Spike’s heart sank as he watched the Slayer walking away from him up the stairs, a sense of panic rising in him that made something inside him want to run after her, to throw himself down in her path, at her feet, and beg her not to leave him.
And *that* made him bloody furious.
He was trying with everything in him to resist the power of her claim – to fight the overwhelming desire for her that was slowly but steadily consuming him – and yet he only wanted her more with every moment. She had done nothing but treat him like garbage from the moment she had made her claim. He should despise her, should find it easy to deny her the touch she had sought.
But it *wasn’t* easy – not at all. He craved her like he craved blood. More.
He hated the way she made him feel, the power she held over him, and wanted desperately to prove to her that he *could* resist – to make *her* be the one to long for *him*. He had seen the desire in her eyes when she looked at him, and he had heard what Anya had said in Buffy’s kitchen. No matter how cool and controlled she tried to be, he knew the truth.
Buffy wanted him.
And that gave him power over her as well – however slight. If he could just hold out longer than she could – he could manage to gain back a bit of his dignity – to break her hold over him, at least in some small way. But as he watched her slowly disappear up the stairs, without so much as a backward glance in his direction – while he could not take his eyes off her – he knew that he was not likely to win this particular little battle of wills.
*I am so completely buggered.*
A helpless sense of rage began to come over him. He wanted to beat her senseless – to fly at her with the fists and fangs she thought were useless, and remind her of who and what he really was. And yet – he didn’t, and not just because he was afraid she might overpower him. Somehow it felt – wrong – to attack her.
And that thought in itself was troubling. No – infuriating.
Whatever the Slayer had done, had she so messed with his mind that the idea of fighting her no longer seemed like a good one? He was William the Bloody, the soddin’ Slayer of Slayers!
What the bleedin’ hell had she *done* to him?
“Spike…” He barely registered the quiet, cautious voice as Anya approached him, watching him carefully. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head, his eyes closed, not looking at her, trying to control the violent fury that rose up in him, his demon’s rebellion at the realization of how thoroughly dominated he was. When a soft hand came to rest on his arm, trying to pull him out of his thoughts and back to the situation at hand, he shook it forcefully off.
Concerned not only by Buffy’s alarming behavior, but by the way Spike’s body was trembling with powerful repressed emotion, by his obvious state of upset, Anya pressed forward. “Spike,” she repeated insistently. “Did she hurt you? Are you okay?” As she spoke she moved in closer, thinking that she was still dealing with the chipped, harmless vampire that they had all become accustomed to during the past few weeks, and touched his arm again.
That assumption – and the touch – was a mistake.
“Just leave me be!” Spike snarled at her, gripping her wrist and yanking her hand off of him, before propelling her backward a few steps away from him with a hard shove.
Anya seemed more insulted and irritated than intimidated. She looked at her sore wrist for a moment, rubbing it resentfully as she said in an annoyed, questioning voice, “Okay…*ow*?”
Spike glanced up at her grudgingly, feeling bad already in spite of himself. After all, Anya had only been trying to be kind. And besides, he was beginning to think that the pretty little ex-demon might be the only one who could help him in this situation he had found himself in – that is, if he didn’t scare her off by hurting her before she could.
Hurting her…
*Oh, bollocks!*
Anya’s eyes widened with realization, and her gaze and tone became accusing as she repeated, “Ow!” The exclamation was a statement of fact, more than of pain.
She looked with suddenly wide, shocked eyes toward the stairs where Buffy had disappeared, and Spike realized with alarm that she was considering calling for the Slayer. He couldn’t blame the girl. She had just discovered that she was alone with a powerful master vampire who was free to hurt her any time he chose to – and she had no reason to believe that he would not choose to.
He moved with lightning speed, catching Anya’s arm and pushing her back against the wall, his hand covering her mouth tightly. “Anya,” he began urgently, his voice hushed as he looked her in the eye, desperately trying to make her understand. “Please listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you…aauuggh!!”
He tried to muffle his own yell of pain as the feisty redhead bit down hard on his hand, well aware that they were only a few yards from the stairs, and not wanting Buffy to hear and come down.
As he shook his injured hand with a hiss of pain, Anya actually laughed as she declared, “You better believe you’re not gonna hurt me! Let go!” As she spoke, she struggled to break his strong grip on her arm, her voice rising with her agitation. “You better.. mmmfff!”
Spike planted his hand firmly over her mouth again, pressing her back against the wall as he insisted in a desperate whisper, “Stop it, you silly bint, are you daft? I’m not going to hurt you! I just want to talk to you!”
Amazingly, Anya suddenly stopped struggling, her wide green eyes searching his.
“Please,” he whispered, feeling a premature sense of relief that she seemed to be listening. “I need to talk to you. I need you…to help me.”
