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A/N: Another update! I hope you like the chapter.

*hugs* to Megan for betaing.

Thank you to: maraina, vladt, pfeifferpack, kj, Elizabeth Anne Summers, Esther, Kim, and DreamsofSpike for the lovely reviews!

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Chapter 6: Consequences


Spike was drunk.

After Miss High-and-Mighty took off in the alleyway he found himself at a crossroads. He could either follow her, use his charm and pry open those sweet little legs of hers, or he could back off. He’d chosen the latter and headed towards the nearest bar he could find. A few times he’d changed his mind and had prepared to leave but the gentle throbbing on his face was a good reminder of what not to do. After a couple drinks, Spike had even less control over what came out of his mouth.

Lifting his glass to his lips, Spike drained the last few drops. Returning it to the bar empty he signalled to the bartender that he wanted another. And promptly fell off the stool.

A couple patrons laughed as a big-busted redhead waitress attempted to help him to his feet without losing her cleavage.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, sugar.” Once on his feet, she began steering him toward a booth. For the intoxicated it was much safer than a stool. “What say we give you a booth? They’re so much roomier and a hell of a lot more accommodating comfort wise.”

“Accomodatin’, eh?” Spike repeated, his mind drifting elsewhere. He’d mentioned something to Buffy about being more accommodating in the alley a couple hours ago. And once more when a vision of the blonde slayer arose in his mind’s eye, his desire to see her again increased. He shrugged the waitress off.

“I gotta go, I’ve got a gir—” The thought was never completed when Spike found himself flat on his back on the grimy floor of that bar.

Once more raucous laughter filled the bar and this time Spike was incensed. His eyes flashed golden and deadly, the patrons in immediate proximity closing their mouths in shock. However the waitress at his side missed the blaze of lethal intent in his eyes, her focus on the strong muscles that rippled beneath his shirt.

“Darlin’, you’re in no shape to be heading out. What say we take that booth I was suggesting and I’ll make you some coffee?”

Spike nodded in agreement and didn’t resist being helped to the booth. He slumped against the cushion back and closed his eyes.

Even though it had been hours and he was soaked through with whiskey, Spike could still taste Buffy. Her blood on his lips, her scent in his nose… One taste, one long, languorous taste and he was addicted. Nothing had ever tasted so good, a thought that would’ve frightened him a little had he been sober.

Spike could smell the coffee before it was placed in front of him and forced his eyes open. Hopefully the caffeine would allow him to function a little better. Once he could walk straight he was going to find his girl.

At the first taste on his lips, Spike scrunched up his face in disgust and sprayed the foul concoction across the bench. It was bitter and strong, and they’d obviously used cheap coffee beans.

“What the bloody hell is this?”

“Instant,” the waitress replied. “Cheap and nasty, the best sort for when you want to sober up.”

“I’ll pass.” Spike pushed the mug away, some of the coffee sloshing over the rim.

“Well,” the waitress drawled. “I get off in an hour. If you sober up a little we can—”

“I’ll. PASS.” He clenched his jaw in anger. Couldn’t she see how occupied his thoughts were with another woman?

The redhead seemed to consider his answer for a moment before shrugging her shoulders. “Can’t blame a girl for noticing, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Just like you can’t blame a guy for having standards.”

Shock and embarrassment coloured her cheeks before she turned her nose up. With a parting glare she walked away to annoy other patrons.

Not wanting to risk a repeat visit, Spike hauled himself to his feet and staggered out of the bar.

He had a slayer to find.

~*~*~

“Right. Yes, of course. Thank you very much.”

A click on the other end of the line signified the end of the call and Giles absentmindedly returned the receiver to its cradle, knocking over a glass of lukewarm tea in the process. Cursing his inattention, he reached for some tissues to mop up the mess, thankful his notes hadn’t been drenched. It was a new lead, in Boston. It wasn’t the first information he’d received about a young girl battling demons—just the opposite. It was the end of a long line of dead trails and misinformation. And as he’d done with all the others, he would follow it up. Without the financial support from the Council. In their book, if his slayer had run off then it was his responsibility to find her—it wouldn’t do for the Hellmouth to be left unguarded. Oh no. The Council believed Giles was acting purely from a standpoint of responsibility; the current Slayer was his responsibility. But it wasn’t the threat of reprimand from his employers that fuelled his search. It was love. Buffy was like a daughter to him and he’d be damned if he was going to just let her disappear into thin air.

