Chapter Three ~ You Say You Want a Revelation

*~*

The air in the crypt sparked with electricity, and the space between them crackled with palpable energy.  Buffy’s every nerve ending tingled and her fingers, still tangled with Spike’s, burned with invisible flames.  Spike’s one open eye bored into hers, impossibly blue and wholly astonished.  For the second time that evening, the Earth screeched to a sudden, gut-wrenching stop, stalling in its orbit and rendering time and space and everything else meaningless.  Nothing existed in that moment outside of Buffy and Spike.

“What . . . did . . . did you just say what I think you said?”  Spike’s voice, a wavering, halting, audible representation of the bewilderment on his face, jolted the world back into motion.

Buffy blinked and broke eye contact while she struggled to make her mouth work.  This time Spike waited, wide-eyed and holding his superfluous breath, for her response.  “I . . . did,” she managed, and when their eyes met again, a surge of energy coursed through her.

The way Spike gasped as she did told her he’d felt it too.  

“But you didn’t intend to say it,” he added after a long moment of weighty silence.

“No, I . . . I didn’t even intend to think it,” she admitted, unable to tear her eyes from his.  “But . . . I meant it.”

Silence befell them, heavily laden with everything that lay unspoken between them.  Whispers of possibility, of anticipation, of desire hung in the air, and every deep, shaky breath she drew into her lungs spread the sensations like fire through her veins.  The crypt was cool but Buffy only felt heat, the warmth of Spike’s intent gaze and the incredible heat blooming in her chest.  Desire was only part of it; it was there, no doubt, but this heat was different, both strangely soothing and wildly exhilarating, and it took up residence inside her with a sense of belonging, of inevitability.  Her eyes widened with comprehension, even as Spike continued to stare at her with mingled expectation, trepidation, and longing.

And with undeniable, profound certainty, Buffy understood that this was the moment, the place in time where the last of her walls crumbled to ash beneath the inferno raging between them.  She had not said if.   Her unintentional confession dealt in absolutes, and no part of her offered any hint of denial that she had taken that giant, final step over the edge of the precipice.   That inevitability of one day had become this day.  Buffy was falling hard and fast and headlong, but the prospect of winding up so far gone she’d never get out failed to frighten her.  Instead, it filled her with blissful serenity so immense she wanted to cry from the sheer rightness of it.

She had done epic and messy.  She’d been tricked into the one-night-stand and had settled for the so-called normal relationship.  Buffy knew heartache, and thought she’d understood love, but she hadn’t, not fully.  It wasn’t drama and misery; neither was it pretty, empty words nor safe, reliable tedium.  Love was real, raw and visceral; it was unpredictable, undeniable, full of pitfalls and shining highs.  It was acceptance, pride, and passion, earth-shattering, mind-blowing, and breath-taking.  Love was fire and ice, hate and lust and blood, and no matter what, it was home.  It was belonging.  No wonder Angel and Riley left; she had never truly belonged to either one of them.  Looking now into Spike’s broken face felt like a long awaited homecoming.

Some of this must have shown in her expression, because the furrow of Spike’s bruised brow lessened, and all that shone from his face now was renewed astonishment and overwhelming love.  He continued to regard her with this blatant awe for countless minutes, before his expression sobered.

He leaned toward her to trail the tips of his fingers down her cheek.  “When the sun comes up, this ends, doesn’t it?”

Buffy leaned into his caress, and Spike’s hand cupped her face, his thumb moving over her cheek in a feather-light circle.  “No. . .” she breathed, eyes drifting shut as she submitted to his touch.

His other hand rose, brushing through her hair and skimming over her shoulder.  He tangled his fingers into the golden strands, and the fluttering dance of Buffy’s heart, echoed by that of the fireflies in her belly, quickened as Spike leaned toward her.  Buffy held her breath, waiting, but the anticipated kiss never came.  Spike’s lips instead brushed lightly along the line of her jaw and his cheek came to rest against hers. 

His breath as he spoke tickled her ear and sent tingling shivers through her brainstem and down her spine.  “You sure about that?”

She wanted to be, more than anything.  She wanted to assure him that his fears lacked validity, but she could not, and a sudden heaviness settled in her heart with that realization.  Best intentions easily fade into nothingness, and he deserved more than a promise she was unsure if she could keep.

Spike moved to rest his forehead against hers, one hand still playing in her hair, the other resting again on her thigh.  “The truth, Buffy,” he whispered.

Buffy inhaled a shaking breath.  Spike’s attentiveness had her feeling lightheaded, making coherency difficult, but she forced her mouth to work.  “I . . . can’t ignore what you did . . . but it . . . things won’t be this easy, when tonight’s over,” she admitted, and felt Spike’s emotional exhalation breeze over her face.

When he pulled back to look at her, Buffy offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile.  “But I’ll try,” she added, and Spike waited with rapt attention for her to continue.  “Try like you’re trying . . . Spike, this is, what I’m . . . God, you’d think I didn’t grow up speaking this language.”

The warmth in his answering chuckle lifted some of the heaviness from her heart.  “Butchering it’s more like it,” he teased.  His fingers tickled her leg and he cocked his head to the side and tipped it up in a brief nod.  “You’re doin’ fine, sweetheart.”

The endearment brought a grin to her face.  Before tonight, if anyone told her that Spike calling her sweetheart had the power to turn her insides into mush, Buffy would have either laughed them to death or knocked them unconscious.  The obvious internal squishiness, suffused in tingling warmth, effectively ripped apart that theory and gave her much-needed encouragement to keep speaking in spite of her inherent difficulty with expressing herself verbally.

“Today . . . tonight . . . a lot of things started changing for me,” she began, trying to maintain eye contact but finding the directness intimidating.  “What I thought I knew is gone, and things I never wanted to consider are staring me in the face.  I’m confused and I’m terrified and I . . . I want to know what can come from all this.”

Buffy met Spike’s eye again, and set her hand atop his where it rested on her leg.  “But this, it’s . . . monumental.  Not a leap I can take overnight.  There are factors . . . endless things standing in my way.  I want to give you something more, I really do, but I can only try.” 

Spike was nodding slowly, taking everything in with barely contained hope.  Already, she knew, she had given him more than he ever thought he’d receive, but it still didn’t feel like enough – not after tonight, after everything. 

