“I’m sorry,” Buffy whispered, the regret in her tearful green eyes unmistakable as her gaze fell on Spike’s torn, ravaged throat, then on the bruising cheek she had struck. “I’m so sorry, Spike.”
When she reached out a gentle hand to touch his face, he could not help it, no matter how hard he tried. He flinched slightly, tensed for the pain that followed her touch so often these past couple of days. She immediately withdrew her hand, a look of guilt and dismay in her eyes. Her hand was still on his arm, but her grip loosened, and then released him completely, when she became suddenly aware of how tense he was under her touch, as if prepared to face an attack at any moment.
She tried to shut out her own hurt and sorrow at that realization, aware that she had no right to such feelings after what she had done to him.
“Okay,” she said, releasing a slow, shaky breath. “Um – I think we both need to take a few minutes – calm down – get – cleaned up a little. There’s no need to rush, we have all afternoon. But – but we need to sit down and talk, try to figure this out.”
As she spoke, she sought his eyes, trying to get him to look at her, but he avoided her gaze deliberately. His eyes were wide, his jaw tense and his lips set in a firm line, and she knew that he was trying to avoid becoming any more vulnerable to her than he already was, not willing to allow her to see the emotions that were always so visible in his all-too-expressive sapphire eyes.
Finally, he seemed to yield to the pressure of her piercing gaze, raising his eyes to meet her, nodding his silent acceptance of her decision.
And strangely, when he did, Buffy found that *she* was the one who had to look away, as an overwhelming sense of guilty responsibility came over her at the silent accusation in Spike’s eyes. There was no anger, certainly no threat there – but the fear, the submission that was so unlike him, accused her loudly of her crime of putting such feelings there in the first place.
Even as the Slayer, she instinctively knew – such a proud, powerful creature as Spike should never feel such things.
Ironically, it was when she turned her head away in shame at her own offenses, that a sharp twinge of pain in her neck made Buffy remember something that had been forgotten in her distress over her own actions. Her eyes widened as she gingerly touched the injured spot on her own throat, staring at her hand as she brought it away wet, smeared with her blood.
Her eyes met Spike’s again, with realization of the truth – just before narrowing in anger and suspicion. The trapped, guilty look on the vampire’s face dispelled any notion she might have had that he could have been just as surprised by this turn of events as she was. No, he had known that he could bite her, had planned it out – or else he never would have tried it at all.
He saw the angry set to her mouth, saw the fire flashing in her eyes, and drew back quickly in alarm, scooting back away from her in an effort to get out of her reach – but not quickly enough. She caught him by the hair and yanked him back close to her, leaning in close with a wide, false smile that he had seen many times during his tumultuous knowledge of this particular Slayer.
But even as she spoke, her tone and expression coolly threatening, he felt a sense of relief wash over him.
However menacing she appeared, this was not the cruel, possessive, primal Slayer that had been doing her best to smash his spirit for the past two days, the terrifying creature that had been laboring to bring him further under her power.
This was just *Buffy* -- only *really* pissed off.
And *that*, he could deal with.
“Yeah,” she said with a smirk. “we *really* need to talk!” Without really thinking about what she was doing, just automatically employing her usual intimidation techniques, Buffy gave his head a little backward jerk to emphasize her words.
When she saw his very genuine cringe of pain as the sudden motion jarred his abused throat, pulling at the tender, open wound, a fresh pang of guilt hit her, and she suddenly released her grip on his hair, moving back a bit and taking a deep breath to calm herself before she went on.
When she spoke again, her voice was calm and even, but authoritative. “I want you to go and take a shower. Get cleaned up, get dressed. There’s – there’s bandages in the bathroom cupboard if you want them. When you’re finished, I’ll do the same,” she said pointedly, eyebrows raised at her own veiled reference to the injury on her own throat – which he would definitely be required to explain. “I’ll meet you in the living room,” she finished. “and we’ll talk this out.”
She did not wait for a response; it was simply assumed between them that he would obey.
She backed off to allow him to rise, and he slid off the bed and to his feet, as she got up on the other side of the bed. His mind was racing as he headed for the bedroom door, fighting off a sense of panic as he wondered just how severe the consequences would be for his current state of chiplessness. The Slayer had told him that the only thing keeping him alive had been the fact that he could not hurt anyone anymore.
Well, there was the proof that *that* defense was no longer valid, right there in bleeding color on her neck!
He made up his mind as he headed for the shower. He no longer had the chip to hinder him; he could go anywhere, do anything he wanted to do. He would get cleaned up, get his clothes on, as she had ordered – but then, he would get out of here. While the Slayer was in the shower, before she had the chance to stake him for something that was beyond his control anyway. Yes, it would be difficult to resist the pull of her bond on him, but he was sure that if he wanted to get away bad enough, he could do it.
