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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is currently a WIP written in response to a Spuffy Kinkathon challenge. The story requirements were as follows: The requested kink was hurt/comfort. Three other requests were to show Spike reluctantly biting Buffy, include Dawn and/or Xander in the story, and set it anywhere from Season 5 to Post-NFA.
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CHAPTER SIX




An hour later, Buffy lay beside Spike, limbs entwined in a tantalizing union of fire and ice. It had always surprised her how well their bodies fit together, her form filling an invisible niche carved only for her. As if they’d been made for each other on the most intimate of levels.

Spike had said as much once, but the words he had used held no pretense at romance, rumbling in her ear with a carnal earthiness bordering on the obscene. They were dark and sweet and unbearably dirty, and at his last whispered utterance, she’d come. Nails digging into his back, helpless and keening, so hard she’d almost passed out. Time had stilled, lurched forward, and resumed, great gasping shudders leaving her weak and pliant in his arms.

The soft satisfaction in his gaze had ignited her rage faster than warm winds whipping up a California wildfire – white-hot fury flaring into a scathing glare and a swift shove that sent him tumbling backwards onto the stone-cold floor of the crypt’s lower level. Before he could untangle himself from the cocoon of sheets pinning his legs, Buffy had scrambled from the bed, scooped up her clothes, and disappeared through the trap door above. Her last sight of him – sprawled on the floor, bewildered, angry, and painfully resigned – was etched bright and harsh in her memory.

He’d never said those words again.

Eyes squeezed shut, brow crinkled, she tightened her grip on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck as she burrowed her way deeper into the one-sided embrace. So much hurt, so many regrets, and only a waning hope of ever making it right.

A grim-faced Giles had admitted earlier in the day that he was no closer to finding the cause of Spike’s condition than when he’d started. The few likely leads he’d unearthed had all hit a dead end, and though he’d promised to keep trying, his sympathetic gaze had spoken volumes, leaving Buffy with nothing to cling to but her own belief that he’d been poisoned during the battle.

Only that, too, seemed to be going nowhere. It was impossible to cure Spike all at once, as she had with Angel, without being drained near the point of death. Instead, she had hoped to do it in stages, letting her blood replenish itself between feedings and stubbornly ignoring the little voice urging her to call on the other slayers for help. Each day she fed him, and each day he improved. Bruises faded, cuts and abrasions healed, but her undead sleeping beauty refused to awaken.

Now, it seemed that her blind determination to be the one to save him could cost them both dearly.

Leaning in on one elbow, she studied his face, taking in everything from the scarred brow and angled sweep of his cheekbones to the full, lush curve of his mouth. She’d always thought him beautiful, reluctantly at first, even angrily. The very idea that evil could wear such a striking face had seemed outrageously perverse. Later, when she’d discovered just how striking the rest of him was, the true irony of it had not been lost on her.

Over their turbulent months together, her attraction to Spike had grown, and with it, the conviction that she was…broken. That only something equally dark and perverted could feel the primal stirrings his mere proximity awakened in her. That only someone hopelessly depraved would willingly seek out his company. She’d hated him for making her want him. Hated herself more for giving in.

And then the true horror hit. She’d found herself loving him in an almost helpless, compulsive way, as if his raw hunger and unremitting devotion demanded it. It was something she couldn’t accept, something she had to hide -- from herself, her friends, and most of all him. To feel that way about someone who had killed with impunity, who had slaughtered innocents and laughed as he’d done it, had seemed the ultimate betrayal of her duty, her birthright, and everything she believed.

She’d loved Angel before she’d ever known that side of him. Spike, she’d known and loved anyway. Foreknowledge made it infinitely worse.

The bitch of it was that she still felt that way. Just days ago, after stumbling across damning evidence connecting Paulo to some less-than-benign activities, she hadn’t hesitated. Italian authorities, human and otherwise, might have been willing to look the other way, but she couldn’t. The relationship had ended, and so had The Immortal’s latest sojourn in Rome. It hadn’t been easy for her, but it had been simple.

With anyone but Spike.

