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Xander walked through the unlocked front door of Buffy’s house, thinking momentarily that that was a little odd. After six years living on the Hellmouth, the Slayer was usually more cautious than to leave her doors and windows open.

He called out tiredly when he didn’t see her, “Buffy? I found Warren.” He paused, grimacing at the memory, then more at the pain caused by the expression. “Well, actually, my face kinda found him…”

As he spoke he stepped toward the empty living room, stopping when he felt something under his foot. Looking down, he froze when he saw what it was – a small silver cigarette lighter.

Cold fury filled him at the very sight of the thing, which brought to mind the thought of its owner – who had obviously been here recently. He cast an accusing look toward the top of the stairs as he headed up them, disgusted and angered already by what he was sure he would find there.

At the top of the stairs, he saw that Buffy’s bedroom door was open, and the room was empty. That was a small blessing, he thought. The bathroom door was open a crack, and the light was on. His fury prevented him from considering Buffy’s privacy, and he threw the door back, holding up the lighter and demanding, “This is what you call not seeing Spike anymore?”

His voice broke off immediately at the sight of his friend, battered and disheveled on the bathroom floor, staring up at him through tearful, red-rimmed eyes.


*No, no, no…* seemed to be the only word her mind could come up with for the horror of the scene that had just taken place in her bathroom. It wasn’t possible…it couldn’t be real. A part of her brain refused to believe that it had actually happened. Spike wouldn’t hurt her. He loved her. It had to be a mistake…an awful, terrible mistake. She had misunderstood somehow, he had not really been about to…

But her memory could not deny the truth, as his desperate words reverberated in her head, “You felt it…when I was inside you…I’ll make you feel it!”

And suddenly she wanted to vomit; she was sure she was going to. *Oh God, oh God, oh God…*

Pounding footsteps on the stairs distracted her as she turned fearful eyes toward the door. Was he coming back? A part of her almost hoped that he was. He would come through the door, offer words that could explain away what had happened, make her believe that this man that she *had* trusted – she realized that only now, when that trust was broken – had not actually come into her home and tried to…

“Oh, God,” she sobbed aloud, turning her head away from the door, unable to face him. Because against her best efforts at denial, it *had* happened.

Spike had tried to rape her.

But when she heard Xander’s, not Spike’s, voice in the doorway, she looked up at him through her tears, both relieved and disappointed. His eyes were wide, stunned by the sight of her. She must look a wreck, she realized, feeling numb, not caring.

“What did he do?” Xander asked, anger rising in his voice as he took in the sight. “Did he hurt you?”

“He tried,” Buffy admitted expressionlessly. “He didn’t.”

Buffy could see a familiar expression in her best friend’s eyes – the same expression she had seen that night outside the Magic Box, when the two of them had caught their ex-lovers together. “Son of a bitch!” Xander hissed, murderous rage in his eyes as he turned toward the door.

“Don’t,” she quickly stopped him, as a strange fear entered her heart. *Why should I care?* she wondered, angry at herself. *After what he’s done – I should let Xander kill him.* But somehow, she just couldn’t. She didn’t know what it was that she felt for Spike, she was sure it wasn’t love, especially not now, but in spite of everything, she still couldn’t let Xander hurt him.

Especially not when a little part of her kept accusing her, telling her that she was the one to blame – for all of it.

“Please…” she whispered, looking away. “Just – don’t.”

And then Willow showed up, and she was forced to push back the pain, the trauma, and be the Slayer. It was getting easier every day – shutting off the emotions at will, no matter how intense or painful they might be. She wondered briefly if that should worry her, but did not have much time to think about it.

The nerds were apparently planning a bank robbery using the incredible super-strength that Warren had somehow acquired. Buffy was glad to hear it; she needed to do some slayer-style venting, and badly. Despite her best efforts to fight back the tears – or maybe *because* of them – she could feel the rage building in her until it was almost consuming.

So it was that she was very frustrated when she arrived on the scene of the robbery – too late. She saw the two guards who had been in the armored truck, bruised, bloodied and not moving near the overturned vehicle. She checked their vital signs rapidly and felt her heart drop when she could register no pulse or breath. From the looks of it, they had been beaten to death.

*Warren’s getting pretty comfortable with the whole murder thing,* she thought with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. First Katrina – now these two guards.

Thinking of Katrina made her think of Spike again, and that night outside the police station. *I hurt him too,* the thought came unbidden, followed by *I hurt him first.*

She shook her head, trying to shake the thoughts away. Nothing justified what he had done. No matter how many hurtful words and deeds had passed between them – most of them aimed in his direction, she had to admit – nothing she had done gave him the right to do what he had done to her tonight.

Trying to get her attention off of her personal problem of the moment and back to the matter at hand, she went around to the back of the overturned armored truck. Just as she had suspected, it was empty. She swore softly to herself; how had the nerds managed to pull it off? She had shown up twenty minutes before the delivery was supposed to take place; why had the truck been early?

She quickly located a nearby payphone and made an anonymous call to the police, before heading home, feeling completely troubled, unsatisfied, and miserable, now that she had nothing to distract her from the evening’s earlier events.

Now that a little time had passed, it all seemed more real to her, as if the shock and denial had partially worn off. All that was left was the hurt and betrayal.

*God, Spike, how could you do that to me?* she thought desperately as the tears started to flow again. *You said you loved me! You said you’d never hurt me!*

She reminded herself angrily that he *was*, after all, an evil soulless vampire…hadn’t she reminded him of the fact enough to believe it herself? Why should she have expected anything more from him?

But somehow, she *had* expected more. Now, walking home alone with no distractions to prevent it, she had to admit to herself: in spite of all her denials to him, she had expected more; she had trusted him; she had – had cared about him.

That was why it hurt so bad.


*Oh, God! Oh, God, what have I done?* The thought seemed to repeat on an endless loop in Spike’s head, as he hurriedly packed a handful of items in an old, battered satchel which he strapped tightly to the back of his motorcycle.

He felt sick, and he was sure that he was on the verge of hyperventilating, despite the fact that he had no need for breath at all. He blinked back the tears that had not stopped since he had fled the scene of his hideous, horrible crime. Over and over again he heard her cries, her pleading, in his mind, begging him to stop.

“Oh, God, Buffy,” he sobbed in agony, doubling over as if in physical pain beside the motorcycle. “Oh, how could I…oh, I’m so sorry, love! I’m so sorry!”

But it was too late, and he knew it. There was no taking back something like what he had just done. No way to recover any remnant of whatever thin sort of relationship they might have had. No amount of “I’m sorry”’s or attempts to make up for it could ever succeed.

He had lost her. Forever.

He had to get out of town. As fast as possible. For one thing, he knew that it was only a matter of time before one of the Slayer’s friends – if not the Slayer herself – showed up at the crypt ready to stake him. Most likely Harris, he thought bitterly. The whelp had always had it in for him, anyway, long before he had made the mistake of sleeping with his demon. Always said he was untrustworthy and evil and should have been dusted a long time ago.

And he had just proved the boy right, hadn’t he? The Slayer should have staked him good and proper a long time ago, and avoided putting herself in a position to have him do what he had just done to her.

He got on his motorcycle and took off, heading down the quiet streets at a reckless speed, still half-blinded by his tears. He should have slowed down; he should have waited until his emotions were under a little better control. If he had had any regard for his own safety at that moment, he would have. But at the moment he really didn’t care all that much what happened to him.

*Evil, soulless thing,* her words echoed inside his head, bitter and angry, full of accusation. *You can’t feel anything real!*

Wasn’t she right? he thought as a fresh wave of guilt and shame assailed him. How real could his feelings for her possibly be if he was still capable of doing something like that to her? He had thought he loved her – loved her with every fiber of his being. But a man didn’t do something like that to someone he loved, did he?

*Not a man,* he reminded himself, a cold despair washing over him and making the tears flow harder. *Never that. Just a thing. Evil, dead, not nearly good enough for her. Proved that good and proper, didn’t you, mate?*

He desperately wanted to turn around and go back, throw himself at her feet and at her mercy, beg her to forgive him for what he had done. If she refused, if she just staked him, it might be a mercy, he thought. But he knew that it would be useless; his was an unforgiveable crime.

Before he even thought to consider where he was even going, he found himself out in the middle of nowhere, on a deserted country highway, about ten miles out of Sunnydale. That was just as well, he thought. Nothing to slow him down. As he rode on, the wind whipped his hair about, drying the tears that stained his face. It was a comforting feeling, in a physical sense, though he could think of nothing that could possibly soothe the ache in his heart every time he thought of Buffy, of how he had hurt her.

Ahead of him around the next corner, he could see a distant set of headlights, but did not give them much thought. As the vehicle, a large dark van, rounded the corner, their high beams nearly blinded him, as he put up one hand to shield his eyes, annoyed. Suddenly, mere yards away from him, the van swerved into his lane.

*Bloody hell! Are these wankers drunk?* he wondered, his eyes widening in fear as he tried to veer off to the side and pass them. But he couldn’t really tell where he was going because of the bright lights still blinding him, and the van seemed to move with him in his attempt to pass.