All thoughts to the very fact she’d succeeded in just that were stubbornly ignored.

A quick call to the airline to book a ticket and Giles was out the door and in his car, on his way to continue his search. He would find Buffy, no matter how long it took or how much his credit card suffered for it.

Money wasn’t important, she was.

~*~*~

A quick snack on a homeless man had done wonders for Spike’s inebriated state, the untainted blood helping to flush the alcohol from his system. And with that came clarity, stark and blinding. It was only now, hours after the fact, that Spike realised exactly what it was he’d done. Bitten her. Bitten her and said a very specific word when he was fang deep in her neck.

“Mine.”

He’d claimed the bloody Slayer as a mate.

Those vampires had goaded him into it and he’d fallen for it, no thoughts to the consequences. Forethought had never been a strong suit of Spike’s; he always acted first and faced the consequences later, but this was a big deal. A really big deal. The vampiric claim was almost a forgotten art form, so rare was it these days. Not even Darla and Angelus were mated—not that the Master would’ve ever allowed his favourite pet to choose another for eternity. And Dru and himself?

Spike snorted.

Drusilla—during one of her rare lucid moments—had flat out informed him that there was zero chance of such a permanent marriage between them. Doing so would anger and upset her ‘daddy’, and they couldn’t have that, could they?

Even when the gypsies had shoved that soul up the great poof’s arse, she still hadn’t relented. And after a while Spike had forgotten about it. He had Dru all to himself and that was all that mattered.

Thoughts of Drusilla brought a scowl to his face. He never should have agreed to that truce with the Slayer. If he hadn’t double-crossed his dark princess he’d never be in this position, mated to a Slayer who couldn’t stand to be around him.

Spike hadn’t even been aware that claims worked with humans. Well he knew now—he’d gone ahead and bloody well done it.

“Stupid git.”

It was done now though; there was nothing that could be done to reverse it. They were stuck with each other and the sooner the Slayer realised that, the better. Thoughts of how it would be like when all the hostility and passion between them was directed to the bedroom, and more amiable activities, was unexpectedly motivating and he increased his pace.

Spike reached the alleyway in no time, vampire countenance taking position as he paused long enough to take a big long sniff at the air, hoping to catch the Slayer’s scent so he could track her. A faint trace found his nose, sending a bolt of desire straight to his cock, but it died after a few feet. She’d obviously left quickly, not remaining anywhere long enough for her smell to linger. That avenue denied, Spike remembered snippets of a conversation he’d shared with Angelus one night, one that had detailed some of the benefits of a claim.

“Supposedly, as the claim gets stronger, mind readin’ abilities develop. Can you imagine that? Having an all access pass to every wicked thought in Darla’s mind?” Angelus chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be a treat? Until then, boyo, there’s a physical connection, and not of the carnal variety. Rumour has it you can sense your mate. Bloody genius if you ask me. I wouldn’t have to traipse all over Europe followin’ leads to track her down anymore. I could just close my eyes and sense her. Feel my way.”

That was it! That was how he’d find her.

Closing his eyes, Spike stretched out his senses, blocking out everything but her. For a moment it felt like it was working, a niggling presence at the back of his mind making itself known. And then suddenly, nothing. Nada. A big fat wall.

Spike’s eyes snapped open and his jaw set firmly. “Should’ve known Angelus didn’t know a bleedin’ thing he was talkin’ ‘bout.”

He tried again to reach out to her.

Still nothing.

Spike frowned, confused as to why he couldn’t reach her. A claim had taken place. Spike had—without thought to the consequences—bitten Buffy. He’d marked her as his. He remembered very clearly that he’d proclaimed her as his to the troop of observing vampires. And then Buffy had—

Buffy hadn’t done anything.