Buffy reached out a trembling hand to cup his cheek, mirroring his earlier gesture.  “I think . . . no, I know .  I just stepped over that ledge, Spike, and I’m falling.  I think I’m falling hard.  I just don’t know when . . . I’ll land.”

It was as close as she could get, but Spike understood immediately the meaning behind her confession.  His gaze softened and turned inward, a love-struck parody of his hunger-trance.  When it cleared, he pressed a kiss into her palm, then took her hand in his.

Spike leaned toward her again, and this time when his lips touched her jaw, he trailed along it a line of kisses toward her ear.  Blunt teeth nibbled on the fleshy lobe while the hand on her leg migrated to her hip.  His fingers pressed into her flesh, insistent but gentle as they tugged her toward him.  Buffy’s head swam and the fire in her belly roared tenfold as her body met the cool expanse of his chest. The position was awkward; too many legs and not enough space to accommodate them, and she was wary of leaning too heavily against his wounds.  Of their own volition, however, her fingers curled into the firm muscles beneath them, and Spike’s hand, moving from her hip to rest low on her back, seemed intent on keeping her there.

The unbelievably soft lips now focused on her neck, vibrating deliciously from the rumbling in Spike’s chest.  “When you do, whenever that is,” he murmured into her flesh, “I’ll be waiting there to catch you.”

Buffy let her head fall to the side, one arm snaking around Spike’s neck, and breathed a soft sigh.  “I never thought for a minute that you wouldn’t be.”

“Well, that’s something,” he answered, between moist kisses.  “That’s more than something.”

Buffy stroked the back of his neck with her fingers, surprised at the softness of his hair beyond the reaches of the ubiquitous lacquer.  “It’s not as much as you deserve,” she whispered, “but it’s all I’ve got.”

The next instant saw her bereft of Spike’s attentive lips as he pulled his head up, guiding hers with gentle fingers on her chin to meet his eye.  “Buffy, you’ve just given me more than I ever dared hope for,” he told her, then smirked.  “Well, can’t say I never hoped , but I certainly never thought . . .”

“That makes two of us,” she finished.

A shared smile flitted between them.  With gentle hands on her shoulders, Spike eased Buffy back, and stretched his leg out beside her along the back of the couch.  His other dangled over the edge, leaving an open space in the middle waiting in clear invitation.  Without hesitating, Buffy untucked her legs from beneath her and sat down on her backside, slowly shuffling forward as she draped her legs overtop his. 

“C’mere,” Spike said softly, slipping his hands around behind her to pull her into his lap, scooting toward the middle of the couch to make room for her legs behind him.  “That’s better.”

Buffy’s breath quickened as she settled onto him, acutely aware of the hard bulge of his erection nestled between her legs.  Ever so slightly, Spike tilted his hips forward as if to say, see what you do to me?   Beyond that, he made no further moves, did nothing to indicate that he expected anything of her, despite undoubtedly realizing the extent of her own arousal.  Though the evidence of his desire continued to press into her through the thin fabric of her pants, Buffy felt incredibly un-pressured.  There was no smugness, no demands or expectations, only the tenderness of a man who loved her unconditionally. 

Buffy draped her arms over his shoulders and let her head fall forward until her forehead came to rest against his.  Spike combed his fingers through her hair, one hand wrapping around the nape of her neck, the other drifting back down to hold her in place.

“Of course we’ll be great together, Buffy,” he whispered, his lips lightly brushing over hers as his words ripped through her with lightning intensity.  “We’re already bloody fantastic.”

She barely had the time to take in a shuddering breath before Spike’s lips descended upon hers with feverish speed.  Buffy threw herself into the kiss immediately, one arm tightening around his shoulders while her other hand moved to cup his cheek.  As if encouraged by her enthusiastic response, Spike tugged her even more tightly against him, ignoring his own physical discomfort as he plundered her mouth fervently.  A rumbling growl rose in his chest as Buffy swept her tongue over his bottom lip.  Accepting her invitation, Spike’s lips parted, his tongue joining hers in its eager, intimate exploration.   

Buffy hadn’t known it was possible to drown while simultaneously forgetting the need to breathe.  There had been sparkage when she kissed Angel.  With Riley, something like fluttery butterflies that stopped dancing somewhere along the way.  Kissing Spike, there were flames – bright, blazing, and eternal.  The inferno consumed her, cocooned her in warmth so fulfilling, so sensational, that the mere thought of her lips ever leaving his shot pangs of loss straight through her thundering heart.  How could a being who generated no body heat feel so breathtakingly warm?  It didn’t matter.  Breathing didn’t matter.  This was it.

Though she had sworn off oxygen, when Spike broke the connection, Buffy sucked in great, needy breaths, dizzy from the lack of air and the intensity of the kiss, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.  She did not know what it was about kissing Spike that made her feel as though all her previous kisses amounted to nothing more than practice.  Was she simply caught up in the moment, the excitement of her changing feelings and the thrill of the forbidden?  Or did the energy she felt surging between them originate from something more, something deeper they were only starting to discover?  Again, that sense of anticipation, of standing on the cusp of something incredible, tingled in the back of her brain and broke her out all over in goosebumps. 

Spike pressed his brow to hers, chest rising and falling in the same frantic pattern as Buffy’s, and a powerful shiver tore through her.  “Buffy . . .” he breathed.  The fingers of the hand holding her in place tucked beneath the hem of her shirt, drifting over her pebbled flesh of her back in light circles, and his other hand moved from her neck to trail up and down her arm.  “Cold?”

“Warm,” she corrected, stoking the back of his neck and shivering again beneath the tenderness of his caresses.

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied breathlessly.  “I—”

“Shhh,” Spike interrupted, the flicker of air tickling her face.  “Told you, love . . . fantastic .”

The second kiss was every bit as spectacular as the first, but slower, gentler, as though each movement of his lips, glide of his tongue, served to commit her, kissing her, to memory.  Through the blissfulness of the kiss, another twinge of regret hit her when she realized he was preparing himself for tomorrow, when all of this ended.  He possessed the quiet desperation of a man certain of the imminence of his loss.  Spike knew this was the last time he’d ever hold her in his arms, and neither her presence now, nor her confession that she was falling in love with him, could convince him otherwise.  At the same time, he kissed her with the barely restrained passion of a man fighting to ensure he wasn’t forgotten either, even if she never touched him as intimately again.  He wanted this to stay with her, wanted her to remember, as she lay alone and awake in her bed at night, how much she had wanted him, how bloody fantastic the two of them could be, if she only gave them a chance.