And he wanted it pretty bloody bad.
Suddenly, before he was even aware that the Slayer had moved, he felt a strong hand close around his arm from behind, pulling him back a step against her still naked body, as her other hand came to rest carefully over the bloodied spot on his throat.
He drew in a sharp breath at the unexpected contact, that was surprisingly not painful, despite the tender condition of the mark. In fact, he felt neither pain nor pleasure, simply an intense sensation of pressure, as she pulled him back against her. The touch was a warning, not intended to hurt him – just to make sure that he was reminded of her power.
He was.
Her nearness, the contact with her mark, had the same effect it always did, making him long for her, to please her, making anything but submission a near impossibility, despite his strongest efforts to resist it.
He yielded, leaning back against her as she rose on her feet to speak softly into his ear. “You’re not going anywhere, Spike,” she stated, her voice not threatening, gentle in fact – but with utter certainty, and unmistakable authority. “You will not attempt to leave this house. You will do just as I’ve told you and wait for me in the living room once you’re dressed.”
When she did not say anything else, he nodded silently, swallowing hard – and he knew that he would obey. He had no other choice, really. He had felt it – she had invoked the power of her claim to *force* him to obey.
As he made his way to the bathroom, helpless fear at having his means of escape denied turned to frustration at this entire situation he had found himself in, which turned to anger – at the person responsible for putting him in that situation.
As he allowed the warm water from the shower to wash the blood and other fluids from his body, he allowed the angry thoughts to take root in his mind, playing them over and over, allowing his fury to build.
This whole thing was her fault, anyway! How could she dare to blame him, kill him even, for the malfunctioning of his chip, when it was *her* bleedin’ bollixed up ritual that caused it to stop working in the first place? He thought back over the way she had treated him the past few days, the cruelty and abuse she had heaped on him – and when he realized that even now, in spite of it all, he was wanting to be near her gain, longing for her touch, whether for pleasure or pain…
It made him bloody furious.
The soddin’ bint had destroyed him, ruined him, made him into nothing more than a slave to her whims. He was a bloody master vampire, for pity’s sake! And here he was fawning over a Slayer, forced not only to do her bidding, but to *want* to do her bidding!
By the time he got out of the shower, the wound on his throat had already begun to heal, thanks to his accelerated vampire healing, but he had figured it out by now. The wound would only ever heal so much. It was the Slayer’s permanent mark of ownership over him, and would never completely vanish, would always remain sensitive, vulnerable to her touch.
Just another way she had to control him.
By the time he finished in the shower, he had worked himself up into a dangerous rage. The question was – dangerous for whom? He knew better, when thinking rationally, than to think that he could beat Buffy in a fight right now. She had too much control, mentally and physically, over him.
Then again, he was not exactly thinking rationally at the moment.
By the time Buffy got out of the shower and dressed and ready for the conversation that she was dreading, it was already just after noon. She had taken her time with it, using the time to calm herself and think things through -- as best she could while being completely confused and not having a clue, anyway.
Spike had used the time to work himself into a barely suppressed fury.
Buffy noticed the way he was pacing the living room when she walked down the stairs, agitated and restless, and to her credit, did not react as she went calmly to the sofa and sat down.
“Come here,” she said quietly, touching the seat beside her. “Come here and talk to me.”
“Not sure I want to,” he snapped, his eyes glaring daggers at her. “Might get slapped about and ordered to silence. Unless of course you’re tired of that little number.”
Buffy felt something inside her rising up at his defiant words and tone – and deliberately, forcefully fought it down. She was determined not to lose control – not this time. Instead, she kept her tone light as she replied, “Don’t tell me that’s what you’re all worked up about. I’ve *always* told you to shut up and smacked you down. It’s what I do. So why are you getting worked up about it now?”
It was a weak – and foolish – attempt at humor in the awkward situation, but it only provoked Spike to greater anger. “Yeah, and I’ve never actually done it when you told me to before, either!” he declared, turning to face her and pointing an accusing finger at her. “Never!” He paused, and his tone was softer, but still furious, when he continued, “Not until now. Did you realize I didn’t say a bloody word to you up there just now, Slayer? Not a bloody word! Just sat there and shut up and let you order me around like a bleedin’ ponce!”
He resumed his pacing, hands waving and gesturing wildly as he went on. “And yeah, Slayer, the bloody chip’s quit working, as you bloody well know by now! But have I raised a finger to you? Besides that once!” he interrupted himself quickly before she could bring up the bite marks on her neck, holding up a hand toward her to ward off her inevitable protest. “When you’ve been knocking me about and throwing me around and beating the living daylights out of me, have I lifted a hand to you? No!”
