We fall into an easy rhythm over the next week. Spike and I, Giles, Dawn…even Mom once she comes home. I spend my days helping out around the house, spending as much time as I can with Dawn and Mom.
I spend my nights patrolling and sparring with Spike, meeting up with Giles occasionally to check on things.
I've noticed more and more that he's begun checking my neck for new bite marks.
He always looks comically relieved when he doesn't find one.
We still haven't told anyone what's going on.
There hasn't really been a reason to, or a good time. Once Mom was released from the hospital earlier in the week, I'd begun spending a majority of my time at home with her and Dawn. And if I hadn't been at home, I'd been at the Magic Box or the cemetery.
I've seen my friends less in the last month than I have since the summer I spent in L.A.
So apart from not finding a good reason to tell them, and not really having the time, I've also found that I don't really want to.
That I don't think it matters.
Not that it doesn't matter, because of course it does. But the longer I have to think about it, the more time I spend with Spike, the less it feels like what other people will think, or do, or say...matters.
That, and every time I've brought it up, Spike gets this weird, distant look on his face and I get a twisty feeling in my stomach.
The only one who know's there's anything going on at all, besides Giles, is Dawn.
And she actually knows more than he does at this point.
Including how difficult it's been over the past few days for us to keep things…platonic.
It gets more difficult by the day.
I know it's the connection, the fact that it hasn't been completed. It draws us to each other more powerfully each time we're even close to the same vicinity. And we have to be so careful when we are around each other. Barely touching, keeping our distance. The closest we get to one another is when we're sparring, and even then, what brief contact we make with each other is almost too much.
Giles had convinced us, a few nights back, that it would be prudent to wait until we could find out whether or not this was a phenomena that had ever happened before. There'd been nothing in his book to indicate that the theory was anything more than just that— a theory. Or that any other Slayer had ever been connected to a vampire the way I am.
He'd been determined to find out the answer to that question before anything moved any further.
Not that his say so is what's going to make the difference in the end. Spike and I have managed to keep our hands, mostly, to ourselves...apart from our sparring sessions…and even then, we'd had to call it quits an hour early a few nights ago.
And it's becoming dangerous. A distraction. Vamps that I've been able to easily take out in the past have given me more trouble lately. Spike had even had a close call earlier in the week.
He'd been fine in the end, but not without giving me a minor heart attack.
It had been armed with this knowledge that I'd found myself at the Magic Box, in the middle of the day, asking Giles if he'd take a couple hours to train with me.
I'd had it in my mind. Exactly what I was going to tell him, the argument I'd make. Everything I was going to say neatly filed away in my head, with bullet points and everything.
That Spike and I needed to just do it. Bite the bullet, complete the connection, and figure everything out afterwards.
I'd just finished wrapping my hands, stretching out my shoulders, rehearsing what it was I'd wanted to say, when he'd stepped through the training room door.
I'd turned to him, opened my mouth, prepared to just come right out and say it. Drop the bomb, so to speak.
But he'd dropped one on me, first.
The Council. The Watchers Council. The same Council that tried to have me killed.
Twice.
And he thinks they're the best people to help us? That they'd even try to? It doesn't make any sense to me.
And I've mentioned that to Giles more than once since I've been here.
"Alright, switch," he's saying now, planting his feet a little more firmly into the training room floor. "Left lead."
"I'm telling you," I say, my voice tense, obeying his instruction and switching my leading arm. I glare at him. "It's a bad idea."
My arm shoots out, a hard left jab that lands directly in the center of the mit Giles is holding out to me.
I watch him wince.
I haven't bothered to reign in my strength much at all. I'm not used to needing to.
Only a week, and I'm already completely spoiled by my nightly sessions with Spike.
Giles pulls his right hand back, shaking it out. He frowns down at me before extending both mits out again.
"The same way drinking the blood that Dracula offered you was a bad idea?" He asks, raising both his eyebrows at me.
I narrow my eyes slightly, throwing three more hard, insistent punches with my left hand.
"The difference being," I huff, slightly winded, and finish the last left handed jab. I drop my shoulder, aiming a hard right cross at the same mit for good measure. "I didn't know what was going to happen." I step back, reaching my arm up and wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead. "You know exactly what'll happen if Quentin Travers finds out about this."
Giles shakes his head, bringing both hands down. I can see him flexing the fingers of his right hand, expression clouded and uncomfortable.
I grimace.
I probably hadn't needed to throw that last cross.
"They're going to find out eventually, Buffy," he says sternly, matter-of-factly.
I just continue to frown at him, hands on my hips, waiting impatiently for him to be ready to keep training.
After a minute he nods, putting his hands back up in front of me to indicate he's ready to continue on. I step towards him and start alternating left and right punches.
A little lighter this time.
"Especially if this is all as rare as I believe it is—" Giles pauses, frowning. "I saw that coming," he says, eyebrow raised, inclining his head down toward my arm. "You're dropping your shoulder."
I feel the expression on my face darken.
He and Spike both.
I lean my head to the side, cracking my neck, and redouble my efforts. I try and concentrate on not dropping either of my shoulders, keeping both arms up and strong as my wrapped knuckles smash repeatedly into the worn out mits.
Giles seems unfazed as he keeps explaining his logic.
Stupid, Watchery, Watcher logic.
"The resources that the Watchers Council has at their disposal," he murmurs, eyes unfocused as he looks off behind my shoulder, "I mean the Central Library alone is just…"
I stop punching abruptly, stepping back from him again and furrowing my brow.
"Don't talk about the books again," I tell him, frowning. "You get all…" I gesture absently between the two of us. "And sometimes there's drool."
Giles rolls his eyes at me, but puts his hands back up for me to continue.
"I'm sorry," he says, sounding a little more out a breath now than he had a moment ago. I continue throwing punches. Left, left, left. "But we, we've really exhausted the materials I have here, and we're coming up empty." Right, left, right again. "You're, you're still...dropping your shoulder. I can see when you're gonna go with your right."
I grit my teeth, throw two hard right jabs in immediate succession.
Giles scolds me. "You're doing it again!"
I don't know whether I do it on purpose or not, but my hand slips. The last time I throw a right cross, putting nearly my full strength behind it, it misses the mit on his left hand and skids up, slamming hard into Giles's upper arm.
Oops.
"Ow!" He cries out, dropping his hands down and stepping away from me.
"Sorry!" I say, grimacing, backing away myself. "Sorry."
Giles gives me a look, a little like he doesn't quite believe me, but then he nods. But I have a feeling we're probably done for the day.
I bite down on my bottom lip, bringing my hands up in front of my face. I examine my knuckles. They're still a little banged up from where I'd caught myself on the side of a headstone the night before. Spike had been trying to teach me how to block one of his kicks, the one that's always given me the most trouble, and in the process I'd done my fair share of flying into various objects around the cemetery.