“There should have been some kind of warning, you know?” She smiled crookedly, fingertips skimming lightly across his forehead. “The first time we saw each other. Or…scratch that. The first time I saw you -- you being all stalker vamp and all.” Head tilting to one side, she studied his face. “Just seems like there should have been something. A lightning bolt from the blue, big movie soundtrack, message from the Surgeon General…anything to clue us in on the mega drama to come. But that would have been too easy, right? And nothing with either one of us has ever been easy.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, snuggling closer. “We are so not your typical Hollywood love story. Girl meets boy, girl finds out boy is an evil, bloodsucking fiend whose big turn-on is to kill her and her kind, girl kicks his ass and generally makes his life hell but still falls for him anyway. Only, by the time she realizes it, it’s too late.”

She frowned. “Actually…I think we are your typical Hollywood love story.”

Falling silent a moment, she pondered the possibilities, then sighed. “Would it have made any difference if we’d known…or would things have happened pretty much the same? Like maybe we were fated or something. Only…as long as we’re being honest here? I think a part of me did know, or should have known. I could tell you were different right from the start. Felt it, even before I realized what you were. It was the first thing that popped into my head when you stepped out of the shadows.”

She bit her lip. “Well…okay…it was more like, ‘Oooh, pretty.’ Followed by ‘Sooo hot,’ ‘Oh my god, what a sexy British accent,’ and ‘Hello! Fashion intervention!’ I’m pretty sure ‘Uh-oh, trouble’ was mixed in there, too, but that only registered after you threatened to kill me.”

Buffy glanced up, searching for some flicker of awareness as she sent her hand on a leisurely journey down his torso. It finally came to rest splayed across his taut belly. “C’mon, Spike,” she wheedled. “Don’t you want to wake up and gloat? Here I am, confessing I had the hots for you from day one, and you can’t even manage a little smirk? That’s beyond wrong on so many levels.”

Falling silent again, she held her breath, against all reason letting herself hope, willing to believe for one fraction of an instant that he might actually respond. That his eyelids might flutter, his head turn, and his eyes open to find her lying there beside him. That he might smile and gather her close, and she would know everything between them was finally okay.

But he lay there, unresponsive and stubbornly out of reach. Her eyes closed tight against a rush of bitter disappointment.

“God, you’re such a pain in the ass. But you’re my pain in the ass, and I’m not letting you go. Do you hear me?” she whispered fiercely. “Not. Letting. Go. You think you’re the only stubborn one in this relationship? You have no idea.”

And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? He had no idea. He’d gone to his death, or so she’d thought, certain that nothing more than pity had moved her to say the words. She couldn’t stand knowing he’d believed that, couldn’t bear that she’d done nothing to convince him otherwise.

How many times had he professed his love for her, and how many times had she thrown it back in his face? Even as she’d finally acknowledged his feelings, right before everything had gone to hell, she’d done it with unconscious cruelty and a condescending compassion that had cut him to the quick. She hadn’t meant to be callous, hadn’t even realized it until much later, but the truth weighed heavily on her now.

So many things to regret – the dawning hope in his eyes when she’d come to him the night of Riley’s return; the anguish in his voice afterward as she’d turned away. And later still, the silent accusation of his gaze when she’d pretended to her friends that their cozy chat in the cemetery had been nothing more than a cold interrogation.

An ugly part of her had relished that power to wound him, to make him pay for his presumption and suffer for her pain. Words had been her weapons, and she’d wielded them gladly, never once stopping to wonder if she should.

More scenes, bitter scenes played out in her head, shame bubbling up in her throat like thick bile. Words and images careened through her mind, turning cartwheels with raw abandon, crashing into unspoken regrets and lost opportunities, tangling together until the muddled mess in her head at last coalesced into a single coherent thought, and without even meaning to, she whispered it aloud.

“I’m sorry. God, I am so sorry.”

And just like that the damn broke, releasing a torrent of muffled words that tumbled against his throat.

“Is that where it starts? It’s stupid, and…I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like enough. There are things I want to say, but I can’t remember. I practiced them over and over in my head, those first weeks you were gone – everything I should have said, and it still wasn’t right. Good old Buffy is all about the quippage, but when it’s something important, something that really matters…”

One balled fist gave a feeble, frustrated thump to his chest. “You’re the one with the words…me, not so much. Unless it was to hurt you, and then it was easy. Too easy. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Spike…ever. And if you’d just come back, I could show you…prove it to you. I could make you understand. All you have to do is come back.”