Problem was, Buffy knew that his feelings weren’t unreasonable.  Right now in his arms, she could do it, could throw away everything she was supposed to believe and embrace this new, terrifying, exhilarating future.  What she felt for Spike wasn’t new, even if her recognition of it was, and she was not confusing desire for true feelings.  She understood the difference.  Her chance prediction and his assurances of the extraordinariness of the two of them rang truer than ever, and no part of her doubted it.  Spike and Buffy, together, could change the world. 

She also understood, with heart-wrenching certainty, that daylight changed the look of things.  Tonight happened so fast, denying Buffy the time to talk herself out of it.  Only that afternoon, she had wanted him dusted, ready to convict him for crimes not committed, on the fact of what he was, without ever finding out who .  Only hours later did she understand Spike had changed, and grudgingly admitted that he loved her.  Now, nothing about that knowledge felt grudging .  Buffy’s heart pounded at the thought that this man loved her more than anyone ever had, or ever would, and that she was in the act of falling for him just as deeply.  Everything had a surreal aspect to it, almost as though she were outside of herself, seeing everything through new, or perhaps unclouded, eyes.  Strangely, it also felt more real than anything else in her admittedly bizarre world. 

Would the shadows of doubt, the clouded vision, creep up again come morning?  Buffy wanted to lie to herself and say, with conviction, that it would not, but she understood her own intimate relationship with denial more than she cared to admit.  She dreaded the end of the night and the dawn of morning, with its brightly lit spaces and conveniently cast shadows in which to hide the pieces of herself she thought she needed to conceal.  Spike might not be able to stand out in the light, but he didn’t deserve to be tossed into the shadows, either.  Could Spike survive the return of her usual jaded self?  Buffy didn’t know if she could.

A long moment later, Buffy realized the wetness on her face was tears, and that they were her own.  She released a whimpering sigh, and Spike pulled away to look at her with concern.

“Buffy . . .?”

Buffy dropped her forehead onto his shoulder and sighed again.  “I just . . . I don’t want this to end.”

Spike cradled the back of her head with his hand and placed a kiss into her hair.  “Neither do I, sweetheart,” he answered, “but you know it will.”

Buffy turned her face so her lips brushed against his neck and tightened her arms around his shoulders.  “God, I’m going to break your heart.”

“Look at me,” Spike whispered, waiting quietly until she complied, then wiping away her tears with his thumb.  “You wouldn’t still be here if you didn’t want this,” he continued, pausing to kiss her lips gently.  “But it’s easy down here, love.  Just two people exploring something incredible.  It’s easy to see what’s in front of you, feel what you feel, down here.”

Buffy nodded solemnly as another tear slid swiftly down her cheek.  She could see moisture glinting in Spike’s eye as well, and hoped he wouldn’t start crying in earnest.  If he did, she had no chance of stopping.

Gentle fingers traced the path of the tear and continued to draw random patterns into her flushed cheek, leaving her skin tingling.  “But you go up there,” Spike said, tilting his head in the direction of the ceiling, “and you’re Buffy the Vampire Slayer, surrounded by her righteous, demon-hunting mates, and there’s me, down here, a demon in the dark.” 

She knew she had it wrong, then.  Spike’s heart wasn’t the only one breaking.  “Spike . . .” she whispered, but he quieted her with a soft kiss.

“I know what you want, Buffy,” he assured her, voice barely above a whisper.  “I know what I want.  But life – your life – doesn’t want it.”

She closed her eyes tightly against the oncoming flood of tears.  “I wanna try.”

“I know,” he answered, kissing each of her eyelids with trembling lips.  “An’ I think you will, but it’s not gonna be easy.”

“I just . . . need time.”

“And you’ll have it.” 

Relief swelled in her heart with the knowledge that he understood, that he recognized she wasn’t here just playing with him, leading him on only to throw it back in his face come morning.  No, Spike realized the inherent difficulties in following the path ahead of them, and while certain they would take a giant leap backward tomorrow, he was willing to give her the chance to find her way back.  Buffy’s heart told her to hit the road running, but her head reminded her of all the obstacles littering the passage and urged her to proceed with caution.  She knew that once she started on the journey, there was no going back.  When she did it was all out, no holds barred, and she couldn’t do it until she could give him all of herself.  Spike was there – everything that he was, he gave willingly to her.  Until she could give that back to him, she had to move slowly.  After tonight, this intimacy would fade into the shadows of memory, this they both understood, but she would find her way back, and he would wait for her.  Not forever, but she didn’t need forever.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

In response, Spike touched his lips to hers again, drawing her into a slow, tender kiss.  When they parted, he cradled her head and she buried her face into his neck, willing her tears to subside. 

“Don’t think about tomorrow,” Spike requested, combing his fingers through her hair.  “Just be here with me tonight.”

“Okay.”

Spike touched his cheek to the side of her head, his mouth close to her ear.  Buffy noticed that he continued to breathe in perfect timing with her own respirations, and wondered, amidst the shivers caused by the tickle of air into her ear, if he knew he was doing it that way.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he murmured, voice vibrating in her ear more potently than his breath.  “An’ I’m not giving up.”

“Don’t,” Buffy agreed.  “You can’t let me forget.”

“Trust me, love,” he replied, tongue darting out to lick the lobe.  “You’ll have to stake me to get rid of me.”

“No staking,” Buffy corrected, lifting her head and inhaling sharply as he began nibbling.  “But . . . mmmm, more of that.”

Spike chuckled around the flesh in his mouth.  “My slayer likes being bitten,” he teased, now biting softly along the line of her jaw.

“Only by her vampire,” Buffy answered, feeling once again both breathless and lightheaded, with a healthy dose of tachycardia thrown in on the side.  Spike hesitated a moment and Buffy chuckled.  “That’s you , Spike.”

Spike nipped playfully at her chin, and then the tip of her nose.  “A fella could get used to hearin’ that,” he decided, grinning at her, and immediately wincing as the expression tugged at the cuts on his face.