"Keep your head up, pet," he tells me, holding his hand out for me to take, yanking me back onto my feet.
I frown at him, letting go of his hand as quickly as possible, dusting the knees of my jeans off.
"If I keep my head up," I explain to him, drawing the words out, "you're going to kick me in the face."
Spike chuckles, the sound shooting tingles down my back. He steps back, appraising me openly, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips.
"And if you're never worried that I am going to kick you in the face," he reminds me, a smug expression on his face, folding his arms over his chest. "You'll never learn how to block it."
I fold my own arms over my chest, pursing my lips and raising both my eyebrows.
He sighs.
"Just give it one more go, yeah?" He asks, dropping his arms down. He plants his hands on his hips, and his lips quirk up into a full blown smirk. "If I'm still kicking your ass after that, we'll call it a night."
My eyes shoot directly to his mouth. The air suddenly grows tense between us, palpable. I watch from where I'm standing, see the slow curve of his lips fade away.
When I force my eyes back to his, they're dark. Hungry.
Not good.
I quickly tear my gaze away from his, clearing my throat and rolling my eyes up to the sky.
"Fine," I grumble, forcing my voice to stay steady. "But let me state for the record that I hate you."
But there's no venom, not even the tiniest hint of truth in the words when I say them
I unfold my arms, rolling my shoulders back and dropping down into a defensive position. When I look back at Spike, his eyes are bright. Still dark, but shining at me through the darkness.
He's smirking again.
I watch numbly as Spike tilts his head to the side and murmurs, "No, you don't."
I close my eyes, thinking about the moment that had passed between us. The same one that's passed between us once, sometimes twice a night, every night for a week.
That look of pure, naked want in his eyes. In mine, too, probably.
The connection between us is going to keep pulling, clawing at us, pushing us toward each other until it's been completed. There's no way around it.
And even if there was, I don't think I'd want to take it.
I open my eyes and blink, refocusing on Giles. He's staring at me, eyebrow raised.
I clear my throat.
"So," I say, looking back down at my knuckles, reaching my right hand up to fiddle with the frayed edges of the wrap around my left. "If I do agree to this, to…you talking to the Council." I shift my eyes back up to his. "I'm the only thing you're going to talk about, right?"
I don't trust the Council. Have absolutely zero reason to.
But that doesn't mean I don't understand why Giles thinks they're our next best option here, in terms of resources. And if they do know something about what's happening with me, what it means, how it'll affect both my life and Spike's…well, that's something that might be worth knowing.
And the sooner we find out if they do know something, the better.
I'm not sure how much longer we can hold out. How much longer I can hold out.
Giles removes the mits covering his hands, dropping them down onto the padded bench behind him and reaching for a towel. "Let's take a break," he murmurs, picking up the towel and mopping his brow with it.
Avoiding my question.
My stomach drops.
"Answer me," I say, my voice dropping down lower, more urgent.
Giles steps around the punching bag, dropping down onto the bench and looking up at me with warm, earnest eyes.
"I'm not going to mention Spike's name, if that's what you're asking," he says, removing his glasses with one hand, swiping the towel once more down his face with the other. "The situation is…" He pauses, exhaling. "...complex enough without adding William the Bloody on top of everything else."
The anxiety threading through my chest eases just a little. I start to unwrap my hands, stepping over the mats and dropping down onto the bench beside Giles.
My eyes are down, focused on my hands.
"But you're gonna tell them about the theory?" I ask, my voice much quieter, gentler now. "About what I did." I reluctantly shift my eyes up toward his. "That I'm…that I'm connected to a vampire."
Giles angles his body slightly more toward mine, throwing the towel over his shoulder and putting his glasses back on.
He sighs.
"I don't see how I can ask them for their resources and never divulge the reason I'm asking," he explains gently, searching my eyes with his steel grey ones.
"I know," I mumble, balling the black wraps up in my hand and squeezing them. I drop my eyes back down to my lap. "It's just I trust these Watchers about as far as…" I pause, glancing up at him again. "...you could throw them."
Less than that, even, if I'm being completely honest.
I still haven't forgotten what happened when everything with Faith went down last year, and again the year before that. Wesley, and the whole threatening Angel thing.
And that was so much different than what's happening now. So much…less.
Giles gives me a look, a little ruffled by my comment. "Thank you very much."
I sigh, leaning my back into the wall behind me.
"I'm just freaked about the idea of giving them any information that could make them come after him, or something." I look away from Giles, not wanting to see the disappointed look he's probably giving me now.
I'm giving away the extent of my feelings for Spike, and I know it.
But if the choice is between trying to keep those a secret or keeping him well away from the scary guys in tweed, I'll take option two.
"They already don't like me," I continue quietly, still looking into my lap. "And they don't think a whole lot of you…"
Beside me, I feel Giles stiffen. When he speaks again, his voice is much softer. It's very different from the stern, semi-disappointed tone I've been hearing all week.
"Truly, Buffy," he says, and I turn to look up at him. His eyes are down now, and he shakes his head. "If I saw an alternative…"
"I know," I say, cutting him off. He looks at me, and I force a small smile. "I know, it's just…" I chew the inside of my cheek, brow furrowing, "maybe we should...wait."
"Wait?" he asks, sounding suddenly wary.
Like it isn't actually a question.
Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"Well, yeah," I say, letting my head loll back against the wall, turning my face toward him. "You know…just until…everything's…" I shrug casually, "finalized."
Or until forever, I think. Forever's good.
Giles nods, his eyes down, leaning forward to brace his arms over his legs. "You mean after the claim is completed."
And there's that disappointment, again. I knew it couldn't have gone far.
I sigh, turning my eyes up to the ceiling. "It's going to happen one way or another, Giles."
And it's true. It is.
It's a feeling as inevitable as anything else. It's settled itself down deep in my bones, as much apart of me as knowing the sun is going to rise.
Not that I understand everything that it means, everything that's going to happen afterwards. I just know it's going to happen.
Giles though I think is still clinging to the notion that it might not have to.
"And you think it wise to wait until the connection is fully complete before we find out if there's any additional information we might need?" He asks, the tone of his voice leaving no room for interpretation as to what he thinks is the right move here.
It's a little softer than it had been a moment ago, though.
I glance up at him, feeling a little weighed down. Almost torn.
I know Giles hates the idea of me being connected in any way with Spike, let alone knowing that there's going to be a claim involved. I know he hates it, and yet he's tried, sort of, to be as supportive as he can be of it all.
If he thinks we should wait, see what other information might turn up, I know he's just doing it for my own good. What he thinks of as being for my own good.
But he doesn't know. Can't know. Hasn't felt what I have, hasn't experienced the tiny jolts of pulsing electricity that shoot through me any time Spike even just casually touches my bare skin. The look in his eyes when I catch him staring at me.
Demon driven or not, the connection between us is real, and powerful.
And won't be satisfied until it's been completed.