He barely had time to realize that he was not going to be able to avoid the collision, before the van slammed into his bike, sending it flying thirty feet off into the grass at the side of the road, and sending him flying further, the motion of his body only stopped by a bone-crushing impact against a nearby tree. He crumpled to the ground, immediately knocked unconscious.

The van, barely affected at all by the force of his bike against its front bumper, pulled to a slow stop a few yards down the road from the “accident”. Seemingly in no hurry to check on the welfare of the person they had hit, the occupants of the van slowly got out and approached the fallen vampire.

“He looks dead,” one of them said in a near-whisper, sounding terribly nervous.

“He *is* dead, stupid,” the largest of three pointed out with disgusted annoyance.

“But he looks -- *really* dead,” the first one insisted, his voice anxious and concerned.

“Nooo,” came the overly patient reply. “If he was ‘really dead’ you wouldn’t see him. He’d be dust.”

“Oh…right.”

The big guy drew closer to the unconscious creature, taking in the bleeding gash in the back of his head, the unnatural angle at which his legs lay, folded up under him. It was going to be a while before the vampire would recover from these injuries, even with his accelerated vampire healing.

Stepping back again with a satisfied smile, he crossed his arms over his chest and said with an air of authority, “Let’s get him in the van.”

As the two other guys awkwardly lifted the unconscious form in their arms and carried him toward the van, the big guy followed, smiling in anticipation. So far, everything according to his plan. They dropped Spike unceremoniously onto the floor in the back of the van and then went to get in. The leader stopped for a moment to take another look at the injured vampire before closing the doors, a self-satisfied smirk crossing his lips as he spoke.

“This is going to be fun.”

*No! Stop! Please stop! Spike, what are you doing?*

He awoke with a start, suddenly and completely, his eyes wide with panic. His momentary relief that it had been only a dream was immediately shattered by his memory – it was *not* “only a dream”.

It had happened. It was real.

With a weary sigh of resignation, he tried to rise up to take stock of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was the dark van bearing down on him. How had he gotten here? And where exactly *was* here? Beneath him he felt soft carpeting; a glance around at the room revealed that he was lying on the floor in a bedroom of some kind.

It was when he tried to rise up that he noticed the most disturbing detail so far. His arms were stretched out to either side and restrained by chains, wrapping around – whatever it was he was leaning against. He craned his neck to look around and see; it was an old-fashioned metal radiator – which fortunately was turned off at the moment, he thought with the first feeling of fear he had had since waking. Although the heating device was turned off, he tried to pull his body up away from it, but found that the position he was in kept him from getting any decent leverage. His shoulders and arms remained in contact with the thankfully cool metal.

*What the bloody hell?* he wondered. He tested his strength against the heavy iron chain that held him, but it was firm. He should have been able to break it, he knew. Why wasn’t he stronger? He tried to move his legs, wondering if they were restrained as well. But as his attempt failed, the downward glance that accompanied it showed him that it was not because they were restrained. His legs were free.

He just couldn’t move them.

He suddenly felt very sick, remembering months spent in a wheelchair. *Not again,* he thought desperately, pulling at the chains again, his mind racing.

Okay. So someone had found him after the accident and brought him – here. Their intentions could not be good if he was chained up like this – could they? Unless it was someone who knew he was a vampire and was afraid of him…but in that case why was he not dust?

He tried again to move his legs, but the effort only caused an intense, tearing pain to shoot through them. Ironically he felt a sense of relief. *At least I can feel them,* he thought. So chances were that he was not truly paralyzed then; his legs were badly injured from the accident, but they would heal, and he would be able to walk again.

But for healing, he needed blood. That reminded him. He was absolutely ravenous. How long had he been here? he wondered. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

The sudden sound of footsteps on the stairs brought his attention to alert, as his eyes shot toward the door. The thought crossed his mind that he needed to be prepared to face whoever or whatever came through the door, before he realized that that was impossible. Chained up and unable to move – he had to face it, he was pretty much helpless.

He felt an oddly mingled sense of relief and annoyance when he saw Warren Meers in the doorway. Relief, because he had not fallen into the hands of a more dangerous person; and annoyance because, well, *Warren*.

“Oh, so it’s you!” he said with obvious disdain. “Just my luck, innit?”

Warren smiled, a cool, composed smile that was somehow a little frightening. “You haven’t got a lot of that these days, have you?”

Spike glared at him, beginning to feel angry. “What would you know about it, Robot Boy?” He glanced up at the chains that bound him before looking up at the boy, who was slowly approaching him, and snarling in his most menacing voice, “I would suggest you unlock these chains – before I start to get upset.”

Warren laughed. “And how exactly would you show me how upset you are?” he scoffed. “Glare at me? You’re already doing that.” He shook his head slightly. “Not very effective.”

“Look, you insolent little ponce,” Spike ground out the words, the threat in his voice no longer put on. “I won’t be injured like this forever. And the moment I get my strength back I’m gonna start tearing things apart – starting with these chains, and ending with you!”

Warren laughed again, softly, but there was a glint of anger in his eyes. Still, his voice as calm, conversational, as he asked, “Oh, yeah. How exactly were you planning on going about that? The whole strength getting back thing?”

Spike froze. The thought had not occurred to him. But the miserable little wanker was right. He could not get back his strength or heal at all without blood. And he couldn’t break the chains, as weak as he was right now. The sick feeling in his stomach grew stronger.

The expression on his face was enough response for Warren, whose smile widened smugly. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a whole refrigerator downstairs stocked with blood, just for you. And you’ll get it – eventually. But – even when *I* decide to give it to you, even when you get your strength back up – like I said – what are you gonna do…glare at me?”

Spike swallowed hard. The expression in Warren’s eyes had darkened to something hard and cruel and – knowing. Spike realized the truth before Warren spoke it.

“I know what that little piece of hardware in your head is for, Spike. To think that whole time you were in my basement, being mister big bad vampire, shoving us around, I could have kicked your butt right then.” He laughed and shook his head. “You know, you really shouldn’t have left all the research I’d done on your chip whenever you took off out of there. Wasn’t very smart. But ya know,” he went on with a casual shrug, “guess you thought you had nothing to worry about…what’s a dumb kid like me gonna do to a powerful master vampire like you, right? Except…you’re not so powerful after all, are you?” His mocking tone changed to a chillingly soft, menacing one as he added, “And I’m not so dumb.”

Spike just stared at him, as a cold, creeping feeling started at his spine and slowly spread throughout his body. He tried to shake it off. *Come on! This is Robot-Boy! Annoying, right, but not dangerous!* he reminded himself.

“Yeah. Got your attention now, don’t I?” Warren sneered. As quickly as it had appeared, his smile vanished into a hard line. “Ok, here’s the rules, Sparky. You don’t try anything. You make too much noise up here – banging around, screaming, stupid crap like that – no one can hear you out here, so it won’t do you any good. It’ll just make me incredibly pissed off with you. And you *really* don’t want that.”

Spike couldn’t help the slow smirk that took over his face, despite his situation. Just the thought of this pathetic kid, a loser even by human standards, thinking to threaten him was hilarious. “Oh, no!” he echoed with mock fear. “Don’t want *that*!”

Before he had time to prepare for it, to dodge the blow, Warren had aimed a savage, startlingly powerful kick to his face, slamming his head back hard against the radiator behind him and splitting his lip.

Stunned by the blow, he struggled against the blackness that threatened to overtake him, realizing that somehow, Warren had given himself a violent shove from annoying into dangerous. He could taste his own blood in his mouth as the spots in front of his eyes slowly began to fade. How had the little nerd gotten so strong? he wondered with rising apprehension.

“No. You don’t,” Warren repeated with cold satisfaction in his hard eyes as he glared down at his captive. “If you don’t get it yet, Spike, you will soon. I’m in control here. Not you. Those chains’ll come off when I say they will. You’ll eat when I say you will. So unless you wanna just lie there and waste away, you’ll start showing a little bit of respect.” And he started toward the door.

Warren stopped in the doorway, his back to Spike, his head turned just slightly back in a nasty smile. “It’s a little chilly in here,” he observed casually. “Think I might have to turn the heat up.”

The words made Spike’s stomach do an odd little flip of fear. Surely he wouldn’t…

After Warren went downstairs, he waited in fearful anticipation, straining against the chains at his wrists, struggling to put a little bit of distance between his very heat-sensitive flesh and the metal radiator. But nothing happened; the radiator did not come on.

Spike realized with resentment that the little wanker had been bluffing. Well, not bluffing exactly, he admitted uneasily to himself. Bluffing would imply that he didn’t actually have the power to do as he’d subtlely threatened. And he did. Spike almost laughed at the thought of Warren Meers having any sort of power over him. It was almost funny.

Almost. If it hadn’t been reality.

Over the next several hours, spent alone in the bedroom, he had a lot of time to think about his situation, and any possible ways to get out of it. He really didn’t have much to work with. He was weak from hunger and the pain of his injuries, so breaking the chains was not an option at this point. And he couldn’t get any stronger as long as he went hungry.

