*God, why doesn’t she open the freakin’ door?* Buffy wondered desperately as she slammed her fist urgently against the door of Anya’s tiny, run-down apartment again, several times.
Someone at the next door down the hallway peered out at her with a resentful glare. “It’s 9:30 in the morning on a Saturday, lady! Show some respect, would ya?”
At that moment, the fist that was much too strong for the small frame of the pretty blonde went right through the wood of the cheap door, and Buffy withdrew her hand with a little hiss of pain, shaking it as she bounced on her heels a bit with a little grimace.
“Crap,” she muttered. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Ow.”
She glanced up at the wide-eyed man who was staring at her in disbelief – and rising alarm. “What are *you* looking at?” she demanded irritably, and he quickly ducked back into the relative safety of his own apartment.
Just then, Anya finally opened the door, staring dubiously at the new hole in it, and then back up at the nearly panicked Slayer who had made it. She stepped back to allow Buffy to come in, commenting calmly as she did, “I hope you’re planning on paying for that. I can hardly keep up with the rent around here.”
She paused, giving her broken door a regretful look as she added, “But I might not have to worry about that much longer.”
“Sorry, Anya,” Buffy replied automatically in a hurried, breathless voice that said without saying it that whatever concern was on her mind was far more important than the broken door or Anya’s housing concerns.
Buffy just had no concept of how difficult it was for an ex-vengeance demon with very little experience at even being *human* -- let alone any other sort of experience – to keep from becoming one of the very small percentage that made of Sunnydale’s homeless population.
“I just *really* need to talk to you, it’s really important, it’s just that this whole dominance mating whatever sort of stupid ritual I ended up doing is turning out to be seriously scary and…” Her voice broke off as she frowned down at her hand, bleeding in several places from its run-in with the door.
“Do you have any band-aids?” she finished in a small, pouty voice that made Anya think of a small – and quite spoiled – child.
With a weary sigh, she put the damaged door out of her mind and headed for the bathroom to get her first aid kit. Apparently, Buffy’s situation could not wait. Or at least, Buffy was not going to *let* it wait. Her boyfriend’s best friend’s belief that the world revolved around her and whatever her current crisis happened to be could be very annoying, Anya thought, not for the first time, as she walked back into her tiny living room, first aid kit in hand.
Especially when said boyfriend seemed to agree with that belief.
She quietly sat down beside Buffy and opened the first aid kit, taking out antiseptic wipes, ointment, and band-aids. Buffy did not say a word as she carefully cleaned and bandaged her injured hand, taking deep, even breaths in an apparent attempt to calm herself.
“Are you calm enough to be coherent yet, because I’m not feeling terribly patient at the moment, and I could end up getting testy with you,” Anya said matter-of-factly when she had finished treating Buffy’s hand. She was not being sarcastic or snide – just honest, as usual.
Xander had told her that she got “testy” with him much too often. She had asked him what “testy” meant, and he had told her that it meant irritable and impatient and getting upset over little, insignificant things – and sighed in exaggerated irritation at having to explain yet another “obvious” detail of human life to her.
Anya thought Xander was the testy one.
Buffy nodded slowly, her eyes wide and solemn. “I – I think so,” she said in a near whisper. “Anya – Anya, it’s awful. I don’t know – I don’t know why I’m doing the things I’m doing – and Spike – Anya, I can’t believe what I just…oh, God…” she moaned softly, lowering her head to run her fingers back quickly through her hair in a gesture of helpless, tense frustration.
“Um, Buffy – you’re starting up with the incoherence and not making sense,” Anya informed her, not unkindly. “Please back up a little. What exactly did you *do*?”
Buffy looked back up at her, a bit startled. The thought of actually telling Anya about the little scene that had just taken place in her kitchen was horrifying to her. She could scarcely believe it herself, it had been so vicious and pointlessly cruel. She did not want anyone to know about the horrible, heartless things she had just done.
But Anya knew more about the whole situation than anyone else. If there was anyone that Buffy could talk to about this at the moment, it would be her.
