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.

When Spike wakes a second time, it is to the bright light of late morning and the blaring of a stereo in an upstairs bedroom. The music is tacky and witlessly irritating. British Pop. Bloody offence against good taste and good reason. Probably belongs to one of the ankle-biters. Spike briefly entertains the thought of storming upstairs and ripping the ears off the mini-skirted, glitter-nailed bint that was listening to it. But the image gave him significantly less pleasure than it should.

Bleedin' soul. Puts a damper on all his fun.

Lying back, Spike tries to recapture the elusive remnants of sleep. He's not ready to wake quite yet; not if there is any chance of snatching back the dream-like memories of last night. His mind is still awash with a kaleidoscope of images that hardly seem real; that he would not have believed could be real were it not for the feel of warm, potent slayer blood rushing through to his extremities. He inhales deeply, relieved to find the scent of their encounter still lingering in the air and attempts to drift into blissful fantasy again.

A squeak from the upstairs door draws him rapidly back to full consciousness as his acute senses scream awareness of a new presence making her way down the stairs. Smells like Buffy, but different, a touch lighter yet older... and darker.

Dawn.

The rush of adrenaline and a slight whiff of fear are not quite masked beneath the ozone-like scent of her spray-on deodorant. One of them flowery scents advertised by wankers giving flowers to some random bird on the street. Nothing spontaneous about this, though. Despite her fluttery heart, Dawn takes the steps with cautious determination.

Gonna say her piece.

Spike braces himself for what he knows will be a draining conversation.

When she finally speaks, her voice is steady, only a slight quaver hinting at underlying fury.

"I saw her leave here this morning."

With a sigh, Spike opens his eyes and turns to face her. His Little Bit, perched on the stairs as nervously as a bird on a wire.

"Did you now?" he asks, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

His fingers itch for a fag. Been a while since he'd thought about one of those. Strange he didn't crave one last night.

Focus.

Her large blue eyes meet his is an icy stare.

"You're fucking again, aren't you?"

There is still something faintly Victorian about Spike, enough that it stills shocks him slightly to hear such language from the lips of such a slight girl. All thoughts of the cigarette are gone.

"What?!" he chokes out as he sits up abruptly. He regrets the move immediately as a small sliver of pain cuts its way through his ribs. Not entirely healed, then. "What the heck kind of a question is that?"

She remains silent, crossing her arms, but never dropping her eyes from his. Girl could outstare a tiger

Spike sucks in his cheeks, searches for an answer that isn't gonna get him staked by someone.

"Niblet..."

She's having none of it.

"I'm not your 'Niblett,' your 'Little Bit' or anything else. I'm Dawn Summers. No, you're not even worthy of that honor. It's Miss Summers to you."

"Well, pet, if we're getting all Victorian, you'd actually be 'Miss Dawn...'"

"Shut up."

"Fine with me."

He'd rather not answer her questions anyway.

Spike knows he's usually good with words. Good with most folks, but 'specially clever when it comes to this girl. Treat her like an adult, say something clever and little saucy, win a grin that lights stars in her eyes. All so easy. But there's nothing he can say that'd make this right. Her hatred feels so real, so thick he can feel coating him like tar. He's not sure he even blames her.

Fuck. He tried to rape her sister.

So Spike decides instead not to talk, not even to think. He lies back, stares at the ceiling. Floorboards, cobwebs, nothing much different from home, really. Or what use to be home. Doesn't really have one of them anymore, does he? Another problem.

Why won't she leave so he can get some more sleep?

Dawn's shuffling a bit, nerves rising and heart pounding faster. Her script wasn't going to plan, and she was probably wondering whether to wing it. She decides it's worth the risk

"Are you sorry?" she asks.

Spike flinches slightly. God, how could she think he was not? He sits up again, swings his legs over the side of the cot and tries to assume a posture approaching dignified.

"Am I sorry? Nib-I mean, Dawn... 'Sorry' doesn't begin to cover it. It's just a word. People say it all the time. Doesn't mean anything; just something that makes the speaker feel better 'bout themselves."

Dawn shakes her head. "I don't get that. Sounds like a totally lame excuse. Isn't everything just a word, really?"

"'Tis different". He pauses, shakes his head, grips the sheet and tangles it around his fingers as he tries to find the words.

He's never been reluctant to share with Dawn before. She, alone of the Scoobs, always understood his darkness, his conflict, accepted his weaknesses without ridicule or disdain. But so much has changed ... Spike notices he's torn a hole in the bunched fabric. It can be patched, but never truly made right. Never restored to what it was. Probably the same with him and Dawn. But he still wants to try.

"That night, in the bathroom, I wasn't thinking...let everything get the better of me. I was weak and desperate, and pissed out of my brain. Not excusing myself, just saying, I didn't go there with the intention of... of doing that."

She's still watching him with those intense, cobalt eyes; face unreadable. He continues in the steadiest voice he can manage.

"I've never been one for introspection, Dawn. Just kinda do it, you know, live with the consequences. 'Cept, couldn't live with that. So I went and got the soul. Like I said, I don't believe in saying sorry. I believe in doing something 'bout it. That's why I can't apologize to your sister, why I certainly can't apologize to you. Cause words aren't good enough. But I'm gonna do something, do something right. Act better. Promise it. I'm never gonna hurt your sister again." Spike paused, meets her eyes with a fervent intensity "And Dawn, I keep my promises."

She holds his gaze for a long, frozen moment, as she weighs his words.