Buffy furrowed her brow with concern, touching a finger tentatively to the wound below his mouth.  Spike had put aside the discomfort to kiss her, but the enthusiasm of those same kisses had clearly aggravated the abrasions.  None of them were terribly serious, and they had started to heal already.  However, what they lacked in severity, they accounted for in quantity, slowing the healing process with numerous injuries to tend and leaving even Spike hard pressed to ignore the pain.  Pig’s blood, though it sustained him in unlife, hardly matched human blood for fuelling his vampiric healing.

The idea had occurred to Buffy earlier, at first on her way to the butcher shop, but she’d rejected it before her brain could fully form the thoughts.  It had returned to her mind, albeit still negatively, when Spike devoured the first bag of blood.  She’d thought of it again when his lips first touched her neck, but his actions at the time quickly overshadowed the budding inspiration.  Now, looking into his torn face, the proposition returned to her with a more plausible feeling to it.

A mental warning bell sounded, bringing to the forefront of her consciousness memories of the aftermath of the last time she’d offered what she was considering now.  That situation, she reminded herself, was very different to the present.  She had given Angel her neck out of desperation to save him, and he’d been so far under the effects of the poison that he hadn’t been able to control himself. 

Spike wasn’t poisoned, wasn’t delirious, and he wasn’t starving.  He was, however, injured because of something he had done for her.  Tonight wasn’t about life and death; it was about connecting.  It was about trust.  It was about showing him that she understood the depth of what he had done for her, and that she was willing to do the same for him.  It could only be blood.  Nothing else she could offer him would hold the same meaning.

Spike cocked his head to the side and regarded her searchingly, and Buffy realized she had spent more time than she intended staring at him in contemplation. 

“You’ll heal faster with human blood, right?” she asked, before she could talk herself out of it.

If Spike could have narrowed his eyes at her, Buffy was certain he would have.  The swelling rendered the expression into more of a near-sighted, one-eyed squint that would have been funny had her thoughts not dwelled on a serious topic.  “Now, don’t go raidin’ the blood bank on my account,” he replied, seemingly in jest but with a hint of caution.

“No,” Buffy corrected, playing along for the moment.  “I meant fresh blood, as in, mine .”

Spike sighed, shifting her back slightly so he could see her face better.  “Buffy—”

“Not like you’d need a lot, after all the pig you ate,” she continued, ignoring his discomfiture in the hopes that he might miss her own nervousness at what she was offering.

He eased her back even more.  “Buffy—”

She trundled on obstinately, joining her hands behind his neck to prevent him shifting her completely out of his lap.  “And slayer blood’s gotta be better than plain old human, right?”

His sigh this time ended with a low growl.  “You don’t—”

“Really do,” she interrupted, as emphatic in her insistence as she could manage. 

Spike scowled.  “Chip.”

Buffy leaned forward to plant a quick peck on his lips.  “Someone who kisses like you do can surely figure out how to bite without pain and yes I really did just suggest that.” 

She felt her cheeks start to burn as Spike’s lip curled up very slightly at the comment.  When he replied, however, his tone remained businesslike.  “Touched.  But I—”

“If I let you, I bet it won’t even fire.”

Spike’s expression grew slightly irritated.  “All well and good,” he responded, tapping at his temple with two fingers, “when it’s not your noggin on the line.”

“If I let you bite me, then you’re not intending to hurt me,” Buffy elaborated, affecting her best cheery voice.  “It’s like, chip psych 101.”

Another scowl twisted his features and he made the squinting face at her again.  “Fine,” he grumbled.  “Use logic, or psychology, or whatever the hell that was.”

Now Buffy felt herself scowling at him, frustration flaring over his continued stubbornness.  “How is it that I’m actually having to convince you?”

This curled his lip into a hint of a smirk.  “Partly I just like arguing with you,” Spike admitted, joining his hands again at the small of her back.  “An’ just makin’ sure that you’re sure.”

Buffy looked into his eye directly.  “I’m sure, Spike.”

Spike returned her look expectantly.  “Are you gonna be as sure in the morning?”

Her bottom lip poked out rebelliously and her scowl upgraded into a glower.  “God, it’s not like I’m under the influence or anything.”

“Runnin’ pretty high on endorphins, love,” Spike corrected, leaning in to nip at her pouting lip.

That he should bite her, while trying to talk her out of letting him bite her, did nothing to reduce Buffy’s growing aggravation, though the action itself resulted in a rush of those aforementioned chemicals.  “If that means what I think it means . . . okay, yeah, but it doesn’t make me any less sure.”

Spike trailed his fingers up and down the column of her neck.  “They’re gonna see it.”

“Who said neck?” Buffy countered, though she hadn’t considered anything else.

“It’s neck or nothing.”

“Hair,” she answered, a hint of a smile on her lips as she demonstrated.  “Slayer healing.”

“Might hurt.”

“I’ll deal.”

Spike pushed her hair back again.  “They’re still gonna see it.”

“I don’t care,” Buffy replied, defiantly.

For a long moment, the two of them stared quietly at each other.  Spike seemed to be searching her face for something, and Buffy willed him to understand her intentions.  If she had to, she could maybe try to explain it, but it would simply be better if he got it without her words getting in the way.  He spent so much time in silent appraisal that she began to fear he would misunderstand and reject her offer.  Then, slowly, he nodded.

“All right, Buffy.”

A bright smile stole over her face.  “Really?”

Spike grinned in response.  “Yes, you ninny.”

Apprehension descended upon her instantly with the knowledge that they were actually going to do this.  She wasn’t going to rescind her offer; what this would mean to Spike, and to them , was more important than a bit of discomfort.  However, her past experiences with biting had been terribly painful, almost fatal, and so naturally the thought of giving an all-access pass to another vampire made her gut squirm and her common sense cry out in alarm.  She’d have been more concerned if she didn’t feel that way.  Strangely, this also seemed to alleviate some of Spike’s reluctance, and he smiled softly.

“I do get it, Buffy,” he told her, and she could see that he did.  “Thank you.”

He was tracing the contours of her face with his fingers, and Buffy let her eyes fall shut.  “How . . . how do we do this?”

“Gently,” he assured her, kissing her forehead.  “Get up for a sec.”

Buffy slid off his lap and stood while Spike repositioned himself, moving stiffly, against the back of the couch.  He leaned back into it and held out his arms.  Buffy moved toward him, and his hands found her waist.  His thumbs tucked under the hem of her shirt, brushing feather-light circles on the skin of her belly as he drew her into his lap.  The caress renewed the fluttering heat in her stomach, and settling against his erection again brought forth a surge of wetness between her legs.

