she is gone.

Finally, goofy smile back on his face, he lies back against the sheets and sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks.




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