Well that’s not entirely true…

Buffy had done something: she’d climaxed as a result of his bite, but she didn’t voice anything. Didn’t utter a word during or after until his fangs had vacated her neck.

She hadn’t accepted.

Spike was struck dumb.

He’d done something monumental, something that meant something and the Slayer hadn’t responded—save for throwing insults at him. There was no reciprocation of the claim, no acceptance of the mating on her behalf. It was a rejection.

Spike had been rejected.

By the Slayer.

“Sodding hell!”

“Hey buddy, keep it down would you? Some people are trying to get some rest around here.”

Spike turned his furious glare toward the open window and snarled in full game face. The terrified man slammed his window down and the curtains were roughly dragged together.

Well this just wouldn’t do. There was no way he could just let this go. Nobody rejected Spike, especially not an annoying little Slayer with a penchant for hitting him in the nose and with lips he wanted to—

Spike gnashed his teeth, pushing all lustful thoughts of the slayer’s puckered lips away. So what if little blonde rejected—didn’t accept—the claim. Angelus and Dru, his own blood family, had cast him off. In comparison the slayer’s little omission was nothing. It was nothing. She was nothing. If he wanted to he could literally ensure she became nothing more than a statistic. He’d done it before with two of her kind. One good day was all he needed.

Yep, the whole thing was a little non-existence blip on the timeline of his unlife.

Now, if only he could convince himself to believe it.

Kicking over a garbage can, Spike stalked off into the night in search of another bar.

~*~*~

The telephone was in her hands and all she had to do was dial the number. Just a couple punches of her finger and the distance would disappear. She wouldn’t have to feel so lost. Wouldn’t have to feel so alone.

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Her mother had kicked her out of home, for doing her sacred duty no less, and Buffy was determined to abide by her mother’s wishes. She’d been told not to return if she walked out of the house, so she hadn’t. A phone call would only cause heartache and Buffy didn’t need that.

She hung up the phone.

A couple minutes later she reached for it again, this time her intention different. Buffy felt guilty. When her mom had kicked her out of home, after she’d… dealt with Angel, she’d left without a word. Left Sunnydale. The demon community had to have known the Slayer was no longer guarding the Hellmouth and Buffy didn’t want to think about the repercussions of that knowledge. It was like ringing the dinner bell.

The more she thought about it the more concerned and guilty Buffy felt about leaving like that. She didn’t have a choice, but she could have done something, said something. Warned them. Xander, Willow, Giles… the responsibility of keeping Sunnydale safe would’ve been dropped on their shoulders. A burden they didn’t deserve.

If Giles knew she was still slaying, that she was at least performing her duties as Chosen One—even if not on the Hellmouth—it might bring a little peace to her. Ease the guilt bearing down upon her, even if the difference was ever so slight.

Swayed by her troubled conscience, Buffy dialled the number for Giles’ house. After the unanswered ringing at the other end stretched onward it became painfully aware that no one was home. She was about to end the call when the line finally answered.

“Hello, you’ve called Rupert Giles. I’m unable to take your phone call at the moment. If you would leave your name, number and a message I’ll return the call shortly.”

The answering machine beeped and Buffy panicked.

“Uh, hi.” She cleared her throat. “You’re not there… obviously, because I got the answering machine.”

Hang up! Just hang up now!

“I’m calling because… well, I guess I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. Alive and well.” She punctuated the pause with a half-hearted laugh. “I’ll be fine, please don’t worry about me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I just… I can’t, it’s too hard. He was…”

Buffy cut herself off before she said too much. Clearing her throat, she wrapped the message up. “Never mind. I’ve gotta go. If, if my mom asks about me, tell her I’m okay. That she’d be proud of me.” Her confidence failed her again and even Buffy could hear the quiver in her voice. “I’ll be o-okay. Bye, Giles.”

Before she could add anything else Buffy hung up the phone.

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A/N: Feed the muse, leave a review! I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

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