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.

"You're smoking again."

Spike glances up form his position on the steps of the Summer's back porch. Buffy's standing in the kitchen doorway, the back-light from the kitchen illuminating her hair and casting her slender form in an alluring silhouette.

"Er, yeah..." he responds, before trailing off uncertainly.

He worries for a moment that she is scolding him, but her smile is as wide and bright as a distantly remembered sunrise, and her eyes are sparkling with a twinkle of amusement that he hasn't seen on her weary face in so long. She's teasing him. He drops his gaze to the smoldering cigarette in order to hide his delighted smile. It's been so long since either of them has been in the mood to be playful, to participate in any kind of their usual witty repartee.

Spike fixes his gaze on the smoke as it weaves and dances its way skyward, drawing intricate patterns in the air before dissipating slowly into the cooler night sky. Funny, how he notices little things like that again now - the beauty of swirling gray, the exotic orange flare of the burning paper; simple things, unnoticed for more than a century, are once again absorbing.

William's influence; the wanker.

Spike shakes his head slightly to clear the ghostly cobwebs.

"Nabbed it from your Watcher," he replies with a shrug.

"Giles smokes?"

He can hear the laughter in her voice; tinkling little bells that cause his skin to dance and his heart to soar. She's in a rare mood tonight, charming and tantalizing in all her girlish good humor. He wonders what's gotten into her, and whether he can seal it in.

"When he worries for you, yeah. Not his brand, though. Think he bought them for me. Rupes is an okay bloke, once you get to know him."

"Giles mentioned over dinner that you'd had a chat."

He did? That surprises Spike, and he wonders briefly how much to say.

"We came to an understanding. Of sorts."

"I'm glad, Spike."

Buffy covers the few paces between the porch and the steps, and then plunks herself down next to him. The move's a strange combination of clumsy and graceful, like she's coordinated but couldn't care less. It strikes him as an open move, devoid of pretense and posturing. He continues to watch her out of the corner of his eyes as she fidgets for a second, then folds her hands in her lap and follows his gaze into the night.

This is a familiar position, hip to hip, parallel stares. But this quiet companionship, the giving of conditional comfort had seemed foreign to him before, even unnatural. He'd let his heart guide him and put on a good show at it, such a good show, in fact, that the seed of their friendship was planted here. Now, nearly two years later, it's finally in bloom.

Friends.

He thinks they're friends. Hopes they are. Still sometimes hope for more than but...But Hope is a mercurial little bitch; sweet and painful in turn, and he doesn't let her seduce him too often. Right now, though, he feels himself giving into the sweet agony of Hope's embrace, allowing her to remind him again of how so close, and yet how far he is to that which he so craves.

And yet, even as he longs to reach across and take her hand, to touch her and love her, a part of him thinks that this - this friendship - is enough. Spike reminds himself of how blind he was last year, how damnably stupid as to believe that frantic, grasping shagging and random acts of violence could amount to a real relationship. He'd been kidding himself the whole time; convinced himself that if she was fucking him - pitiful, evil, disgusting him - then she must have felt something, some connection beyond the physical. Why else would she debase herself? But, oh, he knows her now. Knows with the clarity of hindsight that it was never about him. It was always about her and her need to punish herself for being alive. She'd not seen him at all, and certainly never loved him.

You don't feel love for just a Thing. You use it.

Funny thing is, Spike still can't truly think of unsoulled vampires in quite such simplistic terms. He wonders if even Angel can. He's no problems dusting the ones he doesn't know, the barnyard bloodsuckers that are a dime a dozen in Sunnydale. He'd never had a lot of time for minions, so nothing much had changed on that front.

But then there is Dru. Evil and twisted as she was, the mention of her name, the memory of her soft hair and white body, of their century of togetherness, still kindles a certain dark fire in his heart. Did she love him? He doesn't know. But he loved her, right? Would've died for her. Probably still couldn't kill her, ranting threats aside. No, he can not think of Dru as a thing. Not yet, maybe never. Doesn't even know if he wants to

Bloody hell, the soul is making him melancholy tonight.

"It's a beautiful night," Buffy comments suddenly, breaking through his thoughts and offering him a reprieve from his depressing inner monologue.

He has to smile at that. Damned if he'd admit it out loud, but she's right. The clouds have begun to clear and the nearly full moon casts silver shadows across the yard. Best of all, she's sitting beside him, heart calm and steady, color in her cheeks and mouth turned up in a smile. Beautiful indeed.

"You're in a blinding mood tonight, Slayer."

"Huh?" She raises an eyebrow in confusion, brow creasing slightly in a way that makes him grin.

"Happy, pet. You're happy." Another drag from his cigarette, a long exhale. He's scrupulously remembering to blow the smoke from Buffy's cancer-sensitive human lungs.

Buffy shrugs a shoulder, pushes a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. "Surprised, huh?"

He shrugs a little. It is and it isn't. "Long while since I said that, ain't it? 'Tis good to see."

'Cause, if he believes her friends, believes her, then Buffy is often happy. Just never when she's around him.

"Well, I've got a lot to be happy about," she says determinedly. "I had a great day at work. I came home to find Dawn in an unusually happy mood. Then I see you and Giles, with the working together. And you up and about and being helpful and teacher-y." She flashes that gorgeous smile again, the one that reaches her eyes and lights up all of her features. "That was a good moment. So, yeah, I guess I am feeling remarkably generous and open-minded about everything right now."

