The art history class Buffy failed to complete senior year had introduced her to classical sculpture. Most of the statues she’d studied were carved in pale marble. Before suspending her studies to save the world, she’d come to appreciate the beauty that could be expressed through the unadorned human form. What lay exposed before her on the satin sheets surpassed all the masterpieces pictured in her text book.
This form was sculpted not in marble but alabaster flesh. The smoothly muscled planes of Spike’s chest silently communicated his strength while the long curves of his arms and legs suggested fluid, catlike motion, even in repose. That combination alone was stunningly beautiful. But the unguarded vulnerability of his face, lips soft and slightly parted, took Buffy’s breath away. She didn’t feel the least bit shy as she swept her gaze down the length of his body. The generous size of his manhood, even as it lay soft against his thigh, was no surprise. She had felt its length and girth pressed against her when she lay atop him at the cemetery. She guessed Spike wouldn’t bother to cover himself if he knew she was looking at him. He didn’t strike her as the modest type. But once she’d taken a good look she knew it was unfair to take advantage.
Moving mechanically, but still without averting her eyes from the art object before her, Buffy completed the motion she’d planned, finally stretching the red stain sheet over Spike’s hips. Buffy sighed audibly and tore her eyes from his torso before adjusting the pillow under Spike’s head. As she did so, her face was once more only inches from his. Again she couldn’t help thinking what it would be like to kiss him, but all she did was stare longingly at his mouth.
“I can’t very well take advantage of you now, Sleeping Beauty,” she said, “not after the way you behaved last night when I fell on top of you. I’ve got to show at least as much restraint as a soulless vampire!”
Now that Buffy had completed her clean-up project and had Spike in his bed, she didn’t know what else to do. She decided against trying to feed him again, convinced the blood he’d drank was enough to begin healing his injury. Reasoning that it was just a question of time before he would awaken, she curled up in the armchair to wait. Buffy wrapped herself in the paisley afghan against the damp chill of the crypt, the remaining bag of blood tucked unto her shirt. He’d be hungry when he woke, she thought, and she wanted to have some warm blood handy.
Looking around for something to amuse herself until Spike should wake, Buffy spotted a book on the bedside table. Picking it up, she recognized the volume of poetry from which Spike had read to her in the library. Buffy opened the book and began to read, but it wasn’t long before her eyelids grew heavy and she fell asleep, the book open on her lap.
Swimming groggily toward consciousness, Spike’s dream continued. “Ah, here I am now just as I imagined, tucked neatly in my bed, snug as a bug.” Instinctively, Spike sniffed the air, checking his immediate surroundings for intruders. “That’s odd,” he thought. “I can still smell her, and her blood is mixed with the other.” More aware of his surroundings by the minute, Spike noted the warmth of candles burning in the room as well as the unmistakable sensation of cool satin against his skin. As he recovered even more consciousness, Spike detected the sound of a heartbeat – and not just any heartbeat. “I’m going to finally understand the meaning of ‘a rude awakening’,” he thought, “when I open my eyes to a dreary crypt, where I lie alone on the floor, hung over, in smelly clothes, just as unloved and miserable as ever.”
Spike was about to slip back into sleep, but he couldn’t ignore the slow, even thump of Buffy’s heart. It was her heart that succeeded, finally, in pulling him out of his imagined dream. “I’ve heard Buffy’s heart race like a doe pursued by a wolf, and I’ve heard it pound with anger – usually at me,” he thought, ruefully. “I’ve heard it hammer with the excitement of battle and I know what it sounds like when she’s aroused. But the only time I’ve heard it beat like this is when she’s asleep in her bed. I’ve certainly heard it enough times when I’ve gone by Revello Drive to see that she’s safe at home. There’s no chance I’d mistake the sound. But why am I dreaming that she is asleep when I could have her any which way I want?”
Troubled by the illogic of his dream, Spike fully resurfaced for the first time since falling on his head. “Bugger it all,” he sputtered to himself, finally sweeping the last of the cobwebs from his mind, “that was one bloody wonderful dream. Shame it had to end, but that bit at the end made no sense. I’ve never been one for obscure metaphors and symbols. Maybe that’s why I wrote such appalling poetry.”
Spike opened his eyes. Awake now he knew that he was in fact in his bed, and the sheets under him were entirely real. Eyes wide open, and staring straight ahead, Spike observed the gentle dance of the candle flames as they threw shadows on the ceiling. Candles he was sure he had not lit. Without moving a muscle, he inhaled, bringing the rich scent of Buffy’s blood combined with some generic O negative into his nostrils. All this time the tattoo of her heart never subsided.
Spike was torn. On the one hand, he was thrilled that so much of his dream had turned out to be true, but he was also suspicious. If he sat up and looked around he’d surely discover the source of the cruel trick someone was playing on him. It was inevitable, just as the dream finally ending had been inevitable. Still, that didn't mean he wanted it to end.
Spike lay in his bed, still as a corpse, pondering the question of who would go to the trouble of pulling such an elaborate gag when Buffy snorted loudly in her sleep.
“What the fuck?” Spike uttered aloud as he sat up fast enough to send his bruised brain crashing against the inside of his skull. Intense pain shot through his head, blurring his vision. When he could finally see again, he sucked in an unneeded breath at the sight of Buffy asleep in his chair. Stunned for a moment, Spike recovered quickly.
“Hello, cutie,” he said, a small smile quirking his lips, “does this mean I’m allowed to call you Buffy?”
Buffy lurched awake at the sound of Spike’s voice, the book falling from her lap onto the floor with a thump. Her wide green eyes met his as the paisley afghan slid off her shoulders. She was instantly flooded with relief to see him awake and apparently in good spirits. But Spike’s amused expression dissolved almost as quickly and he gave a strangled scream when he his eyes fixed on her blood soaked top. Before Buffy could say a word, he was standing over her frantically brushing her hair away from her neck.
“What have I done?” he choked out, searching her throat for a wound. “Buffy, oh God, love, I’m so sorry; I didn’t know what I was doing. I never meant to hurt you; I swear I thought it was a dream. Thank the gods you’re alive. Oh, please, just tell me you’re okay and I’ll go away. I’ll never come back.” he sobbed, still unable to find his mark on her neck, he looked at her in confusion. “Where is it?” he asked, his voice harsh with self-loathing. “Where did I bite you?”
“No, no, Spike, please stop,” Buffy put her hands on either side of his face. “You didn’t bite me. It’s all right. I’m all right. You didn’t do anything to me.”
Staring straight into Spike’s panic-stricken face, Buffy could see he was too distraught to hear her. “It’s not my blood,” she stammered. “Well, not most of it anyway. Here, look,” she said, pulling the reserved unit of blood from under her shirt. “I fed you some bagged blood. I just used a drop of mine to get you started.”
Spike sat back, eyes locked with Buffy's, his head tilted to one side. Understanding and then relief flashed across his features to be replaced almost immediately by rage. “You did what? You daft cow! I could have drained you. What are you, completely mental?”
Tbc…