Spike and Buffy were lost in a tangle of clothing and limbs, trying to find
their way back to each other after the long separation. The violence had
been replaced by pure, unadulterated need. It was no longer a battle for
supremacy, but a tribute.
For the first time, Buffy's head was clear. No other thoughts threatened to creep in or needed to be kept at bay. Only one thing demanded her attention and that was Spike. He was more lithe and toned than she remembered. The slight chill of the undead connecting with the living was almost too much. A marble god sculpted to perfection to the last detail worshipping her—the mortal with feet of clay long tumbled from the shortest pedestal. And she had denied herself so long, why?
~*~
Spike took in every inch of the woman who should be his eternal enemy, but was instead his reason for being. He had run away only to find that he could never leave her behind. Buffy would haunt him until his end. Both had loved and lost, and found in each other what they had been missing. Corny as it sounded (but he hadn't been called William the Bloody for nothing), what he had let slip to the Bit was true: he didn't need a soul; Buffy was his soul.
He had memorized every curve and contour, gone over them a million times, and still they seemed new and uncharted. And her heart pounded against his chest. He felt . . . he could remember back . . . the blood coursing, tingling, rushing . . . it was the sensation that drove him to feed, not the need for nourishment, but the power taken so for granted until lost.
Both were close to the summit towards which they strove, when Buffy, holding Spike's icy blue gaze with her summer green, made one simple request: "Drink me." She wanted to give him the last thing that remained for her to give him. "Please."
Spike looked at her a moment to make certain that this was what she wanted, to which she lifted her chin, bearing the faint scars of an old bite from another life. Needing no more, Spike went in, vamping out as he did. His teeth slid in, home at last, and he drank deeply until they arrived together at last.
For the first time, Buffy's head was clear. No other thoughts threatened to creep in or needed to be kept at bay. Only one thing demanded her attention and that was Spike. He was more lithe and toned than she remembered. The slight chill of the undead connecting with the living was almost too much. A marble god sculpted to perfection to the last detail worshipping her—the mortal with feet of clay long tumbled from the shortest pedestal. And she had denied herself so long, why?
~*~
Spike took in every inch of the woman who should be his eternal enemy, but was instead his reason for being. He had run away only to find that he could never leave her behind. Buffy would haunt him until his end. Both had loved and lost, and found in each other what they had been missing. Corny as it sounded (but he hadn't been called William the Bloody for nothing), what he had let slip to the Bit was true: he didn't need a soul; Buffy was his soul.
He had memorized every curve and contour, gone over them a million times, and still they seemed new and uncharted. And her heart pounded against his chest. He felt . . . he could remember back . . . the blood coursing, tingling, rushing . . . it was the sensation that drove him to feed, not the need for nourishment, but the power taken so for granted until lost.
Both were close to the summit towards which they strove, when Buffy, holding Spike's icy blue gaze with her summer green, made one simple request: "Drink me." She wanted to give him the last thing that remained for her to give him. "Please."
Spike looked at her a moment to make certain that this was what she wanted, to which she lifted her chin, bearing the faint scars of an old bite from another life. Needing no more, Spike went in, vamping out as he did. His teeth slid in, home at last, and he drank deeply until they arrived together at last.