When I don't make a move to respond to him, he nods and leans back into the wall. His eyes are still on my face.
"Buffy, I realize you're…you're concerned about Spike," he emphasizes the word with a little disdain, like he doesn't understand it. It makes my chest tighten again. "But this just isn't something I feel you should be rushing in to without gathering all the information first."
Giles shakes his head, turning his eyes away from my face and glancing toward the far corner of the room, to the stack of books we've spent the last week pouring over. "As far as we know, this sort of thing hasn't ever happened before." When he looks back at me, his eyes are serious, the line around his mouth grim. "We still don't know exactly what we're dealing with."
It's nothing new, this line of thinking. I've heard it from him so many times now I think I could recite it back, word for word.
So I don't know why hearing it now, why listening to it this time, is enough to make something inside me snap.
I make a huffing, exasperated noise and push myself up to my feet, crossing my arms and turning back around to face him.
"We do, though," I shout, frustrated, my cheeks flaming hot.
I pause as soon of the words are out of my mouth, closing my eyes and squeezing my hands into fists.
I'm kicking myself for letting my volume get out of control. I know for sure at least Xander and Anya are outside in the shop, and the last thing I want right now is for them to hear any of this.
I take a deep, shaky inhale and exhale through my nose, eyes fluttering open again.
"It's been a week, Giles," I tell him, my voice still strained, tense, but much quieter this time. "A week of non-stop research and patrolling and sparring and we know, we know, what's happening." I turn away from him, taking a few steps toward the books on the table before stopping and whirling back around. "We know what's supposed to happen next."
Giles opens his mouth to say something, to argue with me, but I hold a hand out to stop him before he can, shaking my head. "And whether you or the stupid Council or…" I gesture with one hand back toward the main shop space, "anybody else approves of it or not doesn't really matter."
I'm not sure if it's what I've said, or if it's the way I've said it. Maybe it's just the look on my face. Whatever it is, I don't really care.
I watch Giles visibly soften, the thin line of his lips relaxing as he searches my face.
Finally, he nods. He isn't conceding to me, isn't telling me that I'm right. But he's dropping it for now, and that's about all I can expect.
He puts his hands down on the bench and pushes himself up. "Have you told any of the others yet?"
I fold my arms tighter across my chest, shaking my head.
"No," I murmur, looking back toward the closed door. Very faintly I can hear the sound of the little bell chiming on the top of the door, of Anya's too-cheery voice as she greets another customer. "Not yet."
Giles considers this, nodding his head and glancing in the direction of the door, as well. It's quiet for a moment.
"Let me just…talk to the Council, Buffy. Just a phone call," he says, his voice low. At the look on my face, he steps closer to me. "You have my word, I'll be as vague as I can."
I look at him, scanning his face, halfway making the decision in my head as I do. It isn't that I don't trust Giles, or that I don't understand why he's so concerned.
That I don't get that he only wants to make the decisions he feels are best for me.
The only problem with this, I'm realizing now, is that I don't think he really knows everything that's best for me anymore.
Finally, after what feels like a very pregnant pause, I manage a small nod.
"Okay," I agree softly, hoping that I'm not making a huge mistake.
My head is a little clearer, the knot in my stomach a little less tight by the time I arrive home. The walk home had been good for me. Allowed me to spend some time alone with just my thoughts, file everything around, shake off the wig factor that had crawled itself into my head and stuck there ever since Giles had mentioned the Council.
I still don't love the idea of him talking to them, even if all he's going to mention is me and the whole Dracula blood thing. But the more I think about it, the less daunting it seems.
Like the telling of the rest of the Scoobies, the longer I think about it, the less it seems to matter.
I know as soon as I step through the front door that Dawn's ordered pizza. Pepperoni, if my nose is on target.
It smells incredible.
I stop off in the kitchen and grab a cold slice out of the fridge, not bothering to heat it up before heading up the stairs.
There's soft music drifting to me from Dawn's cracked bedroom door. I glance in as I pass by. She's lying on her stomach, an open notebook spread out in front of her. Another journal, probably. It's almost all she spends her time doing lately.
I caught her writing about me and Spike the other night, sharing a few choice details in her pages that I hadn't found exactly kosher.
And in true Dawn fashion, she hadn't been embarrassed or apologetic in the least.
She still doesn't know everything that's happened between Spike and I, obviously. I'd kept very strategic parts of the story to myself when I'd finished telling it all to her.
But what she does know is damning enough.
Including comments about the "giant hickie" Spike had supposedly left on my neck last week.
She doesn't seem to notice me standing in her doorway now, and I don't really want to bug her, so I finish the last couple bites of my pizza and continue down the hall to Mom's room.
The first thing I notice when I walk in is that the door is wide open. Her door hasn't been wide open all week.
The second thing I notice is her favorite fuzzy blue bathrobe, discarded in a pile on top of her bed. Which has been made.
I frown, a little confused, and glance around the room. Mom appears a couple seconds later, moving out of the bathroom and out into the bigger space of her bedroom.
She's fully dressed, a brand new scarf tied around her head, and possibly even a little makeup on her face?
Or maybe she just finally has color back in her cheeks.
Either way, I can't help the bright, wide smile that splits across my face when I see her.
"You," I say, my voice light, teasing. "You with the actual clothing, who are you?"
Mom gives me a look, something between a real smile and a look of genuine embarrassment. I toss her a playful wink and turn around, calling through the open crack of the door that connects Mom's bedroom to Dawn's.
"Dawn," I shout softly, a smile in my voice, "come look at this."
I turn back toward Mom and she's really smiling now, her hands resting lightly on her hips.
"It's hard to recognize me, huh?" she asks, gesturing to her clothes.
It's meant as a joke, but it actually kind of is. It feels like its been ages since I've seen her wearing anything other than a hospital gown or that blue robe. Even when she'd been home, those couple days before surgery, she'd never really gotten dressed. Unless sweat pants and an old t-shirt count as being "dressed". The way she looks now, the real clothes and the hair done, the bright color in her cheeks and her eyes. It's all Mom.
All Joyce Summers.
The last of the knot in my stomach melts away as I grin at her.
Behind me, I hear the door creak open as Dawn pokes her way into the room.
"Whoa," she says appreciatively, a teasing quality to her own voice. She glances at me, and I fold my arms over my chest.
"No more bathrobe," I say proudly, and we both smile and turn to look back at our mother.
Mom nods, still looking just a little sheepish. "I looked at it today, and there it was," she looks down at the pile of robe on her bed, making a face at it, "all fuzzy and blue, and I just…" she sighs, turning to look back at Dawn and I, "couldn't stand it any more."
I grin at her, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "I don't think the rest of us will miss it much either."
Beside me, Dawn makes a little teasing noise of agreement. "It was getting a little ripe, Mom."
I mock frown, thinking it over in my head. I turn toward my sister.
"Maybe we should burn it."