Bored, he began to study his surroundings – a very small, bare bedroom with minimal furnishings. He wondered where he was; the boy had said no one could hear him “out here” so he guessed they were not at Warren’s house, which was in the middle of a subdivision. They had to be someplace fairly deserted, out in the desert perhaps. His eyes found the digital clock on the nightstand, and began to track the time since Warren’s little visit to his prisoner.

As he lay there with nothing to do but think and worry, a memory came to him from his visit to Warren’s basement a couple of months earlier. A large, dark van parked outside Warren’s house.

So the accident was no accident then. Warren hadn’t just come across the injured vampire lying by the side of the road and decided to take him home as a pet. He had deliberately run him off the road that night. How many nights had passed since then? How long had he been unconscious? Several days would not be an extreme assumption, considering his injuries, and his intense state of hunger. But he really had no way of knowing how long he had been there, or even what day it was.

So obviously the little wanker had to have some sort of plan for him – some reason for what he was doing. But he had no way of knowing what, until the boy decided to tell him.

At a time like this, he really needed Buffy.

And at that thought, his stomach lurched again. *No! Don’t think about it!* a desperate, defensive part of his brain screamed. It did no good to think about it. Buffy wouldn’t want to help him now; she’d probably be glad if Warren killed him. And it simply hurt too bad to think about her. Better to think of the situation at hand, and how to get out of it.

That didn’t make him feel much better.


Almost a week had passed since the bank robbery and – and everything else that had happened that night, and there had been no sign of the Trio at all. With the money they had gotten away with, they could be anywhere by now. Their hideout had been deserted, and Buffy had no idea where else to begin looking for them, so she had given up for the time being, until they decided to show themselves again. Besides – at the moment she really couldn’t bring herself to care.

The day after, she had been filled with a rage born of hurt and betrayal. She had stormed off to Spike’s crypt, in a more-justified-than-usual fury, ready to beat the crap out of him, to tell him just what she thought of him, to forbid him to ever come near her or Dawn again, on pain of slow, painful death.

And then – just maybe – ask him – why. How he could have done that to her. Demand the explanation that her heart cried for.

But when she got there, he was gone, along with everything he possessed of any value to him. He had left town then. He had run away. She felt somehow cheated – betrayed, again. He had denied her even the confrontation she so desperately needed, deserved.

Since that point she had avoided her friends and her sister, working doubles at the Doublemeat Palace, spending time holed away in her room, staring into space. This afternoon, Dawn was at school, and she was at home alone.

She heard the doorbell ring, and automatically went to answer it. It was Xander.

He strode quickly into the living room, all fired up about something. It didn’t take long to find out what.

“Spike’s left town,” he announced, turning to face her and crossing his arms over his chest expectantly.

“How do you know?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion; she already knew the answer.

“That doesn’t matter,” Xander dismissed the words with a wave of his hand. “We need to find him and end this, Buffy. He may have left town, but you know he’ll be back. He’s obsessed with you, and he can hurt you. If he could do what he did, he’s capable of anything, Buff. We have to do it. We have to stake him.”

“No,” she answered immediately, surprising even herself at how quickly she responded.

Xander’s eyebrows shot up. “Buffy…” he began, and she could see anger rising in his eyes. “After what he did…”

“I said no, Xander, and that’s it. We’re not going after him. Just let it go.” She turned slightly away from her friend, not wanting him to see the pain and confusion in her eyes.

He didn’t. All he saw was her refusal to punish the *thing* that had hurt her – out of some twisted affection she still held for it. “I can’t believe you’re still willing to defend him!” Xander exploded. “Why can’t you do it, Buffy? He tried to rape you, for God’s sake! Buffy, why can’t you just stake him?”

Buffy did not respond. She didn’t know the answer herself. It was all so painful and mixed up and she just wanted him to leave her alone. “It’s none of your business, Xander,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

His eyes widened in stunned hurt. “Not my business? Buffy, you are my best friend! This – this creep almost rapes you, and you *defend him* and tell *me* that it’s ‘none of my business’?”

She did not respond.

He stood there for a moment, staring at her in disbelief. Then he threw up his hands in anger and nearly shouted, “You know what? Fine! Fine, Buffy, whatever! If you want to just let yourself be victimized and then just smooth it over and act like he did nothing wrong, if you wanna defend your freakin’ *rapist*, Buffy…and say that I have nothing to say about it…fine.”

“Xander,” she began quietly, feeling the tears rising in her throat, choking them back.

“No! I’m out of here, Buffy! If that’s the way you want it, fine! Just don’t come crying to me when he comes back for seconds!” And with those hurtful words, a verbal slap in her face, he was out the door, slamming it behind him.

She stood there in shock for a moment, staring at the door. She didn’t know how she felt – what to feel. All she felt was numb, just as she had felt since it had happened. She slowly walked to the couch and sat down, leaning her head back against it in utter emotional exhaustion.

Not five minutes later, the doorbell rang again. She rose automatically to answer it – and saw her friend standing there with tearful, guilt-stricken brown eyes searching hers – for forgiveness.

“God, Buffy, I’m sorry!” he whispered, stepping forward to enfold her in his warm, strong arms. “I’m so sorry!”

And for the first time in a week, Buffy felt *safe* again. This was Xander; practically her brother for six years now. Savior of her life, at least once, probably more. Her rock through so many of the painful moments of her life.

Through this one.

And suddenly, the Slayer became the broken girl, sobbing in the arms of her best friend, clinging to him desperately as she poured out her confusion and anguish. And he just walked her slowly to the couch, sat with her and held her, and for once said nothing.

When her tears and words finally seemed spent, he said softly. “I’m not gonna try to tell you how you have to deal with this, Buffy. Whatever you need. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Whatever way you need to deal with this to be okay, that’s what you need to do. Just tell me what I can do to help you, Buffy, and I’ll do it.”

She snuggled closer into his arms, sniffing back the last of her tears, and whispered, “Just what you’re doing, Xander. That’s all I need you to do. Just be here.”

Spike passed two whole days, tracked by the clock on the nightstand, in torturous solitude, before Warren finally returned to the room. By the time he did, all Spike could think about was his overwhelming hunger. It had been a week since he’d fed, and he’d lost quite a bit of blood in the accident.

And he was not getting any better. The pain he felt whenever he tried to move his legs was getting worse, and a dizzy, faint feeling began to accompany him constantly. He had to have blood, and soon. He thought about the “refrigerator full of blood” Warren had mentioned – in fact he could think of little else. He wondered what it would take to get Warren to bring him some of the blood he claimed to have downstairs.

But when Warren entered the room, his claim became reality. He held a standard hospital issue bag of blood in his hands when he walked through the door – and Spike’s rapt attention in the next moment.

“So how’re we doing up here, Buddy?” he asked casually, looking his prisoner over with a disapproving frown. “You don’t look so good, man. You hungry?”

Spike was painfully aware that Warren was not going to simply give him the blood. There had to be a catch. Cautiously, silently, he nodded.

“What’s that?” Warren frowned when Spike still did not respond. “Ok, new rule, pal. When I speak to you, you answer. Out loud. Is that clear?”

Spike’s pride boiled up in him; he was not going to give in to this pathetic kid’s attempts to control him. All the boy got was a sneer of contempt.

Warren shook his head, laughing a little as if amused by Spike’s defiance.

Then in an instant his smile vanished. A cold look in his dark eyes, he lifted one foot and pressed it down, hard, on Spike’s injured left leg.

Spike had not been expecting that. The pain was intense, and he let out an anguished cry before he could stop it.

Warren only pressed down harder, and repeated, “Is that clear?”

Suddenly, the pathetic kid seemed quite a bit more intimidating. Unable to speak for the pain, only wanting to make it stop, Spike nodded desperately.

Warren’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he only increased the cruel pressure he was exerting.

“*Yes*!” Spike gasped finally, forcing out the words. “*Yes*, that’s clear!”

Finally removing his foot from Spike’s leg and sitting down on the floor, smile back in place, Warren said with satisfaction, “That’s better. You’re a slow learner – not too bright, Sparky – but you’ll get it eventually. Things will go a lot better for you if you just do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it.”

Spike felt his anger and pride rise up again at that – but this time dared not show it.

Warren leaned his back against the bed behind him, getting comfortable. So this was to be an extended visit, then, Spike realized with annoyance – and a little fear. As the pain faded, however, his attention was once again focused on the bag in Warren’s hand.

“So…you hungry?” Warren asked again. His expression was calm, composed, but a hard look in his eyes told Spike that he meant business.

“Yes,” Spike rasped, his voice hoarse and weak from pain, dehydration, and simple lack of use.

Warren nodded, satisfied. “Thought so. You know,” he went on, his voice soft and patronizing, as if correcting a willful child, “you wouldn’t have had to go hungry this long if you’d just shown a little respect last time. You’d already to halfway to walking again by now – and we’d both be a lot happier.”

Spike wondered again what the boy was planning – why he was even in this place. Though at the moment, he really didn’t care that much. All he could think about was the blood Warren held in his hands, idly shifting from one hand to the other. He could see it, smell it, almost taste it, right there, within his reach – if he could have reached for it. The irony of it was painful.