“I think,” Spike whispered, as he moved her hair over her right shoulder, “you’re going to be surprised.”

“I’ve been bitten before,” Buffy replied, sighing softly when Spike began peppering kisses over her neck.

His answering chuckle sounded far too knowing.  “Not like this, love.”

“Like . . . ooh . . .”

The point of Spike’s tongue traced over the scars from her three previous bites, shooting unexpected but delightful tingles through her body.  Buffy gasped as the sensation washed over her, and dropped her forehead onto Spike’s shoulder.

“What . . . what are you doing?” she breathed, clutching at his arms as he continued following the contours of her scars, setting fire to her nerves as each pass of his tongue rippled heated waves over her skin.

The warmth in Spike’s rumbling laugh only added to the effect of his tongue.  “Just gettin’ you ready.”

“Yeah, but . . . oh God . . .” Buffy moaned softly as the latest flick of Spike’s tongue sent a burst of tingling heat straight to her clit.  The sensation intensified with the next pass, and Buffy released a shuddering breath.  “Ready . . . for what?”

Spike’s fingers had taken over for his tongue, and while former lacked the intensity of the latter, the attention was more than enough to keep her nerve endings sensitized.

“Nothing we haven’t already agreed upon,” he answered, voice tickling her inner ear and only adding to the incredible sensations.  “Much as I’ll regret that after you go.”

“Who says I’m leaving?”

Her words stalled his motions, fingers falling still against her neck.  “Buffy?”

The meaning he’d inferred behind her statement occurred to her immediately.  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t considered the possibility; she was both human and female and certainly well aware of what was happening between them.  As much as the idea of sex with Spike tempted her – how quickly things changed, indeed – tonight wasn’t going to be about that.  When that happened – resurrecting if at this point smacked of absurdity – it would be at a time when the words sacrifice or payment didn’t hover nearby waiting to destroy all meaning in it.  She wouldn’t have him wondering, when morning came, if she’d only slept with him out of gratitude.

“No,” she replied.  “Very much no.  I just thought . . . that I don’t want to go.”

Spike nuzzled his face into her neck, his hand sliding around to cradle the back of her head.  “Stay as long as you like.”

His tongue found her scars again and resumed its sensual caress.  Buffy sighed contentedly as the tingling ripples of sensation returned, building smoothly from where they left off and soon rendering her gasping for breath.  “God, Spike . . .” she groaned, fingers digging into his skin as she fought for control.  If she’d been standing, her knees would have given out, buckling beneath her and sending her crashing to the ground.  As it was, her entire body was trembling in not-quite-orgasmic bliss, and all he was doing was essentially kissing her neck.

“I take it nobody’s done this to you before,” he remarked casually, though she heard clearly the desire thickening his voice.

Nobody had.  Angel hadn’t stayed around after he’d bitten her, and now that she thought about it, the only time his mouth had strayed near the marks left on her by the Master was the night she’d given him her neck to save his life.  Parker, Mr. Just-Say-No-to-Extra-Curricular-Activities, beyond his initial query about the scars she bore during their night-to-forget, hadn’t bothered much with her neck at all.  Riley had devoutly avoided the scars, as though touching them meant subjecting himself to something tainted.  Buffy hadn’t known then, of course, the apparent power of vampire bite scars, but Riley’s pointed disdain and lack of understanding about something that was a part of her – even if she didn’t exactly harbour warm fuzzies for the Master or Dracula – had always been a sore point between them.  They never discussed it; it ended up just another issue left simmering in the background, one of many that had finally driven them apart.  That he had then gone and willingly got bitten, more than once, when her own history had so appalled him . . . it still bothered her more than she liked to consider.

“No,” Buffy answered belatedly, tilting her head further as Spike’s lips closed over the scars again.  “What . . . why . . .?”

“Funny thing about vamp bites, love,” Spike murmured.  “They don’t like to be forgotten.”

Buffy lifted her head from his shoulder to face him, hit immediately by the frank desire sparkling in his eye and the delighted little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “So if I . . .” 

Instead of finishing her thought, Buffy swept her tongue over the faded marks of Drusilla’s bite.  Spike shivered beneath her, his soft moan hovering in the air around them.  Buffy smiled against his neck, and tried a few more experimental licks that resulted in a wonderful rumbling from deep in his chest.  As Buffy continued her attention to his neck, Spike’s fingers drifted beneath the edge of her shirt, moving over the muscles of her abdomen, their exploratory touches stopping just shy of her breasts.  The eternal flame burning in her belly flared at the contact, making her doubt her earlier insistence about not allowing this to go further.  When she sucked at the scar, Spike’s thumb slipped purposefully upward, brushing over her hardened nipple through the lace of her bra.  Emboldened by his vigour and her own blazing arousal, Buffy bit down on the scar hard enough to leave the impression of her teeth in his flesh.  She had expected a reaction from him, but not the barely contained growl nor the urgent thrusting of his hips as he ground himself against her.

Both thumbs circled her breasts in widening spirals and his teeth fastened over her scars, jolting the sensation through her like lightening.  With his continued nibbling and bold caresses, and the throbbing heat between her legs steadily building into a rapturous crescendo, Buffy felt her resolve slipping away like proverbial dust in the wind. 

Blunt teeth raked over the scars as the vampire pressed forward again to grind against her, the rigidness of his erection and the roughness of the denim finding her aching clit through her own thin pants.  “How sure are you . . . about that no?”

She wasn’t, not entirely, and he certainly wasn’t making it easy to refuse him a second time.  Of their own volition, her fingers found his flat nipples, alternately circling and scratching over them with her fingernails.  The reasons behind her declination, despite her body’s attempts to subdue them, niggled at her brain, urging her to slow down before they started shedding clothing.

Reluctantly, she pulled away from Spike’s talented mouth, though not far enough to stop his fingers slipping beneath her bra to pinch her nipples.  “It’s not . . . the right time . . . Spike . . .”

He couldn’t hide the disappointment that clouded his eye, nor the hint of frustration that tugged his brows into a furrow.  Buffy reached up to cup his cheek, and he turned his face into her touch, breathing raggedly, searching her face intently.  “But you want this?”

Buffy sighed and nodded rapidly, looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes.  “God yes.”

“Still no?”