And she desperately needed someone to talk to.
“I hurt him, Anya,” she whispered in a voice that sounded lost and scared. “I – I just – I treated him like – like he was nothing. I hurt him – and – and I enjoyed it.” The look in her eyes was horrified, disbelieving.
Anya was alarmed by her words, coming to the quick conclusion that maybe this time – maybe Buffy was right. Maybe her personal predicament actually *was* a bit more important than the broken door.
“Buffy,” she said slowly, cautiously, her eyes focused in a concerned frown on the wide, anxious eyes of the Slayer. “Is Spike all right?”
Buffy’s distant eyes appeared to be focused on a memory, rather than the girl sitting beside her on the couch, watching her warily. She looked up at her, shaking her head a little as she said, “What? Oh…yes…I mean…I think so. I didn’t – I didn’t hurt him – too bad.”
She shook her head again, her words driving home the reality of what had happened – that she had to even *say* that she didn’t hurt him “too bad”. Why had she hurt him at all?
“Oh, my God. Anya, what’s happening to me?” she asked in a desperate, pleading voice, her eyes downcast.
“I don’t know,” Anya replied slowly. “But Buffy – it sounds like this is getting serious. You really need to tell Giles, and we need to figure this out. Before – someone – gets hurt. Worse.” She paused, hesitant, before she asked, “What exactly did you do?”
Buffy opened her mouth to reply, then just shook her head again before resting it in her hands. “I can’t, Anya…I can’t even begin to explain it. It wasn’t all even – it wasn’t all -- *physical*…I mean…you really would have had to have been there.” She paused, releasing a soft, dark laugh. “But I’m *really* glad you weren’t.”
Anya was silent, waiting for her to go on.
Suddenly, Buffy looked up, eyes wide with a dawning idea. “Anya – I don’t think I need to be alone with Spike right now. I mean – it feels like I can’t – can’t keep control around him. But – but I want to be sure he’s – okay. Could you go back to the house with me? Maybe if someone else is there, I won’t – I mean…”
“Of course,” Anya replied immediately.
By now she was quite concerned herself about Spike’s condition, and with Buffy being all vague and cryptic with her responses, she knew she was not going to really find out anything useful from the Slayer. Not yet, anyway. Maybe Spike would be a bit more forthcoming about what had happened.
*Bloody hell, what just happened here?* Spike wondered, his mind racing as he paced frenetically back and forth across the Slayer’s living room, playing over the sequence of events again and again in his head – skipping a few parts for the sake of his own peace of mind.
The startling but exciting question of what could possibly have happened to keep his chip from firing was a welcome distraction from the more disturbing questions regarding Buffy’s cruel, vicious behavior toward him. He shuddered even to remember the words she had said to him, the way she had gloated and mocked him about his feelings for her – the power that she held over him because of her claim.
The pain from the burns on his back – already almost healed – was nothing compared to the merciless things she had said to him, driving home the point with brutal clarity that he meant absolutely nothing to her. In her absence, he felt his anger rising in response to his hurt, a sense of outrage at the sheer cruelty of it, at the way she had used him, taken liberties with his body and his emotions, only to toss him aside like so much used up garbage.
Well, he would show her! He did not know why or how it had happened, but things were different now! He didn’t know if his chip would still fire if he attempted to harm another human – if it was him or the Slayer that had changed – but one thing was certain. The chip had not fired when he had tried to hurt *Buffy* -- which left him free to try to hurt her again, if he so chose. Nothing to hold him back.
Except for the bloody claim.
It occurred to him with a sense of dismay that the physical ability to hurt Buffy without experiencing excruciating pain was fairly useless, considering the fact that she could stop him with a single, authoritative command, such as she had delivered several times since the claim had been made – and *then* proceed to deliver the excruciating pain that the chip would not.
