Spike was lost in his whirling, confusing thoughts, as he rose from the bed and began to get ready, as Buffy had instructed. His entire world had just changed, literally overnight – and it was an awful lot for him to take in. New, undefinable sensations and emotions swept through him, and though he could hardly begin to make sense of it all, he felt that he himself had changed in some profound, powerful way.
He winced slightly as he pulled his black t-shirt on over his head, the fabric brushing accidentally across the tender, torn flesh of his throat – and then his eyes widened, as all at once the reality of what had happened sank in with the twinge of pain from the contact.
Bloody hell, it had really happened!
The Slayer had claimed him.
His hand rose to rest cautiously over the mark, cupping it without touching it, as he stood there, trying to process all that had happened to him the night before – all that he was feeling now. And it was a lot.
He could still feel the sensation of her hands, her body, on his, the way her touch had set him on fire with longing for her, inspiring a need in him like nothing he had ever experienced. Her kiss on his lips – soft and tender in a few brief, precious moments; passionate and forceful so much more frequently – he could still taste, as if it had only been moments ago.
But the one sensation that he could not feel was the sweet agony of her hand, her mouth, on the mark she had left. It had faded into memory almost immediately, leaving only the burning, consuming desire to feel it again.
It was an aching hunger, deeper than any blood lust or human need for nourishment. It was a yearning, a desperation, for the connection she had forged between them – as if a part of him was missing, and he would only be whole again when she was near him, touching him, again.
And it was that thought that truly terrified him.
The intense need he felt for Buffy surpassed even the longing he had felt for Drusilla, during the hundred years they had spent together. He did not just want her – it was a craving, a consuming, desperate need. When Buffy had threatened to leave him the night before, he had never felt anything to compare with the terror that had come ove rhim – a sheer desperation to do whatever it took to keep her from walking away from him.
In fact, even when he had tried to leave *her*, immediately after the claim was made, he had found it very difficult – as if something was holding him, pulling him back to her. Every step away from her had been a struggle, like trudging through knee-high water – and when she had found him, a part of him had felt an intense relief just to be with her again.
And at the same time, the look in her eyes ahd set something inside him to trembling, some part of him recognizing that he had crossed an unseen line in attempting to escape her. And she had shown him that night, beyond all doubt, just how much power she held over him. She had overwhelmed him, surrounded and subdued him, until she had managed to reduce him to pleading, trembling submission.
He had been lost in a confusing, whirling vortex of sensations that had made him both dread and long for her touch. She held the power to make him feel incredible pleasure – or terrifying punishment – with a single touch. By the end of the night, he was completely aware of how thoroughly this amazing, stunning creature possessed him. He was unquestionably, totally hers.
And he wanted to be.
In the morning, he had been apprehensive, uncertain as to how she would treat him. Would the Slayer who had claimed him feel that his rebellion merited further punishment, or would she see that she had already thoroughly convinced him of her authority, and secured his obedience? Truthfully, he had been terrified at her approach, though he had tried not to show it.
But then, she had been so tender, so gentle and comforting, and he had felt in her touch the reassurance that he *was* hers, not only to control and to punish, but to cherish and protect. Her hard, possessive hands of the night before became soft, affectionate, making him feel cared for and treasured, and causing his fears to evaporate like mist in the sun.
Until she walked out the door – taking the sunlight with her.
She had left him. Yes, with a tender kiss, and plans to meet later that morning. But without the convincing factor of her touch, her smile, now that he was alone with his thoughts, he found his doubts returning.
She had only initiated the whole thing in the first place in an effort to dominate him. She was wise enough to know that, chipped or not, he was still a master vampire, and therefore still a threat. Therefore, she had wanted to make sure that he was in submission to her.
Well – it had worked, but apparently not quite as she had planned. He felt sick inside as he wondered again if the whole thing had just been a dreadful accident on her part. Or worse, if she had known the impact of what she was doing for him, but not cared, seen it only as a convenient means to the end of getting him under her control.
