He could feel the change. Small but momentous shifts within his body, within his head: elementally, within his demon. It called a hallelujah to him that was swiftly repressed in denial, until it rose to such heights it could no longer be crushed down, ignored and rejected. And once he had accepted it while in Sunnydale and in love he had embraced it, allowed it to flourish and take a grip on his life; to alter enough of him for him to be courageous and loyal.
No one had noticed.
Giles had been heavy with the destiny talk when Spike had first been incapacitated with the chip. But when it occurred, and that ‘higher purpose’ to his alteration began to be revealed, no one had noticed. Then he had left them behind and the change intensified, increased its transformation.
And then Dru had noticed.
In the depths of the ignorance and darkness that he was surrounded by he found a place, a refuge a bolt hole that his essence had escaped so as to retract to a small particle, almost forever lost and hidden, but waiting.
In his decline he had no idea what he had been waiting for what that tiny secluded area of him needed for change irretrievable. The wait had been beyond arduous, though, beyond painful as he swung from the ceiling chains in the pup’s apartment. He’d been naked, cut and blemished, bleeding out onto the carpet, but still he had waited.
The wait had brought about his final moments of clarity, of consciousness as he came to the conclusion that it was too late. Images of Buffy tied in his crypt, her face contorted in fury, outraged that he would dare to treat her that way, outraged that he would dare to love her at all. But he had been changing for her, and she didn’t see. Sure, that particle hidden within him craved to be good now for himself, not just for her, but she was the impetus, the light that had guided him out of the darkness he had fallen into over a century ago.
But he had hung defeated, tortured by his once love and Great Grandsire; family. His own kind, his own order had turned on him. For him, the wait seemed over as he surrendered to failure and welcomed an end to his existence. Whatever he had been waiting for, while dangling broken from the ceiling, he knew it would never come and his body began the process to end.
Everything had abandoned him; hope, courage, love. His body flushed them out with the blood that dripped onto the fibre below his brushing feet. Sadness and a futile acceptance tainted all as he succumbed daily to more grief while Dru stuck in another poker, dribbled more holy water over his lips and eyes, cut great bloody gashes down his torso. All the while, Darla’s delighted laughter hurt his ears and he had even given up on tears…waiting, waiting…can’t enact change when so removed from action.
He continued to dangle and give up on waiting…it was too late in seeking him out, punishing him for his numerous mistakes. Waiting for Buffy, waiting for love. Both hopeless and obscene in his waning mind. Then he understood: in leaving Buffy, he had left change behind. He tried to transfer his hope for change onto William, but that one was too weak, too misguided and lacking in knowledge to deal with such a situation. Dangling…Angel couldn’t help, even if he could get past the wanting to stake him for existing…and in the end, William was, as ever, useless.
His surrender finally gelled once within the walls of Angel’s domain; human blood, even that given willingly, refused to grip the insides of him and filtered uselessly through his wounds. There was no more waiting in his mind, but change had occurred without his realising had been lingering within his movements for months, perhaps years. But the big boom of arrival had slipped by unnoticed, and Spike continued to leak his essence onto the bed, drifting and then moving determinedly to ‘giving up’. He never saw that his waiting for change had ended; it was now just her that he rested for. Then he had heard her, in his half-delirious acceptance of the end, he heard her on the other side; Buffy, with her hate and accusations it was the final letting go. He swayed toward his final death.
Then she had appeared and he swayed even quicker, his shut down almost complete as he continued to waste, his wounds continued to seep. His demon had cried for her, craving her touch and beauty one last time before he ended, but then the process continued, ignorant of words, or promises, or tears. Nothing registered within him anymore, his senses the last to close off.
And then there was her blood.
Rich and raw with feeling it closed openings and opened what was closed. His demon sniffed and slowly reawakened, curious as to this temptation, questioning its meaning but hoping as it clawed to the surface and allowed fangs to pull out more of the blood. Sucking and savouring while trying desperately to understand. And then it was there, the final clue to who he was and what he could be. Her blood was acceptance, agreement and determination. Without thought, without consideration, she gave him herself and he knew true belonging had gripped him finally. He could wander aimlessly no longer for he had found his home. Her. Her blood was love. He could feel it, taste it, and he craved so much more of it. Then as passion and love and colour and brightness and clarity again washed over him, he released her wrist and dove into the warmth that was her, enveloping her in his embrace as his body knit miraculously back together.
She had always been what he needed.
