She stared at him with eyes that purposely didn't see him. Like she was looking straight through a clear pane of glass to the horizon on the other side. Weeks. They'd gone on like this for weeks. As he sat across from her in the Watcher's living room, Spike felt his fingers coil tightly around the handle of his coffee mug and begin to shake. The blood inside it splashed around in violent protest.
One by one her friends left the house...the door slammed behind them. Giles muttered something about a rare book in a box in the apartment complex storage facility and the sound of his keys jingling preceded his exit.
Finally there was nothing except the two of them and indirect sunlight. Brightness. No dark corners to hide in. Still, she didn't see him.
She shifted in the wing chair, taking her legs off of the arm and swinging her feet onto the ground. The motion made her golden hair fall to one side as well...and the fresh purple-red bruise on her scar screamed of the previous night's unspoken indiscretion. He wondered, as blood slipped down his throat and soothed back his demon, did her soldier boy ever consider who else might be giving her hickeys? Did he know how she'd been scarred? Or did he accept her explanations of "I burned it with a curling iron again!" and trust her implicitly? Oh, to be such a forthright young man.
Spike hadn't been one in quite some time.
He was, however, quite an accomplished slut. His tongue running across her skin...his teeth scraping her flesh...gave her pleasures she couldn't parallel. Pleasures she couldn't even admit to.
It was the real first sound in the room aside from her breathing and the blood sloshing around in his mug and then being consumed. He laughed as he set the blood up on a bookshelf and crossed the room. He laughed as her eyes widened with panic and her knuckles whitened.
No, her lovely face was pleading...no, don't force a confrontation. Wait till its dark. Wait till we're in an alley or behind a park bench or up against a crypt.
Not a chance.
"Slayer." He hissed it. What she was. What she was to him. His slayer. "Slayer, look at me."
She wouldn't. Her adorably stubborn chin jerked to the side and her hair covered her face. He dropped to his knees in front of her chair, trapping her in the seat. "No," she whispered. "I can't."
"Why not?" he demanded. "Do we wait till the lights are low, Pet? Do we wait till its black enough outside for my tongue to make you throb? Do we wait till you can turn your back on me and pretend I'm him? Because you still won't look at me," he pointed out as bitter bile constricted his throat.
"You're not him!" Her head came up, eyes blazing with shades of green and brown and even blue. "You could never be him!"
Her hands were clenched in her lap and he covered them with his...squeezing. Squeezing in a way that was not wholly comforting and not wholly painful either. Bones would not be broken. "I could be better."
Silence reigned again and their gazes locked. He felt like he was looking into her eyes for the first time. There was no blankness in them. Instead, there was every emotion that his sire had forced down into her private mind. The dark ones that she didn't share with her mortal lover. The things that didn't echo in her sunny laughter because she wouldn't allow them to.
"I could be better than what they made me..." he whispered, inclining his head towards an unknown right. The Initiative. "And I could be worse." He caressed the sides of her fingers gently. "You could be better than what he made you. Or you could be worse." Her lower lip trembled and she valiantly stopped it by chewing on it with her perfect white teeth. "What's your choice, Pet?"
Her answer was her bared throat.
He wanted to scream. His hungry demon leapt up inside him...tempting him to mime, as usual, the bite he never actually made. So she'd made her choice, had she? He rose up, pulling her forward on the edge of the chair. He wrapped one hand around the back of her neck and angled her head towards his. Her lips parted in a sigh of anticipation and her eyes grew glassy once more...like a drug addict craving her fix.
At the last second, he shifted upwards.
When his lips attacked hers, her tiny fists came up and began to strike at his chest. He ignored the blows, instead concentrating on the lemony taste of her mouth. He drew his tongue across the place she'd been worrying earlier with her teeth, licking the full contour of her bottom lip. Everything he'd been denied, up until this point, flooded his senses. The memories of her spellbound kisses welled up and became reality and he grabbed both her slender wrists in his free hand and continued his assault.
Before long, her fists were limp in his grasp. Her body was tender and pliant against his, remembering...remembering what it had been like to feel bound to someone and wildly free at the same time thanks to a stupid spell gone wrong. Thanks to something that had nothing to do with his sire. She kissed him back with an ardent, earnest, lust. She gave him her mouth.
In the daylight. In the middle of her Watcher's living room. Where, at any moment, keys could jingle into the lock and someone could walk in.
Her eyes were wide open. And they saw him. They recognized him for who and what he was.
"I'm a git for saying this...a bloody, stupid, git," he gasped against her skin, "but I think I may just love you."
"I know." A mischievous smile played on her lips and she pressed a fierce kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I know." Free words with no pain and no judgment. It was only then that he finally allowed her to gently urge his mouth to her neck.
This time when he licked the ragged scar up and down, when he scored the raised flesh with his canines, and made her head fall back and her skin flush with pleasure, the name she gasped was no accident.
It was truth.
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