Once again he felt the powerful need to be with her, to have his doubts reassured by her nearness, and feel again the touch that would affirm beyond all doubt that he mattered to her, that he was hers – and that she *wanted* him to be.
Gingerly he touched the sore spot on his neck, wincing slightly at the pain of the contact. He wished in that moment that he could have seen his reflection, so that he could see the Slayer’s mark. He could tell by touch that it was badly bruised, and probably red at the place where her teeth had pierced his flesh, judging by the strange warmth that was there – though the rest of his skin was cool as usual.
He remembered suddenly what Buffy had said earlier, about going to meet the Watcher and her friends later that day. He frowned slightly, wondering what she planned to tell them about last night. He could hardly imagine the Watcher’s reaction when he heard, let alone when he saw the livid puncture wound on his throat, and realized that his Slayer had put it there.
Spike moved suddenly to the antique dresser beside the bed, where he and Drusilla had kept some of their things when they had lived there – still keeping up the pretense of being together, even though Dru had been sleeping with Angelus in a manner too obvious to even be called “behind his back”.
He dug through one of the drawers, where he had kept his clothes. Around the time of Acathla, packing would have aroused the suspicions of Angelus and Dru, so when he had taken Dru away in his old DeSoto, they had left with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. This was the first time since his return to Sunnydale that he had had the chance to return to the mansion, so his things were still here – untouched.
He finally found a black cotton turtleneck, that he had rarely worn back then. He used to wear it on occasion when he was going out hunting and wanted to cover the bite marks left on his own neck by his enthusiastic, insane lover, bite marks that would have drawn attention and aroused suspicions, and possibly driven potential meals away.
That was back when he *could* hunt, unfettered by wheelchair or chip, back when his lover had still preferred him to any other. Before his entire life had been turned upside down more than once in a matter of a few short weeks.
A lifetime ago.
He slipped the t-shirt off and replaced it with the turtleneck, feeling to be sure that the mark was completely covered. The material against the wound was chafing, and felt too hot. He had the sudden impulse to take it off, wanting for some reason for it to be revealed, but he was sure that Buffy would not want the others to see it – not just yet.
Once he was sure that he was ready to leave, he took the blanket from the bed and made his way down through the tunnels that ran under the mansion, that took him out to the street a short way from the Slayer’s house.
He sprinted the distance from the exit of the tunnel to the Slayer’s back door, slipping into the kitchen, relieved and mildly surprised that his invitation had never been revoked. Buffy was no where in sight, and the kitchen was bright with sunlight, so he ducked down the stairs into the basement, pulling the door behind him – just as he heard the doorbell ring.
As he heard her footsteps on the stairs above him, he could smell her – the sweet scent of her shampoo, the fresh, clean smell of the soap she had used, combined with that intoxicating scent that was uniquely hers – she had just gotten out of the shower.
He heard her go to the door, and let Anya in. As they moved to the kitchen, he opened his mouth to make his presence known, to ask Buffy to close the blinds so that he could come out into the open.
Then – he suddenly stopped.
*What does she need to talk to her about in private so badly, anyway? And why did she want me to wait?* he wondered, his eyes narrowing in suspicion born of his insecurity.
He debated for a moment, then edged nearer to the closed door, his decision made. He would wait – listen – to see what the Slayer had to say before he made himself known to her.
It couldn’t hurt to get a bit of inside information.
He listened, breathless with apprehension, as Buffy haltingly, awkwardly, described to Anya – in *very* limited terms – the events of the night before. He felt a cold, sick feeling come over him at the horrified, stricken sound of the Slayer’s voice as she spoke of the things she had done, as if it were a terrible, dreadful thing of which she had every reason to be ashamed.
When Anya told her that what they had done was a mating claim, he gripped the banister tightly, shaking with fearful anticipation of Buffy’s reaction. He had known that much already, though he wondered about the ramifications of its being donw in the midst of the dominance ritual – but Buffy apparently hadn’t had a clue.