“See, what you’ve gotta realize, Spike,” Warren went on, his eyes narrowing in a cold smile, “is that this is completely out of your hands. You can’t do anything to change it. You can’t get away.” He laughed mockingly, his eyes moving up and down, taking in the pitiful sight Spike knew he must be by now. “No one’s coming for you. From here on out, Spike,” Warren paused, catching his eye before going on, slowly, distinctly, “Your whole world…is nothing more or less than I say it is. You’ll eat when I say you eat, sleep when I say you sleep, *do* absolutely *everything* I tell you to do. Understand?”

Spike had no intention of refusing to answer again, but his answer was not what Warren had in mind. In spite of his perilous situation, as always, his pride and anger took over his mouth.

“I *understand*, you pathetic ponce, that you think you’re some kind of bloody mastermind, but you’re just a stupid little boy playing games.” Though he knew it was nothing more than a bluff, he went on in a threatening tone, “When the Slayer finds out about this, she’ll kick your bloody ass!”

“For hurting *you*?” Warren sneered, an odd glint in his eyes.

Spike suddenly felt sick again, but he went on, “Bloody right she will! Me and the Slayer – we’re thick as thieves, we are! And she won’t be a bit pleased when she finds out…”

”You think she still cares?” Warren interrupted, his voice quiet, speculative, but a cruel gleam in his eye.

“What are you talking about?” Spike demanded, terribly afraid that he already knew the answer.

“Come on, Spike,” Warren laughed. “We’ve been watching the Slayer for weeks. We’ve got cameras *everywhere* -- don’t you think if I’m gonna spy on a hot chick like Buffy – I’m gonna put a camera in the place where she’s most likely to be naked?”

Spike wanted to slap the leer right off Warren’s face, would have, regardless of the chip, had his hands been free. To think of the bloody pervert, spying on Buffy when she was showering, dressing, infuriated him. Enraged him. Such a violation…

Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of shame came over him as he realized what else Warren had seen happen in Buffy’s bathroom. He turned his head away, unable to face him, knowing that he knew what he had done.

“So – I really don’t think the Slayer’s rushing out to rescue you, Spike.” Warren’s voice was soft, with a quiet triumph. “And I can’t think of any other friend you’ve got strong enough to take me on now. Actually,” he shrugged with a smirk, “I can’t think of any other friend you’ve got, *period*. Which means – you’re kinda stuck here with me.”

He paused before adding with a wicked smile, “I’ve gotta hand it to you though. I wouldn’t have thought you’d had it in you. Most of the stuff I saw made it look like you were pretty much whipped. But when I saw that tape…” He paused, looking Spike right in the eye, shaking his head with a suggestive smile. “Well, if it’d been me – I’d have finished it. Slut had no right holding out on you after all the stuff she did with you before.”

Blind rage overtook reason and Spike yanked against the chains, determined to tear the little creep to pieces, chip or no, snarling, “You bloody pervert! I’ll kill you! Don’t you dare go near her!” Because he suddenly had the fearful thought that, as strong as he was now, Warren just might be able to take Buffy on.

Warren’s eyes flashed fury at his prisoner’s outburst. “You know,” he said, standing up suddenly. “I don’t think you’re that hungry after all.”

Despite his rage, Spike’s heart sank at those words. So it would be another few days of starvation, then. Much more and he wouldn’t be able to move, much less heal.

Warren glared down at him as he said coldly, “I don’t like your attitude, Spike. You still aren’t getting it. I think I’m gonna have to let you know just how serious I am about this.”

Spike braced himself for the blow…which didn’t come. Warren simply turned and walked out of the room. Spike was confused for a few moments. Why had he simply left? He had opened his bloody mouth again and managed to enrage the boy, so surely he would be coming back.

Without the blood. He felt a desperate sob rising in his throat, as the hopelessness of his situation struck him fully. It was beginning to seem that if he was going to avoid starving in this room indefinitely, his only option – loathsome as it was to him – was submission to Warren.

His thoughts turned to Buffy, and the things Warren had said. He was deeply ashamed of what he had done, and humiliated to know that Warren had seen it. The thought of Buffy brought the ache back to his chest. Warren was right. She was probably wishing him dead right now, grateful that he had disappeared. He desperately wanted to see her, to talk to her, to tell her how sorry he was, but now he would never have the chance to make things right – as if that was even possible!

*Wait!* he suddenly reminded himself. *Stop thinking like this is over! It’s not! There’s got to be a way out of this mess, you’ve just got to find it!*

But a cold sensation swept over him as he realized that there truly was no way out at the moment. He was utterly and completely alone in this, having brutally shattered the fragile affections of the only person capable of helping him, and he was physically unable to help himself. There was just no way, he realized.

But there *was* a way to make it easier, a tiny voice reminded him. A way to get blood, a way to get well again, so maybe – maybe he could find a way to escape.

Submission to Warren. *Bloody hell.* The thought sickened him. He wrestled with it in his mind. Maybe he could do it, just long enough to convince the boy that he wouldn’t be any trouble, maybe get the chains off, just long enough to find a chance to get away.

For the briefest moment he considered it, but then his pride rose up again and declared that he would rather die than submit to the annoying pathetic little boy who fancied himself an evil genius. *It doesn’t matter what the whelp does,* he told himself firmly. *I’m not gonna bow down before him and beg him for anything. Not bloody likely!*

And at that moment, he heard an odd metal clanging sound in the pipes running up the wall from the radiator.

And the cold metal behind him slowly began to warm.


Dawn walked through the front door at about 5:00, after her afternoon study session. She was greeted by her sister – actually dressed, and not in her Doublemeat Palace uniform, smiling, and holding a huge bowl of popcorn.

“Movie time,” Buffy announced, sounding almost cheerful.

Okay, maybe it was forced cheer, but Dawn was relieved to see her sister at least trying to get over whatever it was that had had her depressed for a whole week. She had tried to get Buffy to talk to her, but she had refused to tell her what was wrong, saying only that it was personal, and not to worry about it.

When Dawn had gone by Spike’s crypt to see if he had any idea what was bothering Buffy, and found him gone, not just out but *really gone*, she had wondered if perhaps that was the answer. Was it possible that Buffy cared about Spike more than she was willing to admit?

But now, Buffy didn’t seem upset at all. If you looked really close, you could see the pain that still showed deep in her emerald eyes. But Dawn didn’t want to look close right now. She wanted to enjoy her first glimpse of her smiling sister in over a week.

She followed Buffy into the living room, where Xander sat on the couch, waiting for them. Buffy sat down next to him, patting the seat beside her for Dawn.

“Where’s Willow and Tara?” Dawn asked, smiling at the mere thought of her two friends, who were just beginning to repair their wounded relationship.

“Out,” Buffy said knowingly. “I think they went to Tara’s new apartment. For a little privacy.”

As they settled down to watch the movie, a stupid-but-hilarious Jim Carrey flick, Dawn watched her sister closely. She was pleased to see that Buffy was actually laughing, and seemed to be honestly having a good time. She noticed also that something seemed different between her sister and her former crush.

They seemed – closer, somehow. And Xander seemed different, himself. Maybe – more confident? supportive? She couldn’t think of the right word, but as she watched, it occurred to her that for once, Xander seemed to be the strong one, while Buffy was just barely grasping at the rope in his hand, to drag herself out of her depression.

Dawn felt a little pang of jealousy when she thought of Buffy telling Xander what had been bothering her, and not her. She was her own sister. Why couldn’t she tell her what she was going through? She wanted to be there for Buffy, but Buffy wouldn’t let her.

Still, she was relieved that at least Buffy seemed to be doing better. The movie ended, and the one after that, and it was getting late, but Xander made no move to leave, and Buffy didn’t seem to want him to. Dawn excused herself to her room, thinking maybe Buffy wanted to talk to him about something.

Once she had shut the door, in the privacy of her own room, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking. After a little while, she heard the front door close, and Buffy’s footsteps on the stairs, then the sound of her bedroom door across the hall closing as well.

Still no sign of Willow or Tara. Dawn thought that the little group of friends seemed to have diffracted lately, starting with Anya, when Xander left her at the altar. She had been the first to split off from the group. Then when Tara and Willow had gotten back together last week, although it was of the good as far as Dawn was concerned, it meant that they didn’t spend as much time around either. And with Buffy’s recent depression, Dawn had ended up feeling very, very alone.

Here in her room, now feeling more confident that her sister was going to be all right, Dawn finally allowed herself to break down as she had wanted to for almost a week now. All the changes, all the confusion, would be easier to take, she thought miserably, if her own best friend had not abandoned her as well.

She missed Spike. Badly.

He was the one person that she knew she could talk to about anything. How could he have left and not even said goodbye? Her worries that his leaving was connected to Buffy’s depression, and probably a result of the problems between them, had kept her from confiding in her sister about it.

She had no one to talk to.

She lay on her bed, her tears falling down her face to soak her pillow, and wished that Spike was there to hold her as he had in those terrible months when Buffy had been…gone.