Dawn nods, looking thoughtful.
"It would keep the bugs away."
Mom makes an indignant noise, drawing both of our eyes back to her. I can see the corners of her lips are curved up in a smile.
"It doesn't smell," she insists, looking back and forth between the two of us. I raise an eyebrow at her, and Dawn just smirks a little beside me, folding her own arms up over her chest.
"Fine, fine," Mom chides us laughingly, her eyes bright as she holds both her hands palm up in front of her. "Make your funny jokes at the expense of the woman with the hole in her skull."
She turns away from us, walking over to the far side of her bed and sitting down. She leans back into the pillows, giving both of us a look.
I smile at her, nodding an unspoken understanding.
"Let's go," I say, turning toward Dawn, my voice softer. "I think we've tired her out."
Mom watches both of us leave with a smile on her lips, but I don't miss it when she gives a little tired sigh once we've cleared her doorway.
She's still tired, I know. Still working hard to recover from the surgery. She's actually doing better than I'd even expected.
I wander down the hallway and pad into my bedroom, grabbing up a magazine and settling down on my bed. The sun is just about to set, which means I have a little while before I really need to leave for patrol.
Which means I have a little while to finish settling my nerves, getting all the whirling thoughts in my head to calm down.
I don't look up when I sense Dawn standing in my doorway, just keep my eyes down, only half seeing the pictures on the glossy pages before me.
"Whatcha doin'?" She asks, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that she's leaning on the door jamb.
The corners of my lips quirk up, but I keep my eyes down. "Playing soccer."
Dawn takes a step further into the room, fidgeting with her hands a little bit in front of her. "Can I hang out in here?"
It's funny, she doesn't normally ask.
In fact, over the past few days, she's been waiting here for me when I've returned home from patrol, or sparring with Spike. Sometimes she's already asleep, so I just let her rest beside me in my bed. Other nights she's still awake, hoping for a new development to write about in her journal before returning to her own room to sleep.
I put on a show like it annoys me, but it's only that. A show. We both know I don't mind. Actually, it's been really nice. Having someone to talk to about it all.
Even if I don't share absolutely everything.
"Don't touch anything," I murmur teasingly, and I do look up at her now, giving her a wry smile.
She smiles back, walking further into the room and stopping in front of my vanity mirror.
"No pictures of Spike yet," she murmurs, eyes raking around the frame of the mirror, taking in the various photographs along the edges.
I glance up from my magazine, both eyebrows raised. She turns to look at me, rolling her eyes whens he sees the expression on my face.
"Well you had pictures of Riley," she explains, turning toward me and crossing her arms. She raises her eyebrows to mimic mine. "And Angel."
She's been doing this all week. Dropping subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, hints to me about me and Spike. About our "relationship." And no matter how many times I try and explain that the thing that's between us is different than your average, run-of-the-mill, I like you and you like me type thing...she either doesn't hear me, or just doesn't care.
Not to say that whatever's between us is less than any of the relationships I've ever had...it's just different. More, maybe, when I actually take the time to think about it.
Which tends to sort of wig me out, so I don't do it a lot. I'm happier being action girl.
I sigh, biting down on my bottom lip and closing the magazine. I shake my head, searching her eyes with mine. "It's not really the same thing."
Dawn nods knowingly.
"No," she agrees, crossing the room and plopping down onto the edge of my bed. "It's way bigger."
I raise my eyebrows again, deciding to ignore the notion for now that's she's basically echoing the thoughts I've been having all week. "It's way complicated."
Dawn shrugs. "Not really."
She says it quickly, breezily. Like it's the only possible truth.
Not really.
"How you figure?" I ask, fighting to keep my expression neutral. My lips want desperately to curve up into a smile, listening to her talk about it. Her fourteen year old brain rationalizing it in a way I don't mind ever could have.
I watch as my sister leans back on her elbows, getting comfortable. She turns wide, blue eyes on me.
"You guys are already connected," she explains, dropping her voice down a little lower. Probably an effort to be disrupt, but I'm pretty sure Mom isn't listening anyway. "You've got the emotional stuff and the physical stuff…and that all happened on it's own." She considers what it is she's just said, what she wants to say next. Her eyes drop down to the comforter, then slowly back up to mine. Her brow furrows. "You don't think this is gonna happen on it's own eventually, too?"
No, I think dryly, still fighting to remain impassive, I know it will.
She hasn't told me anything new, nothing she hasn't pretty much expressed to me before. Nothing I haven't already thought myself, probably more than once. That it's no longer really a question of if, but a question of when.
And that when keeps getting moved up.
I don't say any of this, though.
Instead, I sigh, shifting slightly on the bed and say "Eventually could be years from now, Dawnie."
Her eyes go comically wide and she sits up straight. "You're gonna wait years?"
Dawn's voice is louder than I think she's meant for it to be.
"No," I assure her quickly, putting my hand out to remind her to keep her voice down. She nods sheepishly. "We're not…gonna wait years." I pause, thinking over the conversation I'd had with Giles this afternoon. I tilt my head to the side, eyeing my little sister.
"Giles does want us to wait, though," I tell her, leaning back into the pillows. "At least until we figure some stuff out."
Dawn shakes her head, leaning back onto the mattress again. Her eyes travel back toward the mirror of my vanity.
"I guess I don't see what the big deal is," she says.
And there's the issue. Dawn makes for a great sounding board, and honestly, she's pretty much been on my side through everything I've told her about all this.
But it's moments like these when I remember how young she is. She's so smart, and super perceptive, but she's only fourteen. And still my little sister.
And has no idea what the "big deal" is about her older sister, who's the Slayer, being mated to a Master Vampire.
Although, I guess that that can be partially blamed on me. I'd never fully explained to her what it is that a claim actually does.
I'm still not sure I understand all of it myself.
"It's a really big deal, Dawn," I say, sliding the magazine off my lap and looking down, playing with the hem of my shirt. "Huge. Huge, big…" I close my eyes, open them again and look at her, "massive deal."
She turns her face toward me, eyebrow corners of her lips are turned down. "How big?"
It's a loaded question, whether she realizes it or not. And there are so many possible answers.
Life changing big. Potentially really dangerous big. Impossible to wrap your head around big.
I settle on the one that I feel carries the most weight.
"Forever kind of big."
Her eyes go wide again, her voice much softer as she repeats the word. "Forever?"
I nod, wrapping my arms around my waist. "Spike said it's…like marriage…" I shrug. "Except forever."
"Oh," she says softly, blinking at me.
"Yeah," I say, exhaling the word on a sigh and turning to look out my bedroom window. "Exactly. It's not as simple as–"
Dawn cuts me off abruptly, her brain already half way down a completely different train of thought.
"So Spike's gonna be like…" She trails off, searching for the right word. Her eyes light up. "My brother-in-law?" She looks at me with wide eyes, her voice pitching higher with something that sounds an awful lot like excitement.