*You can fight it, mate,* he encouraged himself. *It’s not bloody *impossible* to disobey her. Just – bloody difficult is all – you can do it.*
But he remembered the irresistible compulsion he had felt to obey her commands before – and knew with a sinking feeling in his stomach that even if he *could* manage to resist the compulsion of the claim and disobey her, the struggle it would cause him would be enough to allow her to easily gain the upper hand again – causing this scenario to also end in excruciating pain.
*Bugger.*
He was still lost in his own thoughts, trying to think of a way to use this new-found freedom, small though it seemed in light of his entire situation, to his advantage, when he heard the sound of the Slayer’s key in the door.
When he saw Anya come in behind Buffy, he was relieved that he had taken time to put his shirt back on after Buffy had left. In the wake of her vicious attack, he had simply felt too vulnerable and exposed, and the chafing fabric against the wounds on his back and his throat was small price to pay for a shred of dignity and security.
And with that thought, came a new sense of anger at the girl who had taken those things from him in the first place. Why should he feel relieved that he had put on the shirt and covered the evidence of the things she had done to him – covered her sins? It would serve her right if he let Demon Girl see every single mark she had left on him these past few days! Out the Slayer for the depraved, cruel little bint she had turned out to be!
But he knew in his heart that he could not do that. Besides the fact that his own pride would not allow him to let anyone see the abuse she had dealt him, there was a part of him that for some reason, wanted to protect her from the shame of the revelation. Maybe it was the claim – maybe something else – but in spite of himself, he wanted to spare Buffy the embarrassment.
His thoughts were cut short when his eyes met those of the Slayer – wide and searching as she stared at him, her expression grave. He nodded curtly at her and turned away, fiddling nervously with some object that he did not even see on one of the living room end tables.
The sound of Anya’s cell phone ringing broke the silence, and she took it out, frowning at the caller ID screen – then smiling as she saw who it was. She held up an apologetic finger to Buffy as she opened it and spoke into the phone.
As was typical for Anya and Xander’s conversations, it only took a few moments for the conversation to turn – well, personal. “Excuse me for a second,” Anya said to Buffy with a silly, giddy smile, heading for the porch. At Buffy’s alarmed look she added, “I’ll be *right back*, I promise.”
She stepped outside, closing the door behind her – leaving Buffy alone with her sins.
Spike had not missed Anya’s apologetic tone, the way she had stressed to Buffy reassuringly that she would not be long. “Scared to be alone with me, Slayer?” he said in a quietly mocking tone, not turning toward her or even looking up as he continued to toy with the knick-knacks on the end table.
“Hardly,” Buffy scoffed with a harsh little laugh, before she even thought about it, only realizing the mistake of that response when she saw Spike’s almost imperceptible flinch at the disparaging tone of her voice.
He looked up at her, some indistinguishable emotion mingled with the unmistakable fire of anger in his eyes. “Well maybe you should be,” he said softly.
Buffy was startled by the bold response, the first defiance she had seen in Spike since the claim. Well – the second, she amended in her mind – the first being that shove in the kitchen earlier.
This comment evoked the same response in her, though she fought once again to suppress it. Her eyes narrowed in anger, something in her rising up and calling for her to drive that insolence and rebellion out of him. He was supposed to be submissive to her – to obey her without question – not to defy her openly like this. A part of her wanted to walk over to him and strike him down for his audacity.
And that part of her terrified the rest of her.
She stayed where she was for a moment, afraid to approach him – not because of his threatening words, but because she was afraid of what *she* might do. An inner war raged within her, her sense of morality and her concern for this creature before her that was so thoroughly hers, battling with the dark rage that was new and frightening to her, and yet felt so much a part of her – as if it had always been there.
Spike watched her closely, trying to gauge her response to his words. He was well aware that it had been dangerous, but a part of him wanted to provoke her. He was torn, wanting to test the limits of the claim and use his new-found freedom from the chip – at least where Buffy was concerned – to make her pay for abasing and violating him as she had done.
And yet, he knew that at this point that would hardly be wise. If she managed – which she easily could – to subdue him with the authority of her command, he would be at her mercy again, the only change being that she would know about the malfunctioning of his chip – and she would be seriously pissed off.