The tears had a calming effect on her, and she felt herself drifting off. Just before she fell asleep completely, a very random thought occurred to her.

There was something else that was different about Xander tonight. For the first time since the wedding that wasn’t, he had spent an entire evening at the Summers’ house – without mentioning Anya once.

Two long hours had passed since Spike had felt the beginnings of the heat from the radiator behind him. By this point, the pain had been unbearable for about an hour and a half. He writhed uselessly against the chains that held him, in a fever of agony, unable to put even the slightest distance between himself and the source of his torment. His arms were stretched taut against the hot metal surface, and by now even the chains themselves had grown excruciatingly hot from their contact with the radiator.

For about twenty minutes, the thin black t-shirt he wore had provided a little protection for his shoulders. But the heat had very quickly penetrated the thin shield to sear the flesh of his shoulders and upper back.

At first he had tried to keep his mouth shut, not make a sound to indicate his pain, lest Warren should come upstairs and hear or see the proof of his weakness. But by now, he was beyond pride. All that existed was the pain, and it was impossible to hold back the cries of absolute agony that rose to his lips. By now, all he could do was lie there in suffering, wishing for death.

Except that since the heat was not from a direct flame, there was no chance that he would actually catch fire and burn to death. There was no escape. He simply had to lie there, helpless in his suffering, until Warren decided he’d had enough.

Through his haze of pain, he was not even aware that Warren had entered the room, until the boy spoke, so close to him that he jumped, startled.

“You know, all this racket is getting annoying,” Warren snapped, his voice cold and angry, and absolutely merciless. “Shut up.”

Spike wasn’t really trying to ignore him; the pain was simply too intense for him to even register the words.

Warren drew nearer to him, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking him closer to him to snarl in his face, “Unless you want me to just gag you and go to bed and leave you here all night, you’re gonna shut up and listen to me!”

The threat was a very powerful one to Spike, who had suffered two hours of this torment already and could not imagine it lasting the rest of the night. He struggled desperately to choke back his pitiful cries of pain, shuddering and gasping needlessly for breath.

“Now,” Warren went on with a slow, satisfied nod and smile. “Are you ready to behave?”

Despising his own weakness, but just desperate to do whatever it took to make the pain stop, Spike nodded quickly, the moment that Warren released his grip on his hair to allow it.

Warren did not speak, simply kept looking at him and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

*What?* he wondered, desperately trying to think through the pain. *What does he want me to…oh! Right.* “Yes,” he whispered in a trembling voice.

Warren smiled. “Good,” he said in a soft, almost gentle voice. “And I think you owe me an apology, Spike. For the way you talked to me. Don’t you?”

Desperate, Spike nodded. “Y-yes!” he gasped. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please!”

Warren’s smile widened, and he continued in that same chillingly soft voice, leaning in close to be sure that the pain did not prevent Spike’s hearing him. “Now I’m going to take these chains off. You’re pathetically weak and don’t stand a chance against me. You know that. You try anything…and I’ll chain you right back to the radiator…and next time I probably won’t remember to check on you for a couple days. Got it?”

Spike nodded, fighting back a bitter laugh that would surely have been seen as disrespect. What did the boy expect him to try? He couldn’t move his legs without excruciating agony; his arms were nothing but a mass of third degree burns by now. In this state, he couldn’t have attempted something if he’d wanted to. Well, ok, he did want to. Badly. He wanted to rip Warren’s intestines out and force feed them to him. But it simply was not an option at the moment.

Warren overlooked his lack of a verbal response this time, and the next thing he knew, he felt the release of the tension that had strained his arms for a week and a half, as the chain locked around the radiator was unlocked and fell to the floor. He weakly struggled to pull his arms and shoulders up away from the radiator, but was too weak to even rise.

Warren sneered as he said with mock-concern, “Let me help you with that, Buddy.” And he grabbed him around the back of the neck and yanked him up to a sitting position, then flipped him quickly over onto his stomach.

The fiery agony that tore through his body at the movement, as his seared flesh was torn away from the hot metal, and his battered legs were shifted without warning and then slammed against the floor beneath him, was more than his severely shocked system could take at the moment. He lost consciousness then, collapsing to the floor where Warren dropped him.

He didn’t know how long he had been asleep, when he finally awoke. The morning sun’s rays were filtering through the drawn curtains at the window, so he realized he had slept all night. He was lying on his stomach on the floor of the bedroom. He struggled for a moment to rise, realized that it would be an impossibility on his ravaged arms, so he laid back down and tried to remember what had happened after Warren had taken the chains off.

He was chained again, he noticed, but the chains on his wrists were thankfully cool, and he was not chained to the radiator, but to the leg of the bedframe. He weakly tested the strength of the piece of furniture against his own – and found himself pitifully lacking. At his full strength, it would have been nothing to overturn the bed and free himself. As it was, the bed didn’t budge.

But on the up side – if there was one in a situation this awful – he had a bit more freedom of movement in this position. His wrists were shackled together, but in front of him, not behind his back, and he had enough slack to rise to a sitting position beside the bed – if he could find the strength.

He took a deep breath, amazed that he felt any sense of relief in this situation – and then his thoughts were cut off by the scent that assailed his senses. Blood! He looked wildly around him, forcing himself through the pain to rise on his bandaged elbows. There it was – a bag of blood like the one Warren had brought before, right beside him, just slightly under the bed.

The pain didn’t matter anymore; all that mattered was getting to the one thing that could help to stop it. He struggled to sit up, biting back a scream that would have brought Warren up the stairs to snatch away this small blessing. He took the bag in his trembling hands, sniffing at it cautiously. The memory of the drugged blood in the Initiative came to him.

How would Robot-Boy have managed to drug this bag of hospital blood, he thought. He’s just a kid, doesn’t have that kind of access…but then, Warren had shown a sobering amount of resourcefulness and proven himself capable of things that Spike would not have thought possible over the course of the past couple of weeks.

But the blood smelled all right, and he was really too starved by this point to care. He tore the corner of the bag off with his teeth and guzzled the contents down in seconds. Really, the small amount of blood did little to soothe the ache of hunger that had been his companion for so long now. But it was a relief just to get something inside him, after nearly two weeks of starvation.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs sent an increasingly familiar fear through him. Somewhere about an hour into the torture of the evening before, he had ceased to think of Warren as an annoying little boy. Suddenly feeling a sense of panic, though he knew that Warren must have left the blood there for him, he felt the strong impulse to hide the empty bag, as if he had done something wrong in drinking it. But he didn’t. He just sat there, waiting and watching the door.

Warren smiled when he saw him. “Oh, good. You’re up.” He glanced at the bag on the floor, taking in Spike’s wide-eyed, trapped expression. “I see you found your breakfast,” he commented mildly, sitting down on the floor cross-legged facing Spike.

Spike didn’t say a word, just kept staring at him, but he did relax a little.

Warren laughed. “Still a little shook up from last night, huh?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. “Well I guess you should be. Kind of a wake up call, wasn’t it? Well, now at least you know. I mean business, Spike. Messing with me, making me mad – not your smartest options.”

Warren went on for a few minutes more, the basic gist of his little speech being his incredible power and wisdom, and Spike’s relative weakness and stupidity. *Bugger all if the wanker doesn’t love the sound of his own voice,* Spike thought resentfully. His pride screamed to be released on the inside, but it was much easier today to hold it back, to just keep his bloody mouth shut and appear to be listening.

As Warren stood up, he said, “So. As long as you follow my rules, don’t do anything to piss me off…you’ll keep getting the blood. So you should start getting stronger. You’ll be able to walk again soon.” There was an optimistic note in his voice. “I think we’re gonna get along a little better now. Don’t you?”

Spike swallowed hard, nearly choking on his own pride. “Yes,” he whispered grudgingly, but his eyes flashed defiance at his captor.

Warren’s eyes narrowed slightly, obviously not happy with what he saw, and Spike felt his stomach do a little flip of fear. But Warren didn’t say anything else, didn’t do anything. He simply walked away, leaving Spike with thoughts of his own pathetic fear and weakness, despising himself for giving in even in the slightest to the sadistic little creep.

For the first time since his capture, the thought of escape did not enter his mind.


As Xander sat on the couch, Buffy’s head resting comfortably on his shoulder, his arm around her, his heart felt so full he thought it might burst. After his recent self-imposed loneliness, it would have felt good to share this closeness with anyone. But this was *Buffy* -- the object of his adoration, openly or in secret, for six years now.

Even while he had been with Anya, he knew there was a small part of his heart – okay, maybe not so small – that still belonged to Buffy and always would, whether she wanted to claim it or not. It had been his uncomfortable suspicion that, despite his love for Anya, if Buffy had suddenly decided she wanted him, he would have run to her in a second. And this suspicion, he now admitted to himself, was what had started him down the road of fear and uncertainty that had led to his leaving Anya at the altar.

For years he had dreamed of the possibility that Buffy might someday want him. Now, when she raised her head to smile up at him, he almost thought he was in heaven. Almost. If he had been in heaven, he would not see the haunted, hurting look that was still in her eyes.