And it's funny, but the excitement in her voice is a little bit contagious.
Even with the whole forever thing looming over my head.
"Really?" I ask, trying to hide the smile threatening to curve my lips now. "That's what you're taking from all this?"
Dawn ignores me, unfazed, and shifts around to fully face me. "Do you love him?"
I freeze, staring at her. My smile falls.
Do you love him?
It's a question I've found myself asking every once and a while over the last week. More and more often, ever since the night I first slipped and mentioned it out loud.
Each time I do, I come up short. I don't have an answer.
Even if I did, there's been this niggle in the back of my mind, asking if whatever I do feel for the bleached vampire might only be part of the connection. That any emotional ties, any feelings I have or him, come along with everything else.
And then I'd had to wander down the path of "just because it's a side effect of the connection, does that mean it isn't real?" Which had only left with more questions instead of giving me the one answer.
I'd been actively avoiding the question ever since.
I don't think I can avoid it now, though. And Dawn's looking up at me with her wide eyes, such an innocent, hopeful expression, and I want nothing more in this moment than to be able to just be honest with her.
Be honest with her, and protect her, and shelter her from the truth all at once.
To find a way to explain to her that she's asked me a simple yes or no question. And that there is no simple yes or no answer.
That life isn't easy like that.
My life especially.
I take a deep breath and exhale through rounded lips.
"I don't know," I say softly, meeting her eyes once again with mine. "I have feelings for him." I nod, smiling just a little. "I do. And they're…they're strong."
I turn away from her again, thinking about what it is I want to say next. How much of the truth I'm going to reveal.
To her, and to myself.
I have feelings for Spike. Strong feelings. Strong, urgent, primal feelings that scare me, make me feel like I'm not in control. That feel all at once like they just sprang up out of nowhere and like they've been lying dormant inside me my entire life all at the same time.
It's more than even I can understand, let alone expect Dawn to.
I turn my gaze back to hers and sigh, settling on the simplest version of the truth that I can find.
"But I don't quite understand them."
Dawn seems to consider this for a minute, her big eyes never leaving mine. Finally, she pushes herself up until she's sitting straight, and she shrugs.
"Maybe that's okay," she says simply.
The words hit me hard.
I've spent so much time trying to analyze how I feel, then trying not to analyze how I feel, that I haven't taken the time to really consider that maybe it isn't something that has to be figured out. That it might be something that just has to happen on it's own.
I look at my little sister and smile, giving her a small nod.
"Yeah," I murmur, the smile falling slightly as I turn to glance back out my bedroom window.
The sun is down now, the sky growing darker by the minute. I lean forward slightly, looking for the telltale plume of curling smoke that tells me Spike's outside, waiting for me.
The way he has been every night this week.
I see it, and I sigh, feeling the tension in my shoulders relax just a little bit.
I turn back to Dawn, reaching out to squeeze her arm lightly. "Maybe it is."
We make a quick sweep through the cemeteries, not doing much talking, hurrying to get through the task at hand so we can end the night in Restfield with a sparring session, in the open patch of overgrown grass directly outside of his crypt.
Again, the same way we have every night this week.
Unfortunately, there's quite a bit more to deal with tonight than there has been recently. There's the usual fledgling or two, but there's also a Fyarl demon that I vaguely recognize from the little fiasco we had with Giles last year. It goes down harder than I remember, It's only because Spike has that silver knife on him that we're even able to take care of it.
I'm glad he'd remembered, because my head had been somewhere else entirely and I don't think I would have.
We come across another nest, too. Not a big one, only three weakfish female vamps, but enough to keep us busy for the better part of half an hour.
And throughout it all, through every cemetery, the only thing I feel is him. The rhythm of his body alongside mine. The steady, even in and out of his breathing. The tension he carries in his shoulders when he throws his punches. Deadly and wild and graceful all at once.
I feel his eyes on me as I move, too. Spinning and swinging and landing practiced, expert kicks in time with his.
It only get's stronger once we find ourselves alone again.
"So," Spike begins, aiming a kick that would land square against my jaw if I didn't duck out of the way. "How'd things go with your mum today?"
"Good," I reply, sending a hard left jab out toward his stomach.
He blocks me easily.
"Really good, I think." I duck his left handed hook, swinging back toward him with a right handed cross.
He counters my strike with one of his own, spinning around and narrowly missing landing a knee to my ribs.
I dodge it just in time.
"Yeah?" He asks, sounding a little out of breath as he spins back around and drops into defensive position.
I nod, racing toward him, delivering a series of three different kicks.
"She put on real clothes today," I say as my heel connects with his stomach. He blocks my kick to his chest, and I end with a sweeping fan kick over his head that he's able to duck smoothly.
Mostly because I intentionally aim it high.
"You don't say," Spike murmurs, watching me carefully, eyes glittering at me through the darkness. Trying to decide which way it is I'm going to go next.
I decide to feint to the left and go right instead as I say, "Yep."
Spike grins, moving forward into my advance.
"Brilliant," he says, then brings his hand up, wrapping it around my wrist and stopping the jab I've just thrown before it can reach his chin. "You're still dropping your shoulder."
I glare at him, and he smirks at me, using his grip on my wrist to spin me around and pull me back against him.
I grit my teeth, the muscle in my jaw clenching.
"Oh, my God," I groan, bringing my elbow back into his ribs. He makes a noise, something between a gasp and chuckle, and lets me go immediately. I whirl around to face him. "You can keep telling me that as many times as you want, it's just the way I fight," I say, breathless, my chest heaving.
Spike narrows his eyes at me and leans back on his heels, the mirth from a moment ago fading just slightly. "Yeah, and the way you fight?" He puts his hands on his hips. "Gonna get you bloody killed one day."
I frown, taking a moment to shake my hands out. "It's not a big deal."
Spike scoffs, stretching his own shoulder out and fixing me with a hard look.
"It's a tell," he corrects me, dropping his arm back down, brow furrowing. "And a big one."
I shake my head, tilting it to the side.
I wonder what he'd say if he knew I was intentionally dropping my shoulder just so we'd have this argument again. Something in me revels in it, I think. Watching his eyes narrow, feeling the wash of frustration, coupled with intense anxiety, roll over him when I do it.
Because he thinks it's dangerous.
Because he's worried about me.
The thought has a different kind of warmth feathering through my chest than the heat that's already winding its way through my veins, flushing my skin from the faux fight.
I pop one hip out and cross my arms, the expression on my face growing more challenging than frustrated. "I always managed to beat you."
Spike tilts his head to the side and smirks at me. "Not the way I remember it."
"Yeah?" I ask, keeping my eyes glued to his as he slowly begins to approach me. "How do you remember it?"
He shakes his head, stepping up into my space.
For a moment, just a moment, I think he's going to lean in and kiss me.
He doesn't.