Then time melts. The smell of salt rises in the air as her lip trembles, her eyes fill with glistening liquid and a sob escapes her pink-glossed lips.

"Except you don't, do you?"

She's crying now, words cracking and uneven.

"You weren't there when we needed you. You went away and you didn't say anything and...and you went away because of Buffy... and now I know it was all about Buffy. You never thought about me, only about Buffy."

In that brief space of moments, Dawn's simmering fury has collapsed into a messy puddle of tears and soaking misery. She's really crying. Crying her eyes out because of him. Another victim of his foolish ways.

Instinctively, he opens his arms and draws her willowy frame to him. She resists for only a moment, before melting into his embrace. And it's not awkward like it was before, his movements no longer guided by distant memories, but by a genuine understanding of human need that spills from his soul to his heart. The need to comfort is suddenly so natural, so real, so stunningly intense, and the words pour out in rapid, unconscious, and, most likely, incoherent succession.

"Oh, God, Dawn. I'm sorry. . . . So sorry. . . . I'm a bad man, Dawn. A stupid, rash, bad man. I didn't think. I should have said goodbye, wished I could. But I couldn't. . . . Not after that. Couldn't see you again. Not, . . . not after that...so, so sorry..."

Time passes, and Dawn's sobs slow and then stop. Finally, she sniffles, and allows her thin arms to slide around his waist, and she clutches him to her. Oh, it's good. Warm and wonderful and so completely unlike what he has with Buffy.

Friends.

Spike toys with the word in his head. Examines the wondrous feeling of satisfaction when he says it. He'd thought he'd grown to love this girl before, but it was but a glimmer of what he felt now. She's his friend and she cares for him and there was no shame in that, no uneasiness or secret horror. It feels natural and right, and, sod dignity, it's suddenly also very important that she knows what it means to him.

"Die for you, I would, same as for your sister." He murmurs the words into her hair. "I love you Dawn. I know you don't believe me, nor reason to, but I'll prove it again. You'll see."

Her voice is muffled against his soggy shirt.

"I do believe you."

All he can do is grip her tighter.

"Ow."

She begins to struggle against him, but it's good-natured. Spike releases her slowly, and she pushes herself back, sits up and straightens her clothing dramatically. Wipes her face on the back of her sleeve. It's almost comical, her attempt to present a picture of maturity despite her red-rimmed eyes and snotty face. He's tempted to laugh, but it would probably ruin the moment.

"Okay," she says, as authoritatively as possible. "I'll give you one more chance. But that threat? The fire? It still stands"

"Don't doubt it."

"Good."

"Right."

Another moment of silence, but this time Dawn's eyes are brighter, that star-like sparkle is back. He can see the mischief rising.

"So, now we're like friends again and all, and there shouldn't be secrets between friends..." She raises an eyebrow, and her pink-glossed lips curl in an almost-smile.

"...are you and Buffy fucking again?"

Spike snorts, shakes his head. Pushes himself to his feet and stalks past her onto the stairs.

"That, Niblett, is something you're gonna have to ask your sister."

She'd changed the shower-curtain.

It's bright yellow now, or white, but with large, printed daisies. Glaringly, almost insultingly cheerful and ugly as sin. Soul or not, it almost made him nauseous. But... it's probably better to start the days with an eye full of offensive décor than to be reminded of an attempted rape.

Grinding his teeth and closing his eyes, Spike manages the single step from carpet to tile. Strange, that he should be so distressed, when it is Buffy who was attacked. Seems almost an insult to her, a parody of her pain. Not that he is surprised. He'd always been too emotional for a vamp, and for a man; too readily caught up in the ebb and flow of passion. Never easy to live like that. But not half as hard when he had was guilt and conscience free.

Still, only right that he should suffer this torment.

Moving to the middle of the bathroom, Spike casts his eyes over the scene of his most blistering memory. The rest of the place looks the same. Sink, lavatory, basin laden with all kinds of girly products and several different soaps. His observations bring a strange uneasiness. The room is a vivid symbol of humanity in all its weaknesses and strength and propensity for change, where the most base of human functions are transformed into something almost luxurious by the antiseptic efficiency of the modern world.

Introspection may not be his thing, but Spike's not short on imagination or dreams. He wonders, sometimes, what it would be like to be human again. He'd even contemplated it briefly on that agonizing flight to Africa. He doesn't know for certain, but he suspects Lurky'd probably have given it to him, had he asked. Wouldn't that have given the Poof a shock? Still, he'd come down on the side of no. Spike can hardly remember what it was like to be William, but he knows he didn't like it. When it came down to it, he didn't think that Buffy would've been impressed either.

'Sides, what would have been the point? It wasn't the just the demon that forced Buffy onto the cold tiles, that thrust its legs between hers. It wasn't the demon who hadn't heard the word 'no.' It was the man. The selfish, dependent, willfully blind man who'd been so desperate for love and affection, so truly pathetic and delusional, that he'd devoured the slightest crumb, hung on to the most flimsy thread, and pulled the woman he claimed to love down with him.

Spike leans over the sink, white knuckles gripping the edges of the basin. He feels the strong urge to vomit up everything in his stomach, but is even more revolted by the thought of loosing even a drop of slayer's blood. His undeserved gift; his most precious possession.

"She's moved on mate, so can you."

Determinedly, Spike walks to the shower, turns on the spray and steps inside, oblivious to the cold. He feels the water begin to wash away the grime and blood. Imagines that it can clean his soul.

This, at least, is a start.




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