“What is it, Buffy?” he asked her gently, holding her gaze.

She laid her head back down on his shoulder, mostly as an excuse to break eye contact, he suspected. She was silent for so long that he thought she didn’t intend to answer, until she finally spoke.

“It was my fault, you know.” Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but still held such raw hurt that Xander almost flinched.

“Buffy – every girl thinks that when something like this happens. That’s the way abusers work, Buffy. They make their victims feel like it’s all they’re fault, they’re worthless, just fit to be used, so that then they don’t complain or seek out help – so they can control them. And the victim just kind of accepts it, thinks it’s her who’s got the problem, it’s her fault. But it’s not, Buffy. No one deserves to be hurt like that.”

He realized as he finished speaking that Buffy had gone completely still against him. He felt her body tense up, and heard her gasp back a little sob. When he gently pulled away, holding her by the shoulders to look her in the eyes with concern, he saw a wide-eyed, stricken expression on her face.

“Oh, God, Xander,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

“What, Buffy? What is it?” he asked, a little frightened. Instead of relieving her sense of guilt, judging by the expression on her face, his words had somehow increased it.

She just shook her head, refusing to answer, and then pulled away from his arms. “I’m tired, Xand. I’m gonna go home I think.”

“Buffy…wait….”

“No, I’m okay,” she insisted, forcing a smile. “Really. I’ve just gotta go.”

“Buffy,” he said urgently, catching her arm. She turned to face him, a patient look on her face. “You can’t keep putting this much guilt on yourself, blaming yourself because he hurt you. You keep doing that to yourself, and eventually…something’s gotta give.”

To his dismay, her eyes widened, and she looked even more upset. “Xander…I’m okay, really. I’ll see you later…okay?” she whispered, her eyes pleading.

“Okay,” he replied in defeat, and she left quickly, leaving him to wonder if his friend was ever really going to be okay again.

The next morning, Warren returned, bearing blood. He stood and regarded Spike for a moment, where he sat on the floor by the bed. The vampire’s blue eyes darted between his captor and the bag of blood with a mixture of suspicion and hope.

“How’re the legs feeling today?” Warren asked, sounding actually interested in the answer.

Spike made a cautious attempt at moving his legs again before answering. It still hurt, but he could feel himself getting stronger already. Of course, it couldn’t possibly be to his benefit to let Warren know that.

“Not too good,” he replied with a grimace. “Course it takes a bit more blood than that to do any good, anyway.” He carefully kept his voice casual.

Warren just looked at him for a moment, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small smirk. “Does it,” he said quietly, and as he spoke he took out a compact but heavy black nightstick that Spike had not seen at his side.

Spike’s mouth went dry with fear, his wide eyes fastened on the weapon as Warren casually touched the end of it to his battered leg, trailing it slowly downward toward his knee. Instinctively, he started to jerk away, but froze at Warren’s cold, menacing command, “Don’t move.”

Warren paused, allowing the silent waiting to fuel Spike’s fear, before going on, “You still think you’re smarter than me, don’t you?” The stick froze in its slow path back up Spike’s leg as Warren demanded a response, his voice hardening. “Don’t you?”

Spike shook his head rapidly, breathing hard, his eyes focused on the nightstick. “No,” he whispered. “No, I – I don’t…”

“Then why are you still trying stupid stunts like lying to me, Spike?” His tone was almost sad. “You think I’m stupid? Is that it?”

“N-no,” Spike hated the stammer in his voice, but was too concerned with the weapon poised against his injured leg to worry much about it. “No, you’re not…”

“No. I’m not,” Warren cut him off, a hard, deadly quality to his voice. “You know, I’m not in any hurry here,” he informed Spike calmly, with a shrug. “I don’t care if it takes you a year to heal. You’re going to learn…” He suddenly interrupted himself, snapping, “Look at me!”

Spike dragged his eyes off the weapon and raised them to meet Warren’s. His instinct for self-preservation had stolen control from his pride; all he could think was, *Just do what he says. Whatever he says. Anything to keep him from…*

Warren’s cruel eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, pressing down harder with the nightstick, not enough to hurt, just enough to scare Spike out of his mind. “You’re going to learn,” he repeated slowly, holding his gaze, “who is in charge here. I am. You can’t put one over on me, Spike. I’ve been watching you for months. I know how you think, and I know you still think you’re getting out of this. But you’re not. I call the shots, Sparky. What I say goes, and I say that when I ask you a question, you are going to tell me the *freaking truth*!” As he spoke, his voice rose with each word, until the last two were a shout, punctuated by his raising the nightstick and slamming it violently down – on the floor, mere inches from Spike’s leg.

The vampire gasped and flinched; he had been sure that Warren was going to crush his mending leg.

Warren laughed at his reaction, raising the hand which held the weapon to rest on his hip, his voice calm, amused even. “So…one more time, Spike. How’re your legs?”

Struggling for control, trying to stop his own violent shaking, Spike responded quietly, “Better.”

“Can you walk yet?”

He shook his head. “No. Still hurt pretty bad. Too weak. But getting better.” There was a resignation to his voice which obviously pleased Warren, judging by the smile on his face.

“If you feed once a day – how much longer do you think it’ll be before you can walk?” Warren asked him, and the steely look in his eyes was a silent warning to truthfulness.

“I – I don’t know – a week maybe?” Spike guessed, genuinely trying to be accurate. His hopes began to fade once again. One bag of blood a day was barely enough to heal at all, let alone to get strong again. The blood flowing through his body might promote healing, but he would still be too weak to overpower Warren – and that was not even considering the chip.

Warren’s nod indicated that Spike had only confirmed something he had already known. It made Spike glad that he had opted to tell him the truth. The boy obviously knew more than he was letting on. Therefore there was no way of knowing if any given question was really just a test of his honesty.

“Fine,” Warren said, tossing the bag of blood onto the floor within Spike’s reach, giving him a disgusted, contemptuous look. “Like I said – I’m in no hurry.” He smiled as he said, “Lie to me again…and you’ll be starting the whole process over again. We clear?”

“Yes,” Spike whispered, turning his head away, to hide the seething hatred that he knew was in his eyes, knew would get him seriously hurt if Warren saw it. *Just give me time,* he thought to himself. *I’ll tear him to pieces on my way out the door!*

But a part of him recognized the thought for what it was – a sad attempt at hope, in an increasingly hopeless situation.

His estimate proved accurate, and by the time a week had passed, he was able to stand, holding onto the bedframe for support. Walking – well, he couldn’t be sure, as his chain gave him no room to try. It was uncomfortable even to stand, pulling the chain to its limits in the attempt. By this point his burns had almost completely healed, and most of his lesser injuries from the accident as well, though at a much slower rate than if he had been feeding properly.

But he still was not strong. He was not getting enough blood each day to regain his strength.

Warren knew what he was doing.

“Well, look at you!” Warren’s voice from the doorway startled him, and though he looked pleased to see him standing, Spike felt nervous, as if he had been caught in some infraction. His anger rose in him at the feeling; he was tired of being afraid, and especially of a git like Warren. He sullenly averted his eyes, not responding.

Warren had not expected a response. He smiled as he entered the room. “Good. It’s about time! I’ve got something I want to show you. Feel up to a little walk?”

Spike felt a mixture of hope and apprehension. He knew that if it was Warren’s idea, it couldn’t be good for him, but the thought of getting out of this tiny room that had imprisoned him for – nearly a month! he realized with shock.

He nodded slowly, then remembered himself and said, “Yes.”

“Master.”

“What?” Spike was confused for a moment, but then Warren’s meaning hit him, and a prideful anger and defiance rose in him in the moment before Warren clarified his statement.

“Yes, *Master*.” Warren’s smile was cool, and firmly in place, though the threat was obvious in his eyes.

Spike disregarded it completely, his eyes widening in startled indignation. “I bloody well will not!” he declared slowly, meeting Warren’s eyes defiantly.

Warren stepped toward him, and he forced himself not to back down or look away, despite the fear he felt.

But Warren just smiled as he reached for the chain. “We’ll see.”

Spike felt a sudden apprehension, remembering the last time Warren had not immediately punished him, and the hours of torment that had followed. A lack of immediate punishment meant that the boy had something worse in mind.

As Warren took the key from his pocket with one hand, pulling the chain closer to him with the other, Spike automatically pulled back against it. The smile disappeared from Warren’s face in an instant as he jerked the vampire back forward by the chain attached to his wrists, the sudden motion pulling him off balance, almost bringing him to his knees. He fought to maintain his footing, not wanting to let Warren abase him like that.

Warren’s face was inches from his as he held him by the chain, saying in a cold, deadly voice, “You don’t pull away from me. Ever.”

Spike did not respond, just held Warren’s gaze defiantly.

Warren, surprisingly, ignored it, and Spike’s uneasy feeling grew stronger. “I’m going to take the chains off,” Warren said quietly. “And you’re *not* going to try anything stupid – like hitting me – or trying to get away. Because we both know all that’ll get you is a whole lot of pain. Understood?”