“Still,” she answered, though it hurt to do so with her body thrumming with arousal and crying out for release.  “You get why . . . right?”

Spike grumbled an affirmative while he slipped his hands from beneath her shirt, setting them on her thighs, fingers twitching subtly as though he were forcing himself to keep them still.  “Don’t wanna regret it in the morning?” he guessed, sounding both resigned and crushed all at once.

“No,” Buffy insisted, shaking her head and inching back a bit to better see his face.  She laced their fingers together and squeezed his hands.  “When it happens, I want it to mean something.”

The change in Spike was instantaneous.  The passion faded from his eye, replaced in a flash with first hurt, and then the arrogance she knew he used to hide his true feelings.  He ripped his hands free from her grasp and started to push her out of his lap, when understanding flooded Buffy’s momentarily startled mind.  She gripped the back of the couch to prevent her disposal onto the floor.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said, and it was enough to stop his act of shoving her away, though he continued to glare at her with barely concealed hurt.

“Funny,” he grunted.  “Sounded like you did.”

Buffy willed away her exasperation, knowing that it was entirely her fault.  She hadn’t meant to insinuate that sleeping with Spike wouldn’t mean anything to her; she had simply voiced aloud a portion of her inner monologue on the topic, forgetting that Spike wasn’t privy to the rest of it.

“I meant what I said,” she countered, “but what I said didn’t mean what you heard.”

“And what the bloody fuck is that supposed to mean?” he growled, grabbing her hips and tugging her hard against him.  “’Cause it sure sounded like tonight means nothing to you.”

“Spike, stop,” Buffy said, not trying to hide the slightly desperate tone in her voice.  “Just shut up for a minute and let me try and fix this.  You know I’m horrible with words.”

That reached him, and he released his just-shy-of-painful grip on her and tilted his head to indicate that she should continue.

“Everything I said earlier is true.  I don’t just say things like that, you know that . . . and tonight means so much more to me than I could even hope to find words for,” she began, making sure to look him in the eye as directly as she could while she spoke.  “I know you know how much I want you right now, but if you’re right, and this ends tonight, I don’t want you to think I had sex with you out of thanks or some sort of obligation.  I’m not that girl and I don’t wanna be.  When we do, there’s gonna be no doubt about what it means.”

Apparently, she’d said something right, because the anger melted away as quickly as it had appeared, and his arms tightened around her with gentle possessiveness.  “When , huh?” he queried, and off her answering nod, a hint of a smile brightened his face.

“When,” she confirmed, brushing her thumb over his lips.  “And I still want you to bite me.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Slayer,” Spike replied, kissing her thumb before leaning forward to brush her nose with his.

Buffy chuckled softly, glancing downward briefly before flashing him a smirk.  “You’re the one who’s hard.”

Spike’s amused huff tickled her neck as his teeth nipped their way back toward her scars, and he pressed the aforementioned hardness into her.  “Noticed that, did you?” he teased. 

Buffy’s responding laughter melted into a breathy moan with Spike’s first sharp bite to her scars.  “It’s kinda . . . hard not to.”

“Bloody wonderful, you are,” Spike murmured into her neck, more for his own benefit, Buffy sensed, than hers.  “Ready then, love?”

“Ready.”

Spike pulled is face away from her neck and directed her, with a finger on her chin, to look at him.  His demonic visage slipped smoothly into place.  The single yellow eye studying her should have held nothing but rage and bloodlust, but instead, respect and admiration shone through, mingled with countless other complex emotions that left no doubts in Buffy’s mind that the demon loved her just as much as the man.  Slowly, she brought her hand to his face, carefully feeling the contours of his rippled brow while his one open eye fell shut.  Buffy’s finger traveled down the outside of his eye, over his knife-sharp cheekbone to his mouth.  She dragged her index finger along the line of his bottom lip, then deliberately nicked it on a razor-sharp fang.  The resulting growl was more desirous than bloodthirsty, and Buffy’s heart thundered madly as Spike’s lips closed around her finger and sucked gently at the tiny wound.

Spike dropped his face into the right side of her neck, and Buffy held her breath, waiting.  When the only part of him to touch her was his tongue darting out to lick at the scars again, she let out the breath, wondering if he was trying to relax her so that when he did bite, she wasn’t tense.  When his fangs scraped over the old bite marks, she realized that relaxation was the last thing on his mind.  He might as well have raked his fangs over her clit for the incredible pleasure the action caused.  She clutched frantically at his arms and pressed into him as each tiny, stinging scratch ripped through her with ever-growing intensity.

“Spike . . .” she moaned, gasping as the unbelievable sensations left her trembling in his arms.  “God, what are you doing to me?”

“With any luck,” he purred, “makin’ you feel very good.”

Buffy laughed, the chuckle punctuated by frequent, sharp intakes of breath and concluded with a pleasured groan that left little doubts as to how good she felt.  She may have declined to have sex with Spike, but obviously this was going to become quite intimate anyway, and she couldn’t say that she minded. 

Spike scratched a stinging, tingling path of fire up the column of her neck, leaving behind her scars but not the sensations.  When he reached her ear, the fangs left her flesh and he blew a light stream of cool air into it.  “This side,” he whispered, tongue tracing the inner contour of her ear, “is theirs.”

He kissed his way across her throat, marking his path with miniscule scratches that barely broke the skin.  Buffy held her breath against the flood of sensation and the rush of anticipation, and Spike treated her left ear to the same caress before adding, “And this side’s mine.”

The hint of possessiveness in his tone touched the same hidden inner part of Buffy that had shattered her denial those hours ago and led her to return to Spike’s crypt.  Now not so hidden, this part of her thrummed with pleasure, thoroughly thrilled at the notion.  It had nothing at all to do with control, or being controlled; it was about belonging, and undoubtedly she belonged to Spike as much as he belonged to her.  This came to her as yet another fact she felt she somehow should have always known, neither shameful nor wrong, but rather so very, very right and positively glowing with potential. 

“Yours,” she agreed, leaning her head to the side and exposing her neck.

Gentle fingers brushed away her hair, and soft lips kissed a path downward from her ear.  When he reached his chosen spot, Spike sucked lightly at the skin and Buffy held her breath, feeling at once terrified and excited, heart pounding madly in her chest as she awaited his bite. 