He froze as he heard her ask in a whisper, “Can we undo it?”
The words were like a slap in his face.
*She wants to undo it – she hates me that much – she only wanted to control me…*
The thoughts rolled through his mind on a repeating track, making him miss Anya’s response, and the next bit of the conversation. He already knew the answer, anyway. A mating claim, accepted as he had accepted hers, was eternal.
There was no way to undo it.
He was eternally mated to a woman who despised him, who regretted her claim already.
He half-listened as the Slayer finished her conversation with Anya, and walked her to the door, telling her she would see her at the Magic Box that evening. Anya was going to let the others know to meet her there after dark, as it would be easier for Spike to travel then.
He waited, unsure of what to do. It was only nine o’clock; Buffy was not expecting him for another hour. But he could hardly imagine facing her, even then – knowing how she really felt about what they had done.
He listened as he heard her soft footsteps on the stairs again, heading back up. He took his chance to crack the door, trying to gauge the safest route outside – and saw that at some point during her conversation with Anya, she had closed the blinds – apparently in preparation for his arrival.
A sense of hurt anger came over him. *Bloody wasted effort,* he thought sarcastically. *Cause as far as she’s concerned, I’m not gonna show. I don’t bloody care. Bond or no, I’m not stickin’ around where I’m not wanted.*
He stepped up into the kitchen, empty, and now completely safe, and went to the door a few yards away, fighting back tears of hurt and shame that filled his eyes. The tears only made him furious. Why should he even care? It was the bleedin’ claim, was all! Before that, he had wanted nothing more than to rip the Slayer’s bloody throat out! These emotions were lies, this feeling that told him he needed her, cared for her, wanted to be with her – all lies, only results of the claim – not truly from his heart.
He could – and would – walk away.
He realized suddenly that he had been standing by the door, the handle in his hand, for a minute or so, engaged in his mental rant, trying to build up the courage or anger or whatever emotion would overcome his doubts and allow him to simply walk out that door.
*Just bloody do it!* he snapped at himself viciously, despising the weakness that stayed his hand. *Just open the soddin’ door and walk out. Do it!*
His hand slowly turned the knob, opening the door a few inches, as he shifted the blanket in his other hand in preparation to shield himself from the deadly sunlight that filtered through the space he had made.
Suddenly, a small hand closed over his and pushed the door shut firmly, as a soft, powerful arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him back, and he felt the warm pressure of her body against him.
He closed his eyes determined to resist, though he could feel the longing rising up in him. He wanted her so desperately.
“You’re not leaving again – are you?” Her voice was low and warm, sweet as honey to his ears, but sharp with an edge of warning to it that sent a chill down his spine in memory of her reaction to his last attempt to leave.
He swallowed hard, determined to be strong, and forced the word out. “Yes.” He did not turn around, his head bowed, unable to face her after what he had heard her say.
Not that he could have turned around, anyway. Her arm around his waist tightened slightly, her body pressing nearer, as she slid her hand on his up to his wrist, and pulled his hand back from the doorknob.
“I really don’t think so,” she said softly, reaching up to speak close to his ear, before she backed off suddenly, spinning him around by the arm and pushing him forcefully back against the door, demanding wordlessly that he face her.
He felt the anger rolling off of her in waves at his defiant intention to leave – but he did not flinch, did not relax the stubborn set of his expression, though he still did not look at her.
He was angry too, damn it!
“What do you bloody care anyway? I should think you’d be glad to see me go!” he snapped in a hurt, resentful voice.
“No,” she spoke softly but firmly, yet with a hint of dnager in her voice as she reached out to take the blanket – necessary to his escape – from his hand, tossing it to the floor behind her as she moved in boldly closer to him.