“Yes,” Spike answered pointedly, resentment in his tone. Warren was right, at least for now, he knew. If he hit him, the chip would fire, and he was not strong enough to try to run yet.

Warren nodded and unlocked the chain. And for the first time in a month, Spike’s hands were free. He gingerly felt his tender, red wrists, painfully raw where the chains had bit into his flesh, rubbing against the wounds for a whole month.

Warren took a few steps back, watching him closely, as he beckoned with his hand for Spike to come toward him.

Swallowing hard, too nervous over how his legs would function after weeks of disuse to even think about Warren’s condescending manner, Spike took a hesitant step forward, then another. His legs were weak, and he had a feeling he would need to rest before long.

“Come on,” Warren ordered, grabbing his arm impatiently. Instinctively Spike jerked away, and without a moment’s hesitation or warning, Warren snatched his arm again and delivered a powerful backhand blow across his face that would have knocked him to the floor if not for Warren’s hand on his arm.

“I said don’t pull away from me,” he said calmly, as Spike tried to recover from the dizzying blow. “Now come on.” And he dragged the weakened vampire, stumbling on shaky legs toward the door.

Much too slowly for Warren’s liking, Spike gathered from his impatient sighs, they made their way down the stairs. At the bottom, Warren released him suddenly, and he staggered a step or two forward, trying to get his balance.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, much brighter than the room upstairs, he was surprised by how – well -- *nice* the house was. He was in a spacious living area, well-furnished, all leather and plush carpeting and expensive wood. He had expected a dark, dismal, run-down place for a two-bit nobody like Warren.

The next thing he noticed was the other two nerds, standing and just staring at him with a mixture of fear and awe.

“Oh this just gets better and better!” he said sarcastically. “You’ve still got Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber tagging along then?” He had thought Warren was going it alone, having not seen any sign of the other two since waking up here.

“Hey!” the one he knew to be Jonathan said, an almost hurt sound in his voice.

“Are you gonna let him talk to us like that?” the other one asked Warren in a whiny, demanding voice.

“Absolutely not,” Warren answered immediately, slapping Spike again, hard, and this time with no support, the vampire toppled backward onto his knees. He started to get up, but Warren’s voice stopped him.

“Don’t.”

He was kneeling facing the stairs, and Warren walked slowly around him to sit on the third step, at eye level with his prisoner.

“You’re gonna show a little respect for my friends here, Spike,” he informed him with a smile. “They might not be able to hurt you – but I can.” There was unmistakable malice in his quiet voice.

Spike just glared at him, not responding.

“And really, I’m not too satisfied with the level of respect you’re showing *me* either, Spike,” Warren went on, anger showing in his eyes, but not his voice.

He reached into his pocket and took out a small, circular device, a little bigger than a quarter. A dial marked with numbers ran along the outer edge of the device, and a small silver button was on the top of it.

Spike gave Warren a derisive sneer. “Cute toy,” he remarked sarcastically.

“Yeah,” Warren grinned. “Wanna see what it does?”

There was something so maliciously gleeful about Warren’s manner that Spike had a moment’s apprehension just before Warren’s finger depressed the silver button – and all rational thought was swallowed up in pain.

A searing, white-hot bolt of pain tore through his head, radiating through his entire body. He doubled over in agony, gasping for breath which wouldn’t come, stolen away by the intense pain, worse than any he’d ever felt. A hundred times worse than the chip’s usual firing, worse than Glory’s torture, worse than the radiator had been. He had never felt anything like this before in his life or unlife.

Warren’s smile never changed as he held the button down, watching his helpless captive’s suffering.

Finally he released the button, and stood, towering over the pitiful, reeling figure on the floor at his feet, glaring down at him without pity.

“Ok, listen to me,” he ordered, a hard note in his voice, all business now.

Spike was not trying to disobey him, but did not even hear him through the fog of pain that surrounded him, as he held his head in his hands and moaned in agony.

Raising his voice, still calm, but loud enough to break through the pain, Warren said, “You’re going to listen to me, now, or I’m gonna hit it again.”

Spike struggled to gain control, raising wide, panicked blue eyes to meet Warren’s cold dark ones. His mouth trembled as he gasped for breath, fixing his gaze on his tormentor, desperate to avoid another such shock.

Warren smiled, looking him in the eye as he went on, “I did a little re-wiring in your head while you were sleeping. Your chip used to fire whenever you’d try to hurt someone.” He paused before going on in a harder voice, “Now it fires when I tell it to. You are going to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, and you’re going to show a little respect from now on. Or you’re going to experience the higher levels your new and improved chip is capable of. That was only the first one.”

Spike’s eyes widened more, and began to show the beginnings of despair as he took in Warren’s words.

“If you ever attempt to lay a hand on me,” Warren continued in a voice of quiet authority, “the chip will lay you out so fast it’ll make your head spin. And then *I* will. Every door and window in this house is equipped with a sensor tied into your chip. So if you try to leave the house…the chip will fire. Not only that, but it’ll send a signal to this little baby right here,” he held up the device, “and light up and let me know you tried it.” His smile widened menacingly as he added, “And then the *real* pain will begin. Things starting to become a little clearer?”

Spike nodded almost automatically, his wide eyes full of fear.

“You’re not gonna speak without permission. I’ve had about enough out of your stupid mouth these past few days. So from now on, you don’t say a word unless I tell you you can,” Warren went on, his eyes narrowing in anger, and Spike thought with a hopeless, desolate feeling that this was why Warren had not punished him upstairs.

His situation truly was hopeless. There was no way out. He couldn’t attempt to defend himself, he couldn’t leave the house. He was hopelessly trapped. Warren controlled his chip…and by extension, controlled him.

As if reading his thoughts, Warren added in a softer voice, “There’s no way out of this one, Sparky. From now on…I’m your god. Got that? You make me happy…you do okay. You make me mad…you suffer. Simple enough?” His eyes narrowed on Spike when the vampire did not respond, and his finger teased the button on the control device threateningly.

“Yes,” Spike whispered, nodding quickly. He had not meant to ignore him; it was just so terrible and shocking to take in the enormity of what had just happened to him.

Warren’s words were slow and distinct as he bent down closer to Spike, looking him in the eye and smiling as he said, “You’re my slave now, Spike. You only exist to do what I tell you, and if you ever stop doing that, if I ever decide you’re no use to me anymore… I’ll make you *stop* existing…or at least make you want to. Understood?”

Spike nodded, his eyes downcast, trembling in shock and fear. All the fight had gone out of him with Warren’s terrible revelation. “Yes,” he whispered.

Warren grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back up, still smiling as he spoke again. “Yes, what, Spike?”

Spike knew the response he wanted, but fought back a wave of shame and humiliation at being forced to say it. He couldn’t; he just couldn’t.

“Yes. What. Spike?” Warren demanded, biting out each word menacingly, jerking his head forward a bit and holding the device where he could see it.

Spike closed his eyes on a look of utter defeat and despair, as he choked out the words in a broken, trembling whisper.

“Yes…Master.”

Buffy heard the phone ringing but made no move to answer it. She knew already who it would be. Xander. For days now, she had avoided him, ever since the shattering personal revelation that had dawned on her at his apartment that night. He had been calling, coming by, trying to talk to her, but she refused to answer the phone or the door.

She just couldn’t talk to him – not about this. Not right now. Over the past few weeks, she had grown closer to her friend than ever before, telling him things she’d never told anyone, as he provided much-needed support for her after her traumatic experience. There were very few things that she would feel the need to hide from Xander at this point.

But this was one of them. She knew that he would press and prod, howbeit gently, refusing to let it rest – and she was simply too ashamed to let him see the guilt that consumed her, and the reason for it.

His observations about abusers and victims echoed in her mind. *Sooner or later…you carry around all that guilt and shame…something’s gotta give…*

Now, joining the memory of Spike’s desperate attempt at forcing her love, were other memories.

Memories of him declaring his love for her, begging her to please just talk to him about the kisses *she* had initiated – the kisses that must have been so confusing to him.

Memories of storming into his crypt without knocking and slamming him against the wall or the bed, her rough touch, her invasive kiss, more an assault than affection. Most times, her aggression had aroused him, and he had returned her uninvited embrace with equal force.

But there were other times.

Times when he would plead with her, an aching hurt in his eyes and voice, “No, Buffy. Not like this. I love you! Please just let me love you!” He had craved tenderness and closeness, but she had not been willing to give it.

She would just mutter, “Shut up,” and continue her ruthless plundering of his body. And of course, he would respond to her advances, whether it was really what he wanted or not.

Because all he was fit for was to be used by her. Because he was just her toy, a worthless, soulless thing whose only value was in her pleasure.

She had made him believe that. She had forced him to see himself that way.

She remembered another night, in a deserted alley, when she had mercilessly beaten him until he couldn’t even rise, and left him there to die. And still he had wanted her, loved her, tried desperately to win her love.

Then, while he still bore the marks of her brutal punishment for his love, she had come into his home and told him how much her use and abuse of him was hurting *her*. She had thrown him away. Used him up and thrown him away.

So, finally, in desperation he had come to her, wanting to make things right between them, tried talking to her, but they had never communicated that way – she had never allowed it.