Anya nodded slowly, her eyes serious and focused on his. Cautiously, he let go of her, his hand hovering over her mouth for a moment before moving away, as he began to feel more sure of her cooperation. He stepped back slightly, giving her room to move – which turned out to be a mistake.
He noticed the intent, vengeful look on her face a moment too late, as she delivered a hard kick to his shin with the pointed toe of her red pump. She was nowhere near as strong as he was, but she was mad, and the blow had caught him by surprise. He bent over with a groan, his hand going to his bruised leg, and she took the opportunity to take back her freedom of movement completely, slipping out from between Spike and the wall.
Assuming that she was going to call for Buffy first thing, Spike hurriedly gasped, his words coming out in a desperate rush, “If you tell her about the chip, I’m dead, Anya, please don’t tell her, the girl’s not right, she’ll kill me…”
When he heard no response, he looked up, his hands resting on his knees, expecting to see the ex-vengeance demon already halfway up the stairs – and was surprised to see her still standing there staring at him, arms crossed impassively over her chest. Her expression was half irritation, half triumph at her escape – but not the least bit scared.
“I know that, Spike,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Buffy’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal right now. I’m not about to tell her about the chip just so she can beat the crap out of you again, now that you’re even *more* pathetically helpless than you were *with* the chip.”
“Gee,” Spike muttered, standing up straight, slowly, holding her gaze. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, missing the sarcasm completely.
“So why’d you bloody kick me?” he demanded in irritation, barely managing to keep a pouting sound out of his voice that only would have contributed to her “pathetic and helpless” assessment of him.
She gave him a look that said clearly that she had just added “clueless” to the list.
“You threw me against the wall and covered my mouth, like I was some helpless little girl about to become your next snack!” she reminded him incredulously.
“One,” he pointed out in exasperation, counting on his fingers as he spoke in a loud whisper, still very conscious of the Slayer upstairs. “You were gonna tell Buffy. And two – if I’m so bloody helpless,” he added with a smirk. “why were you scared anyway? And three – you *are* a helpless little girl *now*, Anyanka.” He knew he was taking his anger out on the wrong woman – projecting his own insecurities onto her – but it still felt bloody good.
Anya was silent for a moment before responding calmly, holding his gaze with a look that was very serious, “Points one, two, *and* three – I am over a thousand years old. I was once a powerful demon renowned for my skill and artistry when it came to exacting vengeance on arrogant, over-confident, over-aggressive males who thought they could push women around just because they were bigger than them!”
As she spoke, her tone intense, she stepped closer to Spike, and he was surprised to find that he actually took a step back. This was a new side to Anya. She was not threatening him, he knew, and he was not afraid – but there was a new sense of – respect – building in him for her as she went on.
“Therefore, after a thousand years dealing with men who like to hurt women, I know every *possible* self-defense technique known to man, and some that aren’t – so as for being scared of you…” She shook her head and laughed softly before going on, her smile fading completely as she made her third point.
“And I recognize an unstable, emotionally unbalanced woman when I see one. And for whatever reason – Buffy’s not exactly stable at the moment.”
“Bloody right, she’s unstable!” Spike replied, a slight tremor in his voice as his mind played back over the events of the past few days. “Don’t know what’s wrong with her! I mean, she’s always been a raging bitch whose greatest joy was to make my life an unloving hell, but – but she’s always…” He hesitated, unsure how to finish the statement.
“Had a reason?” Anya suggested, with just the hint of a smile.
He shot her a dark look – followed by a little half-shrug as he admitted, “Well – yeah. But – I – I haven’t been *doing* anything to – to make her act this…” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard, half turning away from Anya in embarrassment as he felt his emotions rising up in him and valiantly fought them back down.
*Bloody hell, but the bint’s done a number on me!*
“Something is definitely wrong with her, Spike,” Anya said, her tone gentler now, and she moved instinctively closer to him. “You’re right. She wasn’t like this before. She said she feels like something else is controlling her. Something went wrong with the ritual. That must be why your chip stopped working, too. But whatever it is, we – we need to figure it out. I’m trying to get Buffy to tell Giles what happened, so – so he can help us find the answer…”
Spike scoffed, a soft, huffing sound in his throat. “Good luck with that,” he muttered. “Slayer’d rather dust me and be done with it than admit to her Watcher what she did to me. Not that he’d care anyway. Let the Slayer have her fun, he’d say. After all, it’s only Spike.” He paused, his sarcastic tone vanishing as he finished softly, “He bloody well deserves it.”
Anya had no response. She knew he was probably right – on all counts.
“Besides,” he added suddenly, looking up at her speculatively, “what do you need the Watcher for, anyway, Miss ‘I’m a bloody scary former demon with centuries of ancient knowledge – fear me!’?” His tone was mocking, but not cruelly so.
And he had a point.