Something damp touched her cheek, but she brushed it away.

“C’mon, Spike. You know I’m going to win this. I always do. I want you. Here. With me. Safe and well. So you might as well save yourself the trouble and wake up now. And…if things have changed…if you don’t feel the way you did before…that’s okay. I’ll deal. Just as long as I know you’re all right. But you can’t leave like this. Not without knowing. Not until you really believe. Even if you don’t want to be with me anymore, you have to know that you were loved. You deserve that.”

Voice breaking, she buried her face deeper in the crook of his neck. It scared her, how out-of-control she felt, how very much she wanted this. For so long, she’d kept the deepest part of her locked away, built walls to hold out the hurt, buried feelings to deny the pain. It had worked so well, she’d convinced herself she couldn’t love anymore, but she’d been so wrong.

She loved. Oh, how she loved.

“I don’t even understand why. Why you loved me so much. How you could love me at all. It’s not like I gave you any reason. Stupid vampire. I wouldn’t have loved me. I wouldn’t have been able to stand me. And, okay, sometimes you deserved what happened to you, but most of the time…with us…you really didn’t.”

More wetness now, dripping silently off her chin.

“I don’t know how to make it right, but I want to so much. I hate the way I treated you. I hate that I didn’t understand what you felt…that I didn’t want to understand. I hate that I hurt you and didn’t care, and that I can’t go back and do things differently. But most of all…more than any of those other things…I hate that I made you believe I could never love you the same way you loved me.”

She felt lost and so far from slayer-like that she might as well hang up her stake – as vulnerable and exposed as she’d ever been.

“Spike, look…you want me to beg? I’ll beg, okay? I’ll do anything it takes. Just please, please come back.”

No flutter of lashes, no barely detectable moan -- only the relentless in and out of useless breath as he mocked her with his absence.

She exploded. A white-hot anger she hadn’t even felt boiled up so fast and hard her trembling body could barely contain it. Bolting upright, she grabbed his head, holding it between her palms as she stared into his face. “Damn it, Spike! You’re not a quitter! You don’t give up…you never give up!”

And there it was at last – a slight flaring of the nostrils, a tiny parting of the lips. She would have missed it had she not been so close. Her breath caught, trapped in her throat. She was afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid she might have imagined it.

Then his head moved in restless delirium as the burning heat of his skin sent her hopes plummeting. The fever had returned.

It was a bitter blow. Her anger resurged, and with it came a steely desperation that sent her mouth crashing down on his. She pushed him back into the pillows, hands roaming his body, touching, caressing, possessing as much of him as she could. She peppered his face with butterfly kisses, murmuring words that made no sense. Her mouth slid lower, tongue tasting the sweet hollow of his throat, tracing along the taut muscles and strong curve of his neck.

Her hand closed around him, cupping and stroking, making him hard. Always so hard…for her. Just her.

She shifted again, lips and tongue seeking out his nipple, mimicking the actions of her hand as it teased and fondled him with sensuous deliberation. Though still unconscious, his body responded as it had each previous time, muscles tensing, chest heaving, the ragged cadence of his breathing unnaturally loud in the silent room.

Just as she started to pull back and place her wrist against his lips, she heard a sound that froze her in place. Her name – soft and barely recognizable, but definitely her name. Hardly daring to hope this time, she looked up…and almost sobbed with relief.

He stared back at her through heavy-lidded eyes, eyebrows drawn together, nostrils flaring, panting hard. He looked confused, even dazed, but as her hand left him, he uttered a low groan of protest, hips jerking in a desperate bid for attention.

She laughed, eyes brimming with joyous tears, as she slipped her hand into his. Leaning over, she dropped a soft kiss onto his hard abdomen…

And moved lower.




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TBC in Part 6

A/N: Not feeling too well right now, but I wanted to get this chapter posted. I know, I know. I’m a terrible tease. More Spuffy lovin’ to come in the next chapter. I think (hope) you’ll enjoy it. I really appreciate the lovely reviews. I have some responses I need to catch up on and will be doing that this weekend. In the meantime, thanks so much!





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