She holds out her hands, and he crawls on top of her, kisses met with tears, and she's whispering apologies and endearments, mea maxima culpa, and I love you, Spike, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, over and over till he makes a strangled noise and turns his face away.
They're lying chest to chest, her noisy, broken heart, and his still one. She hears a single drop of water fall from the bathroom faucet, crashing loud in her ears, and he's pressed against her and she wants him, all of him, in her. Filling her lonely spaces, driving emptiness away. "Bite me," she pleads against his skin. Offers up her neck, pulsing and forbidden. "It's all I have for you," she says. "You know I don't really love anyone. But you can have this, instead."
His face is buried in her shoulder, his tears sprinkling her skin. "Love, I didn't want this," he sobs, "I didn't." His head jerks up, eyes yellow, sharp mouth agape. "But I did," he growls. And then his teeth are in her neck.
She convulses under him, heels drumming on the bed so loud she can't understand why they're not rushing in to stop him;
She forgot about the pain. Forgot how it felt like being pulled inside-out, how it seemed to stretch on for hours, warm and wet and centered on the exquisite, painful pull of his sucking mouth.
He swallows greedily; she can feel a tiny trickle of her blood roll from his mouth down, down to the sheets beneath her. That'll leave a stain, she thinks.
Now she can see him covering her, his form draped over her like a coat, like his coat - except he shed that skin. Dropped that paper-thin serpent-guise to the ground when he– when she–
There's no sound, now, but a slowing drumbeat, and the faraway sound of – screaming? Is she screaming? She doesn't think it's her.
There's no light now, either, and that's odd, because she knows she could see him, before. All she can make out now are words, buzzing 'round her. She wishes they'd go away, she's much too sleepy to listen to their droning.
"Buffy, oh, god, god, no, no, no, love, please, no, you can't"
She hears a curious sound, soft and slick, and then her head is lifted, and something soft and warm pressed against her lips. Whispered words, so strangely distant, drift to her ears.
"Buffy, love, you've got to drink...late...too much..."
The words fade in and out, she can't make sense of them. Why won't they just let her sleep?
"Open your mouth, dammit! Buffy, open your mouth, NOW."
Weakly, she obeys, the dark wave crashing down on her preceded by a bitter taste, by something falling, falling down her throat –
She bolts upright, shaking, the pounding, steady rhythm of her heart restored. She can still taste his blood in her mouth. When she wipes her hand frantically across her lips, she's surprised to see no stain. Her hands tremble, and her legs tremble, and the frightening part isn't the taste of him inside her, but the slick sheen of moisture between her legs, the yearning in her belly. The shameful, guilty secret presses down upon her, makes her small. Not that she loves the man. That she wants the monster, still.
She curls around her pillow, silent tears rolling slowly down her face, her shoulder, falling to stain the sheets below. The blood would have been easier to remove.