“Right,” he spat out bitterly with a humorless little laugh. “That’s just bloody great! Bet you’d rather I went this way, anyway, wouldn’t you? Meet the sun? Rid you of your little eternal problem?” As he spoke he jerked his wrist out of her grip and fumbled for the doorknob, not really intending suicide, intending nothing more than a dramatic gesture to reinforce the strong emotion he was trying to express.
Buffy took it a bit more seriously thatn that.
“*No*!” she snarled angrily, gripping his arms suddenly and slamming him back against the door so hard that his head knocked into the wood and he bit back a cry of pain.
He closed his eyes, turning his head away as she moved in closer – a feat he had thought to be impossible. He could sense the same powerful anger coursing through her that he had seen in her the night before, mingled oddly with the protective concern she had shown that morning.
And then, he felt a deceptively gentle hand at his throat, in a mimickry of a choke hold, but loose enough that his breathing was not obstructed in the slightest, her thumb falling just slightly to the side of her mark, covered by his shirt.
He drew in a sharp breath in anticipation – before he remembered that he was trying to resist her. It was a trick – nothing more. Just an attempt to dominate him. She did not mean by it what he had desperately hoped that she did.
“Buffy,” he whispered, breathing hard, his head turned away. “No…don’t, Buffy…” His voice was low, firm in its intent – but trembling with the need for her that he could not suppress.
“You don’t mean that,” she said with a soft smile, seeking his gaze and drawing it back to her with her own. “You don’t want me to stop…”
“Yes,” he gasped out as her thumb edged nearer to the mark. “Yes, I – I do…Buffy…stop,” he whispered desperately – though he was not sure at this point what he was desperate for.
“Your mouth says stop,” she whispered, her lips a mere breath away from his skin, staring up into his eyes with an unearthly light in her own, and he got that same sensation he had had the night before, that this was not merely Buffy. “But everything else is saying the opposite…your body…your voice…”
She paused, her low, seductive murmur taking on an almost hypnotic quality as she finished, “…even your thoughts, Spike. You *don’t* want me to stop. You want this as much as I do.” A low, throaty chuckle that was somehow cruel rose in her throat before she added with a smirk, “More.”
“No…” he whispered his protest, little more than a breath and thoroughly unconvincing – especially followed by the low moan he could not hold back, as her thumb sightlessly found its goal, and his back arched slightly, shifting his body toward her, with the pleasure of it.
Feeling his swelling erection forming against her, the Slayer smiled. “Yes…” she whispered, pressing just slightly harder, her smile widening when his knees buckled slightly and he braced himself against the wall behind him with his hands. “Yes…”
He did not object again, gasping as he tried uselessly to control his own reaction to her – and failed.
God, he was lost to her! Utterly lost to her desires. He tried to fight it – but his need was simply too great.
Buffy slowly eased the pressure, raising her thumb from the mark, and he fought back a little whimper of desire.
“I’ll stop,” she said softly. “If you want me to.” The words were not a threat; her tone was simple and honest, and he knew that while she was making a point, she meant what she said.
If he said “no” again right now – she would stop, and allow him to walk out the door.
If he said “yes”, she would make no effort to punish his useless resistance by withholding herself from him, as she had done the night before. She would give him what he craved.
Time stood still for a moment in the dimly lit kitchen as she waited patiently, calmly, for his response.
He tried. He really did. He knew that her motives in all of this were not the same as his – that his need was greater, and therefore so was her power, and if he wanted to break it in some small way, this might be his only chance. He knew all of that.
But he also knew that if he did not speak, she was not going to touch him again – not going to fulfill that desperate need for connection, for that intimacy that he craved…
“Yes…” he whispered finally, slumping back slightly against the wall and raising his hands to take her arms and pull her closer to him. “Yes, Buffy…yes…”
She smiled a smile of genuine affection as she touched him again, reaching her other hand up to rest behind his neck and pull him down for a slow, intense kiss.
They had a lot of time to kill before sunset.
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