She frowned thoughtfully. Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I can start looking into it myself, use some of my old contacts, see if I can’t figure it out on my own, since she won’t go to Giles. Yet.”
“Not on your own,” Spike corrected her. “I’m with you all the way on this one, Anyanka.” Now, the use of her old name was a sign of respect, rather than mockery. He recognized that she had the ability to help him, and appreciated that she seemed willing to do so.
“Only,” he hesitated, a little grimace passing his lips as he met her eyes. “When you say – old contacts – well – I really – don’t want it to get out in the demon community that I’m – well…”
“The Slayer’s love slave?” Anya supplied again.
The little chit was altogether *too* helpful.
“The chip thing is bad enough – and I know *that’s* got to be making the circuit as we speak,” he went on without confirming or denying her words.
Anya nodded. “I’ll be discreet.”
“Do you even know what that word means?” he asked her, but his tone was teasing in a kind way, and his smile was more open than it had been before. It was just such a relief to have found an ally in this miserable situation he was in.
“Yes,” Anya muttered darkly. “I hear it every time I open my mouth around Xander.”
“Wanker,” Spike muttered, irritated at the thought of the Slayer’s obnoxious friend. He had fortunately not spent that much time around him, but even he had noticed how disrespectful the boy tended to be to Anya.
Anya diplomatically ignored the comment and turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. “So – sometimes she’s normal, but other times she turns all psycho on you. Have you noticed what might be setting her off?”
Spike thought for a moment before replying with mild sarcasm, “Every time I move or speak?”
“Seriously, Spike.” Anya’s tone was slightly impatient, and he dutifully thought it over again. “She told *me*,” Anya offered. “that it set her off when you tried to leave.”
“Did it ever,” he agreed with a wide-eyed nod at the memory. “And – yeah, that’s what happened this morning, too! So – that would be the common thread, then?”
“What happened in here?” Anya asked. “A few minutes ago?”
Spike tried to remember. “I – I told her…” A light of understanding dawned in his eyes, as he finished, “I was tired of her.”
“She said she feels intensely possessive of you,” Anya stated matter-of-factly. “So if she thinks she’s gonna lose you – maybe that’s what does it.”
“Yeah,” he sneered his dismissal of that idea. “That’s why she goes to such great lengths to make sure I know how much she *doesn’t* need me – how little she actually cares!”
Anya heard the pain, the loneliness in his voice, but did not know what to say to make it better. She opted to simply move the conversation along again. “So maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s just…”
“Control,” Spike finished for her this time, the pieces clicking together in his mind. “It’s when I resist her. When I try to overcome her claim.”
“She wants you to submit completely. Absolute power over you,” Anya concluded softly.
“Not bloody likely,” Spike muttered, but his tone was defensive, and as he spoke his hand rose unconsciously to rub gently over the mark on his throat.
Any caught the gesture, her eyes focused on the spot. It was covered by his turtleneck, but she knew what Buffy had told her about biting Spike, and she knew about the power of a blood bond, and where it lay.
“She’s already got it, Spike,” she said softly.
When he noticed her eyes focused on his throat, he quickly lowered his hand. “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly, his eyes averted.
“It’s a blood bond. She’s marked you and claimed you – and you accepted it. That gives her the power.” She stepped closer to him, seeking his eyes. “But you already knew that – didn’t you?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, his expression saying clearly how much he longed to deny the truth of her words. But finally, he nodded, placing his hand back over the spot on his neck, aching now with his longing for her, as he whispered, “I – I can’t help it. It’s like – something inside me is – is crying out for her. Needs her. I try to fight it, but – but something in me *wants* to submit. To – to be -- *hers*.”
The longing ache in his whispered words tore at Anya’s heart, and she found herself reaching out, a gentle hand on his arm.
This time he did not pull away from her.
“We’re gonna figure out a way to fix this, Spike,” she assured him with surprising compassion. “It’s gonna be all right. We’re gonna find out what’s happening to Buffy so we can stop it. Okay?”
He nodded – not believing a word of it. He had to admit, though, he did appreciate her concern. It felt so good to have someone around who actually cared about what he was going through.
“Why?” he asked suddenly, his voice a hoarse whisper as he met her eyes, tears in his own.
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Because I know what it’s like,” she said softly, sadly. “To lose everything…overnight. To – to not even be who you were anymore…”
Spike felt a lump rising up in his throat, realizing that it was true. Anya was possibly the only one he knew who possibly could understand what it was like – to be powerful and in control one moment, and utterly helpless the next.
He met her solemn green eyes with gratitude in his own, and opened his mouth to put it into words.
And in the next moment, the Slayer’s voice broke the silence from the stairs, her voice light, amused – but tinged with a subtle undercurrent of anger.
“Well. Isn’t this…cozy.”
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