Instead, he moves slightly to the side and reaches down for my arm. I watch, frowning slightly as he pulls it away from where I've crossed it over my chest, extending it straight out in front of me.
"I seem to recall a certain Slayer's mum havin' to come to her rescue," he murmurs, raising my arm up a little higher, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around my wrist and using his other hand to press down into my shoulder.
They aren't touching my bare skin. Each of his hands is only touching my coat. And still I can feel it, the pull toward him, the weight of his touch through two layers of fabric. The scent of leather and smoke filling my senses.
I swallow.
"That was only the one time," I murmur back, my eyes locked on his face, his eyes focused on the hand on my shoulder.
"Still," he says, seemingly satisfied with the placement of my arm, slipping his fingers back from my wrist to ball my hand into a fist. His skin glides over mine, and his eyes flash when he looks back into my face. "Point goes to the vamp."
I catch myself leaning slightly toward him, but he lets go of my arm suddenly and steps back. I quickly drop my arm back down to my side, my fingers tingling, itching slightly, still balled into a fist.
"There," Spike says, his voice rougher now than it had been a moment ago. He steps over so he's directly in front of me. "Now hit me."
I don't hesitate.
I immediately bring my arm back up, shoulder perfectly level as I throw a cross at him. Spike steps out of the, turning toward the punch and catching it, my fist, in the palm of his hand. He glances down and nods, then looks back up and smirks at me.
"Better," he says, and we stare at each other as he brushes his thumb over the side of my knuckles. The smooth texture of his skin is cool against mine, the simple gesture sending sparks shooting down my arm.
And here it is. That moment, the one where the feel of his bare skin sends little electric shocks through my body, where the pull I feel toward him seems to intensify ten-fold.
I look at him, and sure enough, his eyes have gone dark.
From somewhere over to our left, thunder rolls.
"I don't think you should get a point for that night," I tell him quietly, changing the subject back to our conversation from before. I pull my hand out of his grip and drop it down to my side.
He lets his hand fall to his side, too. His eyes never leave my face.
"If Joyce hadn't hit me with that axe," he says softly, and I'm majorly aware of how close we are to each other. How easy it would be for me to lean up and press my lips to his. "You'd 've been as good as mine."
His eyes flash hungrily as he says it.
Mine.
It's the possessive tone in his voice that has me doing it. Moving closer to him, slowly filling in the already tiny space between us.
Thunder rolls again.
I look up into his face, searching his stormy eyes with mine. "You would have killed me."
I don't ask. It isn't a question. It isn't even an accusation.
It's a simple statement.
Spike doesn't look away from me. Doesn't back down. If anything, he moves almost imperceptibly closer.
When he speaks again, it's in that same low, impossibly soft voice. Smooth and sweet and dangerous all at once.
"I would've," he agrees, nodding just once. Our noses are almost touching. "Yeah."
I feel my mouth run dry. The way he's looking at me now, the intensity in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, it's almost enough to make me look away.
But then he reaches for me. Putting his hand on my face, forcing my eyes to stay locked on his.
He just looks at me, shaking his head, the pad of his thumb brushing over the swell of my bottom lip. "And sod all if I wouldn't have hated myself for it."
I swallow hard, finding my voice again. "Now?"
"Now," Spike murmurs, shaking his head even though it sounds like he's agreeing. "Then." If it's possible, his eyes pin me with even more intensity than before, and his voice drops impossibly low.
And when he says it, it's almost as though he seems surprised.
"Can't imagine a world without you in it."
The breath catches in my lungs, skin flaming beneath his touch, body desperately trying to lean into him. What he's said is different, so different from where we started all those months ago.
Take me out of a world that has you in it.
His words in my dream, different and the same. Words that had haunted me for weeks seem so hollow now, distant compared to the real thing.
I open my mouth to speak, I think. To say something. But I don't know what, and don't want to risk ruining the moment. So I shut it again, leaning my cheek a little more firmly into his hand.
Spike brings his other hand up now. His thumb slowly gliding along the right side of my jawline, cool fingers reaching around to cup the back of my neck.
"As bloody infuriating as you were," he whispers, his eyes mapping my face, slowly falling to my lips. "As many times as you mucked things up for me, think I always knew…"
I'm breathless, mesmerized. Wholly and completely taken in by him as I feel his body move closer once more, the pressure of him as he leans into me. And I can already taste him, his scent, the flavor of his lips carried to me in the air that's beginning to smell like rain. His mouth is only millimeters from mine.
And he says, "This was always going to happen."
Just as I whisper, "It was always going to be you."
There's a pause, a brief moment where we wait like this. Completely still. Eyes locked, lips almost touching. Knowing that our next move, whichever one of us makes it and whatever it is, is going to change everything.
And then he closes the distance between us and covers my mouth with his, and the world falls away. It isn't the first time he's kissed me. It isn't even the first time he's kissed me this week. But for everything it means, for everything he's pouring into it, how slow and luxurious, the languorous slide of his tongue against mine.
It might as well be.
A bright bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, and there's another loud rumble of thunder that follows almost immediately.
And then the sky opens.
It isn't just a few sprinkles, a small, gentle rainfall. It's an all out deluge. Huge, cold drops of rain pouring down on us in sheets from the sky, landing with plops and splashes and pittering sounds all along the leather of Spike's duster. I can feel them soaking into the wool of my coat, seeping through one layer of fabric and down to my shirt, sinking into my skin.
We're soaked almost instantly.
It's freezing cold, and far from comfortable. The wind whips up, sending drops of rain biting and stinging into the side of my face where Spike's hands don't protect my skin.
It hurts, and I'm shivering, but I can't get myself to care.
Not when Spike's hands are on my face, long fingers threading back into my quickly dampening hair. Tangling in the wet strands, pulling me closer and closer against him. Kissing me with so much urgency, such unimaginable passion. Inhaling deeply, breathing me in. Like he has to steal the air from my lungs to survive.
And I'd let him, too. If that's what he needed.
I'd give him anything in this moment.
But all I have to give him is me.
He pulls back from me suddenly, and we stand there for a moment just staring at each other. Both of us a little dazed, blinking the heavy drops of rain out of our eyes. His hands are still holding me, cool fingers colder than usual against my cheeks.
Mine have found their way inside of his duster, pressing into the small of his back.
"Do you want this?" Spike asks, pulling one hand off of my face and running it softly over the wet tangles of my hair.
I know what he's asking, know what "this" is. What it means.
On the surface, he's asking about the claim. Whether I'm ready or not, if I think it's okay to do it.
If that's what I want.
It's what he's asking, at face value. But I also know what he's really asking.
Do you want me.
I can see all of it there in his eyes. They're dark, commanding, intensely focused in on mine. Anxiety, need, insecurity and desire and the same fierceness that characterizes everything Spike does. Every move he makes.
For as reckless as I know him to be, as wildly impulsive, he's also so incredibly intentional.