Buffy gasped with the initial sharp sting as his fangs pierced her flesh and clutched harder at his arms, but as the sting faded into a pleasant burn, she relaxed her grip and dropped her head onto his shoulder.  Only his fangs had punctured her neck, and instead of the frenzied grip with his lower jaw, Spike’s lips alone fastened around the site.  The first, slow, sucking draw of blood coincided precisely with the first involuntary clenching of her inner muscles around a potent surge of sensation. 

“Oh my God . . .” she groaned, completely baffled as to how his actions at her neck could have such a powerful effect down below, but absolutely appreciative of it nonetheless.  Beneath her, Spike’s erection had grown impossibly hard, evidence of his own appreciation.

Buffy remembered Spike telling her that slayer blood was an aphrodisiac, but he’d said nothing about this.  This was unlike anything she had ever felt before, and only his fangs in her neck stopped her from throwing her head back and moaning in bliss.  The moaning happened anyway, and Spike rumbled in approval, fangs keeping the wounds open while he slowly drank.  It was painful in the same way as rough sex, Buffy thought.  It hurt some but the pleasure was greater, deepened by the hint of pain rather than dampened, and she didn’t need to touch herself to know she was dripping wet.  The ache between her legs was becoming almost too much to bear, each pull of blood surging like electricity straight to her clit.  Tentatively at first, Buffy began moving against him, her motions growing bolder as she sought the much-needed friction.

Obviously well aware of the effect of his bite, Spike’s hands found her hips and guided her motions so the bulge of his cock beneath his strained jeans struck precisely against her throbbing clit with each pass.  The pressure was building fast and powerfully, perpetuated by both the physical contact and the amazing sensation of his taking her blood.  The noises falling from her lips amidst gasping breaths mingled with Spike’s muffled groans into her neck, and their movements against each other grew more and more desperate.

The pleasure was exquisite, and Buffy’s whole body felt alive with sensation.  The points of contact between them not hampered by clothing – his fingers at her hips, her forehead on his shoulder and hands on his arms – burned with a buzzing, pulsating heat, more warmth than her body alone could produce.  Everything throbbed in time with her thundering heart and she suddenly couldn’t breathe fast enough.  She was lightheaded, bathed all over with invisible flames, trembling with need, and any moment she was going to . . .

“Oh God,” she panted, arching her hips against him.  “I’m gonna . . .”

Spike roared into her neck and slammed against her, strong fingers gripping her hips as he simultaneously pulled her hard toward him.  Buffy cried out in a strangled scream as the final, forceful thrust sent her over the edge, and the first crashing wave of her orgasm ripped through her.  Lightheadedness exploded into weightless euphoria as her body shook – sang – with blissful release.  Only Spike’s hold on her kept her in place.  She felt as though she could easily float away.

Spike’s tongue licked lovingly at the wounds on her neck as she slowly drifted back into herself, body still buzzing from the incredible intensity, twitching with tingling after-shocks spurred on by his gentle lavations.  Buffy’s chest heaved with deep, eager breaths and beneath her, Spike was breathing just as heavily.  She became aware, then, of the trembling in his hands, one slipped around behind her, the other cradling the back of her head.  Between them, wetness not entirely of her own making, and something about that knowledge left her deliriously giddy.

She smiled into his shoulder, and Spike placed a kiss over the marks he had made before resting his head against hers.  Buffy brought her left hand up and buried her fingers in his hair, and his chest rumbled with a beautifully contented sound she wanted to call purring .

“Wow,” she whispered, unable, at that moment, to find any word better suited to summing up what had happened between them.

“Bloody fantastic,” Spike replied.

They held each other for several quiet minutes, in which only the sounds of their breathing, slowly brought under control, and the soft crackling of the torches, pierced the silence of the subterranean chamber.  When Spike leaned his head back into the couch, Buffy lifted hers from his shoulder.  Back in human face, he looked about as bonelessly serene as she felt, lips turned up in a lazy, silly smile and his one open eye heavy and sparkling drunkenly with satisfaction. 

He moved his hands to cup her cheeks and kissed her softly, reverently, before breaking away to whisper, “You are so beautiful, and you don’t even know it, do you?”

She was saved from responding by another kiss, though his comment started her heart pounding all over again.  The kiss continued, moving quickly beyond the original gentle reverence, but lacking the desperation of their earlier kisses in favour of a more leisurely but equally passionate endeavour.  When they parted, Spike again smiled at her in that marginally goofy grin, though his right upper lip curled slightly in a more amused manner.  He shifted his hips, drawing Buffy’s attention to the quite literally sticky situation, and her own lip quirked as she caught onto the direction of his thoughts. 

“Got a bit of a mess, haven’t we?” he said, and she could see how hard he was trying not to plaster his face with his patented smirk.

Buffy chuckled, risking a glance downward.  “I, uh, assume you actually do own more than one pair of pants?”

He arched an eyebrow at that, but then tipped his head in the direction of the doorway.  “Assuming your legs are working,” he teased, smirking in response to her suddenly very flushed cheeks, “you’ll find ‘em in the dresser there.  And you might find us a blanket, too.”

Buffy eased herself out of his lap, discovering as she stood that, while her legs certainly worked, they felt wonderfully tremulous as she moved slowly and shakily across the room.  She quickly found the requested items and returned to sink gratefully back into the stationary softness of the couch, risking only the briefest of glances in Spike’s direction as he changed his jeans.  The highly amused vampire showed no such signs of bashfulness as Buffy tossed aside her shoes and peeled out of her own dampened pants – thank goodness she’d worn simple cotton panties – before quickly joining him beneath the blanket.

Spike shifted to lie on his right side as Buffy’s back met his chest, and he wrapped his left arm around her, tucking his hand beneath her and pulling her close.  His right arm settled beneath her neck, allowing her to pillow her head against his shoulder, then bending at the elbow to complete the embrace.  Buffy snuggled into him, drawing the blanket tightly around them both.  Suddenly completely exhausted, Buffy closed her eyes and found herself almost immediately fighting not to drift off to sleep.  An overwhelming sense of peacefulness covered her in warmth more tangible than the meagre blanket could provide.  Laughable, she would have said not three hours ago, that she could lie in the arms of her former enemy and feel safer than she ever remembered feeling before.  Part of it she could attribute to the usual, drowsy afterglow of an admittedly fabulous orgasm, but not entirely. 