“I’m sorry,” Buffy repeated quietly. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Spike…” If he had been paying attention, he would have noticed the strain in her voice, the struggle to control the anger that was rising in her, not completely of her own volition, but against her own will, at his furious rant.
“No,” he spat back at her sarcastically. “But I suppose we’ve all got to make our sacrifices for the greater good, haven’t we, Slayer? ‘Less of course you’re evil – like me,” he amended as an afterthought.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Buffy snapped, momentarily forgetting her resolve to stay calm.
“What the bleedin’ hell do you think it means, Slayer?” Spike shot back, stopping his pacing to face her, furious. “You just had to do it, just had to do *something* because I was so dangerous, such a bleedin’ *threat*, even though I couldn’t hurt a single living person without my soddin’ head exploding, that you had to initiate an *eternal blood bond* to keep me under control! *Eternal*, Slayer. Do you have any concept of what that means? Do you have any soddin’ idea what you’ve…”
He stopped for a moment, trying to control his emotions…tried again. “Do you even know what you’ve done to…”
He gave up, the steam disappearing from his rant, and turned away, his head bowed, as he finally finished, much softer now, “Why did you even do it?”
Buffy was surprised by the soft sorrow, the note of desperation in his voice – as if some part of him was hoping for an answer from her that the rest of him knew very well he was not going to get.
“I – I didn’t really – mean to,” she admitted quietly.
He turned to face her again, and the shock and hurt on his face struck her like a physical blow.
*Okay – wrong answer,* she noted, cringing inwardly.
“You didn’t mean to – you didn’t *mean* to initiate a bloody mating claim?” he repeated, aghast at her casual comment. “How could you…”
“Actually,” she shot back defensively, a frown coming over her face as her natural defenses rose. “I *didn’t* initiate it. I was just going through with the dominance ritual. Or I thought I was. I wouldn’t have even let things get that far if you hadn’t tricked me into thinking I’d already won…”
“Well, would it kill you to crack a bleedin’ *book* before you attempt a complicated, powerful ancient ritual than happens to last *forever* -- you daft bint?” Spike interrupted her with a derisive sneer. “If you’d had any idea what you were doing to begin with…”
Buffy rose to her feet suddenly, eyes blazing with fury as she took a step toward him, not willing to give up her previous point. “I talked to Anya, and I might not get all of this just yet, but I know this much -- *you’re* the one who bit *me* first and tried the mating claim crap! I just refused to let you do what you wanted and took control of the situation! And it worked, didn’t it? You’re completely under my control! It’s not my fault you had to screw the whole thing up!”
“Is that the way you see this?” he demanded, his voice lower now as he searched her eyes in disbelief and anger, both of which barely served to mask his underlying hurt. “Just a way to keep me under control? Who cares that you’ve bloody bonded me to you for the rest of my existence, just so long as I have to do what you say?”
His comments about her intelligence were just catching up with her, and Buffy felt the perverse desire to hurt him back. “Pretty much,” she lied coolly with a shrug – although the truth was, the permanence, the weight of what she had done concerned her more than she could express. “I’m the dominant party, so the way I see it – it worked.”
He stared at her for a moment, speechless and sick at heart at the casual attitude she had about the whole thing. Real or manufactured by the ritual, his feelings for her were powerful, consuming – he knew very well that at this moment, he could not make it without her. He needed her, desperately.
But for her – it was all about winning.
He turned away from her before she could see the tears welling in his eyes, the pain on his face – but she didn’t have to see it.
She could feel it.
The bond that allowed her to hear his thoughts at times, now allowed her to feel the sorrow, the rejection and hurt that he was going through – and smote her heart with guilt again.
*God, Buffy, you keep getting this wrong!* she silently berated herself, realizing in a moment how thoughtless her words had been. But then, how could she get it right when she really did not even understand exactly what ‘it’ was?
“Spike,” she said softly, moving cautiously up behind him. “I’m sorry…”
He turned further away from her as she reached him, stretching out a hand to touch his arm. He jerked away from her, moving a few steps away. “Don’t touch me,” he said in a voice that was barely over a whisper.
The words incensed that something in her that was so demanding, so possessive of his affections, and it was an almost physical struggle for her to keep control, not to force the issue – force *him* -- to accept her touch whether he wanted it or not. The thought of what a part of her wanted to do right then was horrifying to her, and she fought with everything in her to keep control. She could not hurt him again – not now.
“Spike,” she said in a quiet, barely controlled voice that immediately caused him to turn and look at her sharply, alarm in his eyes as he realized how near she was to losing control again. “I don’t think – I don’t think you should say things like that – not – not until we can get this figured out…”
He took a few cautious steps away from her, his wide eyes focused apprehensively on her face. “And by ‘this’,” he said with barely veiled resentment. “you mean this bloody compulsion you have to beat the daylights out of me every five minutes?”