She laughed softly, and he heard a dangerous note in the sound. He could see the anger in her eyes, though it was still restrained, as she replied quietly, “I don’t think so, Spike.” She paused. “Maybe I’m just tiring of your company.”
He suppressed another flinch at her harsh words, and studied her face for a moment longer before making his expression indifferent and shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps you’re right.” He turned his back on her again, returning his attention to the end table. “I *know* I’m tiring of yours.”
It was a lie. He needed her, and he knew it. Her words had hurt terribly, and he was only trying to defend his already badly injured emotions by shooting them back at her.
Apparently they hit their mark.
He heard and sensed her sudden approach, spinning around to face her just as she reached him, leaning back over the end table as she moved in close to him with a calm, controlled smile.
“Are you?” she asked softly, reaching a hand out – and he knew what her goal was.
And he was determined not to let her achieve it. Not this time. His hand rose quickly to cover the vulnerable spot on his throat, covered by the turtleneck he was wearing, but he knew still open to her touch – unless he made it otherwise. As difficult as it was, knowing the terrifying fury he would see there, he made himself meet her eyes firmly, calmly.
Her eyes were wide with stunned, incredulous anger. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a dangerously soft voice, pressing in closer, her hand reaching back to grip his hair at the back of his head, pulling his head back in a threatening way.
He could feel the power of her possessive rage, her fury at his daring to deny her what was hers – mingled with his own desire for her touch. The mark beneath his hand burned, ached, with a physical longing for her. But he was determined to be strong. He would not let her do again what she had done that morning.
His breathing quickened slightly, involuntarily, and he closed his eyes – but he did not move his hand. “Don’t rightly know, love,” he admitted in a voice just above a whisper. “But I know what you’re *not* doing. Not this time.”
She was silent for a moment, not moving or making a sound, and he waited in breathless anticipation, unsure of how she would react, his mind racing ahead. He was well aware that he might be fighting a losing battle, if he resorted to brute force to get her way. True, he could fight her now. But the moment he removed his protecting hand from her mark, it would be vulnerable to her again.
And he knew that if she managed to touch him there – the battle would be lost in an instant.
Suddenly, the front door opened again, and Anya came back inside, closing her cell phone and putting it away. She froze when she saw the little scene – the Slayer, and her vampire mate, backed up against the wall in their tense little stand off that had barely begun.
“Um…sorry, Buffy…that was Xander,” Anya said slowly. “I – kind of needed to take that.” She paused before adding pointedly, emphatically, “But I’m here now. So…”
Buffy’s hand in Spike’s hair slowly eased, then slid down to the back of his neck, rubbing slowly for a moment in a gesture that might have been affection, before releasing him completely.
She knew what she was doing. The slight massaging motion of her hand pulled at the mark under his hand, though she didn’t actually touch it, and as her hand moved away, he felt a deep desire to back down – to uncover the mark to her and let her touch him, let her do whatever she wanted – if only she’d fill the craving building again deep inside him.
But the cold smirk in her eyes as he opened his to look at her told him that she wouldn’t, even if he let her – even if he begged her to.
“Fine,” she said in a soft voice of unconcern, with a little shrug, as she stepped back, easing the relentless pressure of her nearness to him. “Have it your way, Spike.” She paused, adding under her breath as she moved away, “We’ll see how long *that* lasts.”
His heart sank as she moved away from him to approach Anya, the little encounter – and him – seemingly forgotten completely.
He mattered that little to her.
And he wondered, as her last words echoed in his mind, if he would prove to be strong enough to resist the pull of her claim, the powerful desire for her that remained in spite of the cruel way she had treated him. Even now, a part of him longed to go to her, to tell her that he had changed her mind, and beg her to touch him.
He had to be strong, he told himself, almost desperately. He had to resist her. But as she spoke to Anya for a moment, and then headed up the stairs at a slow, leisurely pace, without so much as a glance in his direction, he knew that it was going to be more difficult than he had thought.
The limits of his strength were going to be severely tested.
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