Nothing is ever halfway.
And this with me...this is no different.
So I understand what it means, what it is I'm really saying when I nod and whisper, "I want this."
I want you.
It happens before I can even blink.
One moment we're standing outside in the rain, getting soaked to the skin, blinking the water out of our eyes.
And the next we're standing in the bone dry, dimly candlelit space of Spike's crypt.
I only realize once we stop moving that it happened so fast because Spike had picked me up.
I'm still cradled firmly in his arms, both my hands gripping his shoulders so tightly I'd swear there are holes from my nails in the leather.
I turn my face up toward his, blinking, and open my mouth once again to say something. Maybe to scold him, maybe to tell to him to give me some warning next time. I don't know.
It doesn't matter, though, because I never get the chance.
His mouth is covering mine again, kissing me as wildly, as desperately as he had outside.
Any words I'd had die on my lips, turning instead to a soft moan My hands go limp, slipping down from his shoulders, down to the spot on his chest I'd found for myself over a week ago.
The place I'd feel his heart beating if it were.
"No talking," Spike murmurs headily, nipping gently at my lips once before capturing them again. He pulls away slightly, just enough that his lips are only ghosting over mine. He shakes his head, and I can feel his chest heaving under my fingertips. "No more talking."
I have no reason, and absolutely no desire, to argue with him.
I know why he's saying it, why the command is made with such urgency. It's all we've done for a week. Talk, talk about almost everything except for this moment right here, what it is we're about to do. We've talked, and researched, and patrolled, and talked some more.
Now isn't the time for talking.
I nod to show I've understood, that I agree, and he leans forward to part my lips, pushes his tongue past them and groans into my mouth.
He slowly lets me down, never pulling away from me. My feet find the ground just in time for his hands to work their way in between our bodies, unbuttoning my coat in a flurry and shoving it away from my shoulders. I only dimly hear it land on the concrete floor before his arms wrap around me, pressing the full length of my body against his.
I slide my hands up from the middle of his chest, up to his shoulders, pushing the lapels of his duster aside. I whimper into his mouth, tugging impatiently on the wet leather, wanting desperately to get to the damp cotton sticking to his skin underneath it.
Spike pulls his arms away from me just long enough to divest himself of the offending coat before they're back around me again, holding me more tightly than before. I can feel his hands, how strong, how possessive they feel through the thin, wet fabric of my shirt. They're almost warm against my chilled skin when he slides them up and around my shoulders, moving them slowly down my bare arms.
I press one last wild kiss to his mouth, sucking his bottom lip between my teeth and nibbling softly on it before I pull away, fisting my hands in the hem of his t-shirt. I yank hard, whipping it up and over his head in one quick movement, tousling his already mussed hair even further in my hurry, letting it drop to the ground with a wet slapping sound.
And then I freeze.
It seems to hit me all at once, from all sides as I stare at him. I fully realize where we are, what it is that we're about to do. That it's Spike that's standing in front of me now. Shirtless and wet, little droplets of water ringing from platinum curls and dripping onto his bare shoulders, slipping down across the expanse of his bare chest. And I look at him, a burning starting in my center as my gaze rakes heatedly over the exposed skin. He's so unbearably, blindingly perfect.
And mine.
The word sends a sharp jolt through me as I think it. Mine.
A surge of adrenaline, of intense, blood boiling possession steals over me. It's raging, wild, zero to 60 in less than a second and I launch myself forward, plundering his mouth with mine, gripping his hair in one hand and dragging the nails of my other hand down his chest. Hard, hard enough I'm fairly sure I've drawn blood.
Marking him.
The reaction from Spike is instant. He leans into me, growling hotly against my lips. I feel his grip tighten on me, hands slipping underneath my shirt and pressing his nails hard into the swell of my lower back.
I dimly understand through the haze in my head why it is they call this a claim. That's what it is, what we're doing. Marking each other. Not as territory, or property. I think it's something much simpler, much more pure than that.
The most basic, primitive notion of belonging. Belonging to someone else.
I pull back, letting my grip on him loosen just slightly, blinking my eyes open to look up into his. And I can see it. That he's thinking what I am, realizing what I have.
Everything seems to slow down in this moment as we stare at each other, the light from the few candles still burning casting flickering shadows of ourselves against the crypt's far wall. The strong urge to possess him is still there, but it's quieted with knowing. Knowing it's about to get what it so desperately wants.
Spike watches me now as he slowly drags his hands around from my back, across my hips, slipping his fingers beneath the hem of my shirt and tugging upward. The material is still damp, and it clings to my skin as he pulls it up, over my head. I put my arms up to help him, and he pulls it the rest of the way off, over the tips of my fingers.
His eyes are glued to me, riveted, raking slowly down my exposed torso as he drops the shirt to the ground.
I don't wait for him to make the next move, letting his gaze stay on me, burning into me, as I reach up and undo the clasp on my bra. I pull it off quickly, letting it fall to the floor at my feet.
And we're even, now. Shirtless, wet, vulnerable. Bare. I can feel the wet ends of my hair plastered to my skin, little rivulets of freezing water falling from the strands, dripping down my back.
And I realize why I don't feel an intense desire to reach up and cover myself. Because I'm already his. This, what we're doing now, it's only making it official.
He reaches for me again, this time wrapping his arms full around me and lifting me up, my legs automatically going to close over his waist, stretching the wet denim as I do.
I curve my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him, breasts flat, pillowed into his chest.
We don't kiss. Not really. His lips are close to mine, almost touching but not, and I can taste him on my tongue. But it's his eyes I can't get enough of, what I can't look away from.
Spike walks us backwards, probably only a few feet, until we reach his the armchair. He sets me down again, drawing his hands up, over my hip bones, up the flat plane of my stomach. He pauses just long enough to gently cup a breast in each hand, drawing a sweet, soft moan from both of our lips before continuing his path up to my neck.
I watch his face, his eyes, as he splays both hands across the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. The swirling, midnight blue lands once more on the mark on my throat.
"My soft, gorgeous Slayer," he murmurs hotly, moving closer to me. "My Buffy."
And he brushes his thumb over the mark when he says it, when he says my name.
He captures my lips immediately after, swallowing my moan, parting my lips and teasing me with his tongue.
The combination of it all, of him, of me, of everything we are together is too much. I can't wait. I can't wait one more minute, one more second.
My hands fly to the waistband of his jeans, dipping inside, moving around to his belt buckle and hurriedly undoing it. I yank it off, finding the button and snapping it open, pressing myself into him as I pull down the zipper.
And Spike is even faster than I am. He has my jeans unbuttoned, halfway down my hips before I can even get his belt undone.
We help each other clumsily, our kisses growing more wild, frantic by the second. I kick my shoes off in a rush, letting Spike break our kiss to bend down and pull the damp denim off my ankles, tugging them off, taking my socks with them.