“It’s – it’s not that, Spike,” she said, with an effort taking a step back away from him, instead of following her impulse to quickly close the gap between them and grab him, punish his subtle defiance of attempting to avoid her touch. “It’s – it’s the claim. It’s like – every time you try to – to resist it, I feel like I’ve got to – like I’ve got to…”
“Put me back in line?” he supplied in a dark voice, eyes wide and solemn as he searched her face, body taut and ready as he waited, unsure yet of whether or not Buffy was in control.
She was not quite sure herself. But she nodded slowly, closing her eyes and concentrating on just – keeping – control…
But it was a losing battle. They both knew it.
Spike’s mind was racing, fighting off panic, aware that there was no way he could escape her, and that she was on the verge of giving in to the strange impulse to exert her dominance on him again. Suddenly, his mind went back to the incident upstairs – what it had taken to get her to back down, to stop the vicious punishment she had meted out then...
It took all the strength of will he possessed for him to take the few steps toward her to close the distance between them – but he somehow managed it. She took a couple of steps back in alarm at his approach, afraid that she was going to hurt him, but he gently caught her hands in his before she could retreat, seeking her gaze until she looked into his eyes, her own chillingly wild and blazing with that strange light that struck such a sense of dread into his heart.
“I’m yours, Buffy,” he whispered softly, holding her gaze as he slowly raised her hands and lowered his head slightly to press his forehead against the backs of her hands in a slow, tender gesture of submission. “Yours.” He looked up to meet her stunned eyes again, a sort of sad, ironic smile on his lips as he added softly, “Touch all you like.” He paused, and the vulnerability, the sincerity in his eyes put an ache of sorrow in her heart as he whispered, “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you to. Because God help me, Buffy, I do…no matter what. I do.”
He watched with relief as his honest words caused the blazing rage to slowly fade out of her eyes. She looked past him for a moment, her eyes wide and stricken as she tried to take in what had just happened. Finally she met his eyes again, shaking her head slightly.
“I’m sorry, Spike. I keep saying that, I know, but I am. You – you shouldn’t have to pretend, just to…”
“I wasn’t pretending,” he interrupted quietly, subdued now, the anger seemingly vanished from him in an instant. He paused, lowering his eyes as he added, “That’s why – that’s why it…”
“Hurts,” she finished for him quietly, her eyes softening with compassion. “I didn’t mean what I said, Spike. I mean – I really didn’t know what I was getting into – not really. I can’t lie about that. But – but on some level, I – I think I did. It’s like – something inside me just *knew* that it was the thing to do.”
*The same ‘something’ that wants to break and destroy me?* he wondered uneasily, but did not speculate aloud.
She moved in closer, seeking his gaze as her hands trailed up his arms to his shoulders, and he drew in an involuntary breath at the nearness of her touch. “I *do* want you, Spike,” she admitted quietly. “I really do. And maybe it’s just the claim, but – but it’s real, Spike, whatever caused it. And I – I want you so bad. All the time.”
His eyes closed against the revelation of his emotions, and he swallowed hard, as he whispered, “You know I want you, Buffy. I need you.”
“I know,” she whispered, leaning in yet closer, her fingers playing at the edge of her mark, but without the intent to manipulate that it had been before.
This time, it was a simple gesture of powerful affection, and his head moved back slightly, then dropped forward as he leaned instinctively toward her, his lips parting with renewed desire for her, a longing that transcended all his other concerns and fears – they were still there, only overwhelmed by the power of her touch.
“I need you, Buffy,” he repeated with a sense of desperation, an aching need that was a physical pain, as his hands moved to her waist, kneading, pulling her in closer to him.
She kissed his face tenderly, her lips moving down the line of his jaw toward his neck, wanting to offer what little comfort she could after all the hurt she had caused him. “I know,” she whispered again reassuringly, her fingers caressing her mark, sending a sense of comfort and security through him as she continued the physical affection she was lavishing on him. This time, it was all about him, all about reassuring him and taking away the doubts that her own thoughtless words and actions had placed in him.
“Buffy,” he whispered urgently, brokenly, unable to put into words what he was feeling, his depth of need. “Buffy, love…”
She did not know if what she was feeling was real – if there was a way to undo the damage her claim had done, if the feelings she felt now would vanish if they *could* find a way – if she even *wanted* to find a way at this point. She only knew one thing in this moment, and only that one thing mattered.
Spike needed her.
“I’m here,” she whispered against his lips, pulling him in closer to her. “I’m here.”
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