"That right? Your feeling 'generous' are you?" Spike smirks softly, figures he can get away with a bit of fun. "You know Slayer, 'm still feeling a bit weak. Seeing as you're feeling so 'generous' and such... 'Nother taste of the good stuff would heal it right up..."

He's careful to keep the words gently teasing, without a trace of serious intent. He's not sure how to handle this new easiness between them. But he hopes his eyes reflect the depth of his gratitude.

The glint in Buffy's eye is a delight to see, and her reply almost makes him fall off the stairs. "I'm sure we'll find plenty of opportunities to let you... taste me."

Spike's stomach drops, and it's as if the seat beneath him falls away as well. 'Shocked' isn't a strong enough word, but his mind refuses to submit another. His jellied brain refuses even to comply with his subconscious' demand that it closes his gaping mouth. And then, this thinking process stops entirely as she reaches over and threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and begins to caress the skin there gently with her slightly callused fingers. The movement is soft, gentle, and intimate, much like the pattern of his thumb on her wrist the night before. He feels her touch reverberate through every part of his body.

He knows this can't be happening; the flirting, the touching, the sexual innuendo behind the offer of more 'tasting.' He must be dreaming, or deluded, or maybe both. Or perhaps she's simply joined him in Gah Gah Land. He'd thought when he was a kid madness was contagious; this must be proof.

"Buffy..." he begins, but his voice cracks and dies. Fuck.

"Shh, Spike," Buffy coaxes softly, much as she would a child. "Don't say anything. Just...enjoy the night."

Spike usually follows his blood, lives by the motto. But right now, he's not sure that's such a great idea, lest he mess up this most amazing of moments. Buffy is so calm, so beautiful like this, skin white and hair glistening silver beneath Artemis' light. He feels his still heart ache, his love and adoration and desire sore. He knows thousands of lines of poetry, masters a-plenty, and not one does her justice. His strong, amazing Slayer.

A long moment passes as Spike struggles for control of his turbulent emotions, and his rebellious body. He can't leave it at that. Impatient, demanding as always, he needs to know what this is about. Finally, he swallows and licks his lips. Looking at her is suddenly too much, so when he speaks, he addresses some spot on grass between them.

"We back together then?" he asks.

Buffy draws a quick, harsh breath, body tense. But she exhales slowly, her clothing rustling softly as she turns to look at him. The seconds seem like hours as he waits for her response.

"Do you wanna be? Back together?"

Her words cut through flesh and bone as a sword, penetrating him to the core and leaving him speechless. For a moment, Spike wonders if he has misheard, and then if he has misinterpreted. Only a question, he reminds himself sharply, not an offer. But his answer escapes his lips before he fully has tome to think.

"Do I... Do you need to ask? Course I do! God, Buffy, more than anything. I'd do anything for you. Be anything..."

Only, the words aren't true. Not really. And as he they pass his lips, his voice fades and he looks away; buries his gaze in the garden, somewhere amongst the strawberries. Silence suddenly falls between them, and the night air grows thick and heavy beneath the weight of memory. Spike can sense the burning blood rise in Buffy's cheeks, can feel the slight shudder of her body and then the rise of her heart as she wraps her arms around herself.

"I thought we went over this last night."

"Did we?"

"Spike..." Her voice fades beneath he silent gaze.

He grinds his teeth as he searches for words. When he finally speaks, it is with unusual slowness and consideration. "Last night, you said you were scared of hiding, of bottling everything up and lying to yourself. So am I. I love you Buffy. You know that. Love you more than anything. But I don't want to be your security blanket again. I don't..." His voice cracks. Becoming a habit, that is. He looks up, pleads with his eyes as much as his voice. Please understand. "I couldn't bear it, Buffy. Not again. Please don't ask it of me."

As he finishes, Buffy's features relax, and he can almost feel the ripple of her body as the relief washes over her. He can certainly smell the slightly salty tang of the tears that suddenly glisten in the corners of her large, green eyes.

"Oh, Spike..." Buffy allows her hand, long forgotten on the back of his neck, to glide across to cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "You're not going to be my security blanket again. I don't even need one anymore. Security blanket-free me!" She pauses for a second, perhaps waiting for a smile, but he can't quite manage one. The liquid pools in her eyes begin to overflow, tears leaving trails down her cheeks, but her voice is soft as silk. "No more hiding, Spike. I want us to go in there now, together, hand in hand. You and me. You as my boyfriend. They can deal."

Spike wonders if he heard that right, because suddenly there are insects in his head, buzzing wildly, worse than the chip, tickling his mind with images. Last night; this...this declaration, what she is offering, it's almost too much. He stares at her for a moment, assessing her countenance, confirming to his screaming mind's satisfaction that, this time, she is being honest, with him and with herself.

Her face is open, clear, and he knows she's telling the truth. Spike finds he has no choice but to close his eyes against the wave of relief, happiness and desire.

Boyfriend. Stupid term, but it makes him deliriously happy anyway.

Spike feels her lips against his eyelids, first one, then the other. He opens his eyes to meet hers, bright and caring. And then everything feels to be melting as her captures her lips in what feels, to him, like their first real kiss.




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