Yes! Rupert was a fool. His ‘higher calling’ had occurred right under the Watcher’s nose.
Now, seeing his reflection in her eyes as she watched him possessively, lovingly, he knew that he wouldn’t, couldn’t be invisible to them any longer. He might still only be tolerated, but with his heart beside him, his soul attached forever to his arm, they could no longer refuse to see him. And he hoped, one day, they would even come to care for him.
He thought the process might have begun. Buffy had told him it was Harris that had instigated the search for him by contacting Peaches. This act had him speechless, and indeed he shied away from speech as his throat became clogged with emotion, overwhelmed with the awareness of finally getting the one thing he had wanted in all his existence. To be wanted, to be needed. To be longed for. He immediately decided to give Harris a chance, to cut back on the snark maybe, and see where this new thing between them could visit. He had hopes.
For the first time in weeks, he had hope.
And, he had change.
Buffy felt like her eyes were glued open. The night had passed with alternating sleep and watching, nervous that if she closed her lids even briefly that he would disappear or give up again and fade while right next to her body. So, she had watched, over and over again lost herself in the oceanic depths of his eyes. She had never noticed before what a beautiful shade of blue they were, or if she had she’d blocked it out. That seemed more likely.
But as she watched, there was a knowledge surging up within her. It made her a little frightened, a lot nervous, particularly as she recognised it as her Slayer within seeking something from this vampire that shared her space. But as the raising became stronger she had calmed, curled herself into his side and the security that being his suddenly gave her. And she knew it with a finality and obviousness that made her want to belt herself up the side of the head. She was his, and if the connection of her Slayer side to his demon side was any indication at all, she always had been.
He had been lost beside her for hours, and though concern prickled on the outer edge of her consciousness, she knew he was sorting. Letting go of the bad and hopefully trying to understand the new. She saw the occasional flicker in his eyes, the amber of pain and humiliation and guessed he was remembering Dru and Darla and their form of love and courage. Beside him, she seethed, almost desperate to get out there and seek them with a knotty stake to the heart.
Her body shook intermittently while she pondered on the last day, caught on the ‘almost’ of what it could have been. The day that she ‘almost’ didn’t make it in time. The day she ‘almost’ didn’t understand what she had to sacrifice for him to save him. The day she ‘almost’ hadn’t ignored the interference of her fear and her cowardice. The day she had ‘almost’ lost everything that would give her strength, hope and meaning. Her tears were the only sign that the overwhelming ‘almosts’ could have taken her down. Luckily, Spike was still lost somewhere and he didn’t notice her wipe them away on her sleeve, finally returning to drown in those eyes.
Her body had never felt so warm, wrapped up in him. It felt so odd, so new. Only a month ago Spike had been the vampire she would love nothing better than to stake, to get him out from under her feet, so she could stop feeling the hurt every time he betrayed her with thoughts or actions geared toward her death. Then on a fraction of a second she wondered why it was, why it had to be that it was him, that he called her like none of the others ever had. Riley had never fought her, had only loved and needed her, yet he had never been enough. Had never felt right.
Spike felt more than right. He felt like hers. Like he’d been made for her, formed exclusively for her.
With knowledge came the almost physical sensation of mending, her heart drawn back together and the cracks being appliqued over with strips of intense ownership, striking love to repair what had been too long fractured. Giving him her blood willingly had achieved some standard, passed some test of worthiness as she peered sappily into the eyes of the one who had given up his way of life for her.
But now she understood, it wasn’t today.
He hadn’t changed today and decided to end his murdering ways. He had struggled with the shift the moment he had given her his loyalty and help in stopping Angelus. He had gone against his family, what he had known, ever since that day. He had approached Buffy once, and her attitude then made it obvious that he was accepted under duress. Too early, it had not been his time. But he kept coming back and back until he was swept under the force of government initiative, and rendered fangless, but no less devious and masterful.
For what seemed like the first time, alternatives occurred to her. For a Master of his calibre, there had never been any need for him to give himself over to the Scoobies. It had been a choice. He had wanted to do it, maybe not consciously, but he had wanted to, sought her out, to be under her influence once again. He wanted to bathe within the light of right. Evil would never have chosen such a path to begin with. His path had been highlighted years before.
Buffy recognised intervention when she saw it. Angel and Drusilla’s childe, handed over for safe keeping because they were not up to the challenge. He had been created for something deeper, and for the very first time his lack of soul didn’t concern her. His guilt and remorse, shown by the wasting of his body, was enough to prove to her that there was something, if not a soul, something that was just as great and meaningful.