She understood very little about this aspect of vampirism, hadn’t realized, in fact, that there could be more to biting than killing and feeding, though Riley’s actions now carried infinitely more significance in light of this new knowledge.  This wasn’t something council teachings had highlighted, biting for intimacy, for connection or pleasure.  She knew one thing for certain; she and Spike had shared something special, more intimate even than the mutual gratification and the actual drinking of blood, beyond definition, far greater than her expectations.  Spike had physically taken from her, but it felt to Buffy as though he had given her even more.  She had no words for it, bearing no tangible entity with which to compare, but whatever it was had deepened the growing bond between them.  Buffy’s hopes flared anew that with the light of morning, her experiences tonight would far outweigh the inevitable denial, allowing her the chance to see clearly beyond her own obstinate denial to the truths she knew in her heart.

Buffy sighed contentedly and burrowed herself deeper into Spike’s hold.  His own contentment reached her through the soft rumbling in his chest with each habitual breath he took.  Though she couldn’t be sure, without asking questions she didn’t know how to voice, how Spike felt about what had happened, his quiet peacefulness hinted that his feelings mirrored her own.

Spike nuzzled her neck and made a few quick, teasing passes with his tongue over the extremely sensitive bite, causing Buffy to shiver and Spike to tighten his arms around her.  “Goodnight, Buffy,” he whispered, kissing her temple before settling in behind her.

Buffy smiled tiredly, submitting finally to the weightlessness of pre-sleep.  She yawned and lay her hand atop his where it rested over her heart.  “Night, Spike.”

*~*

At some point during the night, Buffy had shifted her position to lie face-to-face with Spike.  She knew this immediately as she awoke, with his erection pressing into her thigh and his lips peppering kisses all over her face.  Spike knew the moment she reached wakefulness, for his lips quickly captured hers in a kiss both eager and heartbreaking.

Morning , Buffy realized, as she parted her lips, deepening the kiss that felt far too much like goodbye.

When they parted, Spike smiled weakly at her before moving slowly to sit up.  Buffy reluctantly pulled out of his embrace, her rested muscles screaming at her to stop! , lie back down and stay . . . just stay.  But she couldn’t, and they both knew it.

Buffy felt his eyes on her as she donned her soiled pants and fastened her boots, each second deepening the distance between them, though physically they were only inches apart.  He rose with her as she stood, and their eyes met, and Buffy’s knees threatened to buckle from the potency of his stare and the renewed spark of power, tapping in to the undeniable energy passing between them.  When he stepped forward, quickly despite the stiffness of his limbs, Buffy moved to meet him, her hands flattened against his chest as he gripped her arms and crashed his mouth to hers.

Fire , was Buffy’s only coherent thought, as Spike’s tongue drove past her lips with desperate fervency.  She was barely aware that they were moving, him guiding her slowly, haltingly backward, each shuffling step bringing her closer and closer to the ladder, and farther away from him.  They parted when her back met the cool concrete of the block, another blazing look passing between them as she turned to ascend into the upper level of the crypt.

Buffy extended him a hand as he came through the opening behind her.  The moment his feet found purchase, Spike used the connection to pull her to him again.  Buffy came willingly, a lump forming in her throat and her eyes misting with unshed tears as the finality of the kiss pierced through the dreamlike passion.  Morning had arrived, complete with the sunlight and shadows and all her real-world responsibilities.  Buffy felt torn between the reality of her duties and her overwhelming desire for the man in front of her, and pangs of potent, heart-wrenching grief attacked her soul.  Because she knew she had to go, out into the daylight and back to her life, where she was the Slayer and he was the demon, and Spike knew it, too.  Her tears fell with each step they took toward the door, wetting her cheeks and leaving behind their salty tang as a reminder of everything she was about to lose.

When her back hit the door, Buffy moaned a mournful sob, and tore her mouth from his to look directly into his own tearful gaze.

“Please,” she pleaded, fingers clutching at the skin of his chest, still warm from holding her through the night.  “No matter what happens, remember this . . . remember it, because I meant everything.”

“Buffy . . .” he sighed, dropping his forehead to meet hers.

“And don’t let me forget this,” Buffy added, fingers drifting to dry the tears on his face, trace the line of his lips.  “Please don’t let me forget.”

The desperation she felt when he kissed her again was nearly her undoing, but she held onto this final, parting caress, trying to tell him with her mouth everything she couldn’t say in words.  Spike opened the door, lips and tongue doing their best to burn the memory of this into her soul as he guided her slowly outside.  The light of morning touched their faces, but Spike held on, enduring a moment of hissing smoke before breaking away and drawing back into the safety of the doorway.

They stood, facing each other, just the two of them, divided by the line between light and shadow.  The line that once meant everything to Buffy.  The same line that suddenly ceased to matter.  Spike couldn’t cross it, but she knew now it was never his barrier.  It was always hers.

After a long moment, at once endless and yet over far too soon, Buffy and Spike shared a single, solemn nod.  Her vision blurred as she turned away and willed herself to start walking.  Buffy listened as she moved, but she didn’t hear the familiar sound of the crypt door creaking shut, and she knew that Spike remained in the darkened doorway, watching her walk away from him.  Away from them.  The urge to turn back was powerful, but she resisted, though each step in the direction of home twisted the stake imbedded in her heart.  If she turned back now, she wasn’t certain that she could leave again. 

She had left part of herself, her heart and her soul, behind with him, and the holes inside her that represented this splitting ached with loss, with grief.  Buffy only hoped it would be enough to sustain Spike until she could find her way back to him.  Until she could find the strength within herself to accept Spike into her existence as fully and completely as any of the others.  That time would come, maybe sooner than she realized.  Hopefully sooner than that.  But not now, and the knowledge threatened to break her in two.

As she walked away from Spike, memories flashed like a slideshow through her mind, of their night together, and the immensity of the raw, passionate love shining in his eyes as he looked at her.  Everything she thought she knew about the vampire had crumbled to dust, and she vowed, in that instant, not to forget.

The warmth of the sun touched her skin as she moved through the cemetery’s dewed grass, amongst headstones and statues that looked unfamiliar in the light of day.  Goosebumps pebbled the skin of her arms in the early morning breeze that filled the air with whispering promises of the certainty of more.  Despite her sorrow, despite the tears that streamed unchecked down her cheeks, Buffy’s lips curled up in a hint of a smile.  Because this wasn’t the end, not really.

This was just the beginning.

*~*