He doesn't wait for me to finish helping with his, yanking them off while he's down there, letting my fingers tangle in his hair.
Spike's just kicked them away from him, sending them skidding across the stone floor, when I twist my hand harder in his hair and pull. He surges up my body, hands skimming along the outside of my calves, my thighs, my waist, my rib cage. Finally coming to rest along my back, pulling me hard against him, finding my lips once more with his.
After a breathless moment, both too long and too short at the same time, he pulls away from me. His chest is heaving, brushing against mine with each rise and fall.
My skin is so sensitive every where, raw, the smallest touch is enough to make me whimper against him.
He drops down into the arm chair, pulling me down on top of him. I'm poised over his lap, can feel him, hard and smooth beneath me. My inner muscles clench desperately. Empty. Aching. Everything is tender, exposed, the blood rushing in my veins making everything feel heightened, the burning sensation in my core spreading upwards, infusing every muscle with coiled tension, delicious want.
I believe in this moment that I've never needed anything as much as I need him.
His eyes never leave mine as he lowers his hand between my legs, sliding his middle finger slowly over my slit, swirling it slowly around in the wetness there. We both make gasping sounds as he pulls his finger back, pressing it lightly against my clit as he does.
"Oh," I breathe, lashes fluttering.
And I'm going to explode. Explode and crumble apart, combust into dust myself, if I can't have him soon.
Now.
"Oh, God," I whimper, my legs beginning to shake, muscles twitching in anticipation.
"Shh," Spike whispers, wrapping his hands around my rib cage, his thumbs hooked gently just below the bottom curve of my breasts, his fingers splayed over my shoulder blades. I can feel the borrowed heat, the slick wetness from my arousal that's coating the middle finger of his right hand, burning into my back. "I've got you."
And he does.
He lifts me effortlessly up, his fingers digging more firmly into my back when he sets me back down. He leans toward me, pressing his forehead into mine as he pulls me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, down onto him.
I can't help the strangled moan that escapes once he's fully inside of me, eyes closing, my parted lips grazing his on an exhaled gasp.
It's so much. So, so much. So perfect.
Such pure, complete relief and a new, torturous ache of a different kind starts to build. Feeling his damp skin against mine, how he fits me and pushes me to every single limit I have at the same time.
We just sit there for a moment, completely connected, my pelvic bone flush against his. I force my eyes open, locking them to his. I have to move. I have to move, need to create the friction my body is crying out for.
I dig my nails into his shoulders and lift myself up, moaning softly when I lower myself back down.
Spike leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to my lips, swallowing the mewls coming from my mouth. Inhaling deeply, fingers digging just a little harder into my back as he begins to help me build our pace. Lifting me up, lowering me back down again.
The rhythm builds so slowly.
Soft at first. And slow, excruciatingly slow, and languorous enough for me to feel every inch of him as I push myself up, and again as I recapture him on the way down.
And all the while, Spike is letting out small growls, groans. These strangled, masculine whimpers as we move together. Rumbling litanies of praise, soft curses that make every thing in me flame higher. Murmuring sweet, hot words against my lips, into my skin. Trailing wet, open mouthed kisses down my jaw.
"So good, pet. So...fuck...so hot."
Across my neck.
"Burn me up, you do."
Over my collarbone, my shoulder.
"That's it, my sweet girl. My Slayer."
And all the way back up again.
"Just like that."
At one point he stops, laving his mark with his tongue, sucking the tender skin into his mouth. My inner muscles clench around him, and I gasp, my hands threading through his hair just as I feel him twitch inside me.
And I'm so close I can taste it. So close to the edge, just needing that one thing, that stinging, burning pull of my blood as he draws it past his lips.
"Spike," I manage, his name coming out a breathy moan. He pulls back away from my neck, blinking dazed, dark, lust glazed eyes at mine. I start to quicken our pace, watching his lashes flutter, his nostrils flare.
"What is it?" He says, dragging his fingernails hard down my back, wrapping his hands tight around me waist. The pain is sharp, and so welcome, lessening the ache between my legs slightly. "Tell me what you need."
I lean forward, letting my lips ghost across his.
"Please," I whisper desperately, crying out, throwing my head back when he digs his nails into my skin, pulling me down harder onto him, managing to hit the tiny bundle of nerves deep inside of me as he does.
I whip my head up, gazing down at him through hooded eyes, delirious, overwhelmed.
The moment is so much like my dream. The begging, the heady whisper, the incredible, immeasurable ecstasy of it all.
But it's different, too.
This time I know what I'm asking for.
"Spike," I whisper again, managing to get the words out between the soft moans, coming out in time with our movements. "Please."
And as I stare at him, searching his face, his eyes shift from black to gold. Canines elongating to points, ridges forming along his brow.
I turn my head to the side and use my grip in his hair to yank him against me. His fangs split the skin, sinking deep down into his already faded mark and clamping down over it.
If there's pain this time, I don't feel it. Can't feel it. Can't feel anything at all but the throbbing in my veins, my inner muscles spasming around him, the pulls he's taking of my blood. All perfectly timed, synced to each other. Each draw he takes from my throat sends another throbbing wave through my core, each stronger than the last, until my head goes light and my legs are shaking and I can't do anything but cling to him, twirling my fingers in the hair at the back of his neck.
Weak, and spent, and completely satiated.
Spike pulls away from me, closing the bite wound the same way he had before.
He moves around to face me, presses a slow, lazy kiss to my lips and murmurs the word, "Mine."
He doesn't have to tell me what happens next. It comes to me as easily, as naturally as anything else. Like I've known, like I've always known, how to do this.
I nod against him weakly, pressing an equally lazy kiss to his lips, being careful to avoid the pointed tips of his fangs and whisper, "Yours."
A shock wave ripples through me, starting at the very tips of my hair and rocketing down to my toes. It makes my muscles tighten around him again, and he lets out a soft groan.
And the primal urge, that wild possessiveness that had struck me once before, washes over me again. With a surge of renewed energy, I pull myself up off Spike's lap one more time, lean forward, and bite down into his shoulder as hard as I can as I slowly lower myself back down. My teeth break the skin just as he roars, muscles tightening, straining impossibly beneath me before his entire body goes limp.
He drops his head onto my shoulder as I lightly suck at his, using my tongue to massage the mark, to wipe up the blood I've spilled. I pull back, turning my head and resting my cheek against the crook of his neck. There's a shifting sound, and the ridges of his forehead smooth back out again, his human guise back in place.
"Mine," I say softly, untangling my hands from his hair and bringing them down, curling them into his bare chest.
Spike leans fully back into the chair, his head still against my shoulder, wrapping his arms more tightly around my waist.
"Yours," he agrees, nodding against me lazily. He turns his face toward me, azure eyes finding mine. "Always yours."
And as we sit together watching the candles around us burn down, still connected, still completely a part of one another, I think that's probably more true than even he realizes.