She had been blessed.
With a gentle blink, he seemed to return to himself and she felt slightly embarrassed that she was caught still staring intently at the sparkling blue. His smile put her at ease though and she wished that she could forever see that curve of lips. It was magical, and God, was it sexy. Her eyes moved over him fully now, seeing still the blood that had dried and caked over his healed wounds, and screwed her face up in an unsubtle ewww.
He raised a brow in offended query and she giggled as she swept a hand in the air, up and down, motioning his state of dirtiness.
“Someone needs to wash a bit of the bloodiness from his tight bod.” She eyed him seductively, eager to share that shower with him but knowing that it still wasn’t the time. Frustration made her clench her fists hard.
He rolled over to his side, pushing her to her back and leaning over her, leering at her with lust swirling in his eyes. She curled a hand into the curls at the back of his head, cringing as dried blood floated down to her face.
“Thought I’d make a bit of a fashion statement!” he mocked.
“What kind of statement is that? Torture and MaimingRUs?”
He cocked his head to the side, contemplating her position in his arms, and felt a wave of gratitude sweep him away.
“Where did you come from?” His whisper was husky, yearning, and reverent.
She blinked at him, confusion marring her earlier confident happiness. What if he was slipping, rolling back away from her? Didn’t he believe she was really here? That she had taken him forever as hers and that she was never letting him go? Fear began to twist in her belly as panic started to set in. Her hand in his hair stilled, poised ready to cling and hold what would never be released again.
“What do you mean?” Her voice embodied all the little girl apprehension that was Buffy, but he only looked at her in wonder.
“You must be from Heaven, an angel sent to make me a soldier of worth. Are you really here, Buffy? In my arms with your lips barely a kiss away from mine?”
He was seducing her with his awe, his gracious acceptance of Higher Power selection.
With a clarity that was usually beyond her, she finally understood. The urgency to offer her blood, the knowing that it was the only thing that could save him. His change, and his seeking her out to be one of the white hats.
He had been chosen. No, Chosen. Like her. She was not wrong for wanting him, for loving him. For needing him. He had been chosen for her.
No words of hers could answer such brutal questions; she pulled his head down and captured his lips in a kiss of dawning. It was proof of her presence in his room, on his bed, and in his life. It was proof that he was her soldier, chosen by Heaven and her. It was proof that her lips would be forever his. As their lips moistened, caressed and claimed all that the other had to offer, the choices had been made.
The waiting was over.
Pulling back, his eyes hooded with a yearning for more, he looked longingly at the door leading to the bathroom.
“Sure you don’t want to join me, pet?”
Her answering smile was ebullient.
“Oh, believe me, I want to.” Reality crashed into the moment with the face of Dawn, and she knew they had to pick up the pace. There could be a hellgod on their tail, and they needed to get alert, get with a plan, and as glorious as a hot shower and soapy male body sounded, it wasn’t getting the apocalypse settled onto the backburner. Instead she offered him a look, promise and rain-checks burning in her jade green eyes.
“Need to get out there and start working on how to keep Dawn away from Glory. I think you should probably tend to yourself there, soldier.” She gave him a saucy wink, and his cock twitched with the thought of that tending, and he jumped from the bed, the sheet flung to the side.
Buffy’s gasp was voluble and awestruck.
“Oh God,” she exclaimed, pointing in a daze at the one part of him that she really wanted to be introduced to. It made her strength waver at the sight of it, and his cock swelled even more at her unbroken gaze.
“See something you like, luv?” Amusement made his voice thick, layered over the lust and wanting.
“Oh yeah!” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, her hands itched to hold and set her mark upon his skin.
With a childish play of ‘peek-a-boo’ she clapped her hands over her eyes.
“We so don’t have time for this right now.” She felt under and around herself, and with her eyes tightly closed she pulled out the grotty sheet and threw it at him. “Cover up, soldier. We need to get a move on.”
The quiet rustle of the sheet gave her courage and she again opened her eyes, stupidly disappointed that he had taken her advice and covered up. She pouted then jumped at Spike’s burst of laughter.
“Come here, pouty.”
She rose from the bed and made her way warily to him. Once she was close enough he flashed the sheet open and grabbed her, pulling her against his hardand naked body. She eeped before winding her arms around his neck and burying her face against his chest. More dried blood scratched against her cheek, and another grimace of revulsion held her in thrall.
“You really need a shower. All this dried blood is so not a turn on.”
He hissed, affronted.
“I’ll have you know, luv, that plenty of women out there would see this as the ultimate in sexiness.”
Jealousy gripped her heart for a moment before she realised he was teasing, and her eyes softened once again in affection. Offering her lips she briefly pecked his mouth and then his jaw, pulling away before her obsession with his skin became a problem.
“I’ll go find you some clothes.” Her voice was husky and she was consumed with a physical need to be with him, skin on skin, but the momentary flash of panic on his face brought her back down and she clung to him in a crushing hug. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear, her teeth nibbling playfully on the lobe. “I’ll be back soon…never leaving you.” The last was said as she stared with unwavering certainty into his eyes, and he nodded, strengthening his posture and taking a chance.
Another kiss and she was gone, the door clicking behind her. The bathroom loomed before him, and with a shrug he admitted to himself that water sounded like ‘the best thing on the bloody planet right about now’. He couldn’t remember the last time he had washed.
With an awkward sense of deja-vu, Buffy bumped into Angel on the other side of the door. They stood in silence until the sound of pipes groaning a protest told them that Spike was now under a flow of gushing hot water. For Buffy, the image set her heart thumping hard. Angel raised a brow in query, a very slight smile turning the corners of his mouth while he looked down at her face.
“I guess you were able to help him, then?” He looked at her wrist, the jagged wound healed but still on display. She rubbed it in slight distraction, unaware that his eyes had rested there.
“Yeah.” Her voice was saturated with relief. “It was touch and go there for a while, though.”
Angel nodded, grateful for his postponed grief.
“We are all meeting in the foyer in about twenty. I brought up some stuff for you and Spike. Had a feeling you might want to freshen up before we went out.” His eyes swept over the crumpled fabric of her clothing, the tiny flecks of blood covering most of the surface. Her eyes lit up as she spied her bag and she seized it gratefully. His other hand held a bundle of black. The fabrics were different, wool and leather. She looked up at Angel, a devious smile curling her lips as she imposed the outfit on her mind’s picture of Spike. She almost licked her lips.
“He didn’t have much stuff that hadn’t been slashed by the girls. Bought this for him in the hope he’d recover. Looks like a good thing I did. I’ve got his duster in my room. I’ll bring it downstairs.” He handed over the clothes and turned to move back up the corridor. “Remember, twenty minutes.”
An absent nod was his answer as she let herself back into the room. Poised outside the bathroom door, she stripped, determined to shake Spike up as much as he had her.
“Okay, you. Out you get. My turn to look pretty.” He stepped out of the shower recess and allowed his eyes to goggle at the sight before him. Words deserted him as his mouth hung open, his body turning as she walked with quiet confidence past him and under the spray of water.
“Can you get me a towel, baby,” she cooed and he melted further into the tiled floor.
He left the towel on the lowered toilet lid and made his way back into the other room, drying himself as he went. On the bed he found a pile of black and as he eyed it in confusion he moved to put on the articles. The leather pants slid up his legs in cool sensuality, the zip and stud closing him hard behind a wall of sensation he could barely control. A combination of Buffy’s nudity and the erotic slide of the pants made him desperately cling to held breath. The shirt was course, loose. It fell over his broad shoulders and draped over his torso like a curtain. But the air that circulated underneath whispered over his skin and prickled. He was so turned on he could barely move. Beside the bed he located his boots, partially tucked under the bed. Pulling them on he desperately tried to push back his horniness, thinking of Rupert in frilly dresses and Harris in a tutu complete with toe shoes, then he kept his back turned to Buffy as she entered the room and covered herself with clothing.
Her arms snaking around his waist brought him crashing back to awareness, her scent of fresh skin driving him wild, as the feel of her breasts against his back left their burning mark. He turned and seized her mouth, setting them both sizzling with the ferocity of his desire.
“We have to go meet everyone downstairs.” Her voice came out croaky, needy. “By the way…you look HOT!” Her mouth quirked in that way that showed she was smitten, and he clung to it with all the determination of a man who had found his salvation and would never let it pass by him again.
“Better go show off the new threads, then. After you, luv.”
With one last admiring look at his ass encased in black leather, she gave in to the lip licking and preceded him out the door.
A/N...coming closer to the end...begging for feedback...and if anyone doesn't know, Schehrezade and I will begin posting a collaborative fic in live journal on Thursday...come along and check it out...we are very excited about it. To find us, do a LJ search for megan_schez and please give us lots of lovely feedback...