And then, he had tried to use the same language she had always used to get her point across to him – force.

*But that was different!* she insisted desperately to herself. *When I pushed it, I knew he really wanted it, and he did! He did want it!*

But hadn’t he thought that, too? That really, deep down, she wanted it?

Had that made it okay?

“Oh, God, Spike,” she whispered, tears rolling down her face. “What have I done to you?”


Over the course of the weeks that followed, Spike learned a lot – about the place he now existed (for he could not possibly call it living in any sense); about Warren; about himself.

The beautiful old ranch house, which he had never seen from the outside, was very impressive on the inside. He gathered from listening to the conversation that passed between the nerds that the house had been purchased with money they had stolen in a bank robbery, and was in Warren’s name. It seemed that Warren had managed to claim the largest portion of the money from the robbery for himself – for obvious reasons, Spike thought. It wasn’t like either of the other two would have dared to challenge him.

Warren was good at taking things, he thought bitterly. His freedom, his courage, his dignity – Warren had even taken his coat!

He discovered that about three weeks after Warren’s devastating revelation about the chip, when Warren was preparing to go out, and came down the stairs wearing it. His eyes widened in surprise; he remembered that he had been wearing the coat when the accident happened, but had not thought about what had befallen it afterwards.

Some of his resentment must have shown in his eyes, because within moments he found himself slammed back against the wall, and Warren was right in his face, speaking softly with barely controlled violence in his voice, “You got a problem, Spike?”

“N-no,” he hurriedly insisted, shaking his head, not meeting Warren’s eyes. Meeting Warren’s eyes would have been a bad thing, considering the amount of hatred he knew was in his own. “No problem.”

Warren backed off, smiling, satisfied that he had reminded his slave that he should fear him. “Hey, it’s not like *you’re* going out anytime soon,” he laughed cruelly. “It’s a waste to just let it lie around the house.”

Spike nodded again, nervous and unsure of the correct response, and hesitantly tried to move away, just wanting to get the boy’s attention off of him, and thinking Warren was finished.

He wasn’t. He gripped his arm and slammed him into the wall again, snarling, “Did I say you could move?”

Spike shook his head. “N-no,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” He had quickly learned that Warren’s moods could be dangerously unpredictable. He could go from smiling to furious in seconds – and just because he was smiling did not mean it was safe.

Now, Warren’s grip on his arm became bruising, as he said softly, “You don’t own anything, Spike. I own *you* -- and anything that was yours is mine now.”

He did not say anything else, and Spike nodded, submissive. Warren released him and stormed out, Spike’s beloved duster billowing behind him.

Spike realized suddenly that this was the first time he had been left alone in the house. The other two nerds were off somewhere on some errand Warren had sent them on. He slowly began to search out the place, vaguely looking for some way out, mostly just trying to get his bearings.

He had realized very soon after beginning to walk again that his legs had never been set properly. Thus they had healed, and he now felt no pain in walking, but they had healed slightly off, and there was now an odd angle to his gait. And it seemed that he tired easier – but that was probably just the continued starvation diet forced on him.

He desperately wanted to try the door, as he had not seen any visible sensors since he had been here. How terrible it would be if Warren was bluffing, and he could simply walk out at any time, but stayed put anyway, for fear of the boy! But if Warren wasn’t bluffing – the thought of his anger was terrifying. He put off the decision, venturing back upstairs to look around some more.

Warren’s bedroom door was open. After only a moment’s hesitation – after all, he was the only one there -- he walked through the door. The room was dark and a little frightening.

Warren liked weapons. Since coming into his ill-gotten wealth, he had taken up collecting various guns, knives, and other interesting little toys, which took up a lot of space in his large bedroom. Spike had found that he was almost always armed, carrying one or two weapons on him most of the time.

Warren’s fascination with weapons, in combination with his penchant for power and control, did not result in a good situation for Spike. Warren took great pleasure in having a slave who could not be killed by normal human means. Already a couple of times he had “tested” his latest weapon on the helpless vampire, with horribly painful results for Spike.

As he idly wandered around the dimly lit room, his eyes fell on a locked glass case sitting on Warren’s desk. Inside the case, on a small display stand were two simple round balls, very ordinary in appearance. One of them had a small piece chipped off, missing. Spike wondered what was so special about these that Warren would keep them locked up. As he looked on, a sort of soft shimmer seemed to glow about them for a moment, and then was gone. Was it possibly magic? Perhaps the secret to Warren’s strength could be found in them.

He carefully tested the latch on the case, not wanting to leave any sign that he had been in this room. He was certain that Warren would not be pleased if he found out.

Finding the lock secure, Spike finally gave up and left the room. A sudden idea occurred to him for the first time, and he quickly glanced back into the room, then went through the rest of the house, searching.

Somewhere in this house, there had to be a phone! He would find it, and call –

He stopped. Even if he found a phone, even if he had the nerve to call Buffy, would she even want to help him? She would probably just laugh and tell him that what had happened to him was just what he deserved.

*It IS what you deserve!* he told himself. *You don’t deserve her help.*

He decided against trying the door, too afraid of Warren’s wrath to risk it. He wandered into the kitchen and idly, listlessly opened the refrigerator. The top two shelves were indeed stocked with blood. His stomach churning with the ever-present ache of hunger, he considered taking some.

But, no. Surely Warren kept track of how much he had. Warren was deliberately under-feeding him, keeping him weak, and would be furious if he caught him taking blood behind his back. Again, another potential benefit to him, just within his reach, that was outweighed by the risk of punishment. He cursed himself mentally for how pathetic he had become.

Suddenly, he felt a strong hand at his throat, yanking him back against the warm body behind him. He froze; instinct told him to resist, but he had learned better in the past few weeks. Warren saw any resistance, no matter how natural or slight, as extreme disrespect, and absolutely unacceptable. In the first few days of his slavery, Spike had been viciously beaten and shocked more times than he could count, for simple instinctive resistance.

But Warren was training it out of him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Warren asked softly in his ear, his hand tightening slightly on his throat.

“I – I – n-nothing!” Spike stammered, trembling, but not daring to move. “Please, nothing! I – I didn’t…”

“Shut up.”

Instant obedience. Warren smiled. He released him suddenly, saying casually, “I’ll count them later and if anything’s gone you’re going a week without.”

Spike nodded, bracing a hand on the refrigerator to steady himself. “Yes, Master,” he whispered, relieved that he had taken nothing, and Warren would therefore have no reason to punish him.

Warren left him alone and went upstairs. So far, he had actually not required too much of him. A few small menial tasks here and there – and his total, absolute submission – but as slavery went, Spike didn’t have much of a workload, and actually had quite a bit of time to think.

And as the topics that consumed most of his thoughts were his terrible violation of the woman he loved, and wondering what terrible thing Warren would do to him next, that was not necessarily a plus.

He walked into the living room and sat down awkwardly on the edge of the sofa. He knew Warren would be back down in a few minutes, and would expect him to be close by in case his master needed anything. But for the moment, he had nothing to do.

Nothing to do but think. Although he tried hard not to, he could not help but think of Buffy, and the thought brought tears to his eyes. He did not know how he could have done what he had done to her, but he did know that he did still love her. He missed her desperately, longed just to see her again. Even if she despised him, even if she spit in his face and told him she hated him, just to have one moment to tell her how sorry he was…

“Get over here.”

Warren’s cold, furious voice from the bottom of the stairs broke into his thoughts, and made him feel suddenly very sick, as he rose on shaking legs and walked to stand in front of him, eyes carefully downcast, waiting. What had he done? he wondered desperately. Had he left something out of place in Warren’s room?

*Oh God oh God oh God!*

Warren just stood there glaring at him for a moment, and Spike felt his fear rising with every second.

“What’d you do while I was gone?” Warren asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Spike felt like he was trapped in the middle of a mine field, knowing that a single wrong word could have dreadful consequences, but not knowing which words were wrong and which were right.

“N-nothing much,” he said, his voice low, his head bowed. “Just – looked about the house a bit – got the lay of it, yeah?” There was a pleading note in his voice; surely Warren would understand his simply getting his bearings, wouldn’t he? He had been here for almost two months and had not seen any part of the house except the living room and the tiny bedroom to which he had been confined, until today. Was it so wrong to want to see the rest?

“See anything interesting?” Warren pressed, his voice softer now, and even more threatening.

“No,” Spike whispered, feeling his stomach twist in fear. *How could he know? He couldn’t know! He doesn’t know!* his mind desperately insisted, fighting back his terror.

“What was that, I didn’t hear you,” Warren said, stepping closer and putting a hard hand at the back of his neck. “Did you say ‘no’?”

Terribly afraid, Spike nodded, “Yes.”

“Yes or no?” Warren’s voice was sharper, deliberately trying to throw him off, to shake him up.

“No, I – I didn’t,” Spike said tremulously, feeling dangerously close to tears.

“Okay. Just so we’re clear,” Warren said slowly, then added with rising anger, “on the fact that you’re a freakin’ *liar*!” His fingers dug painfully into Spike’s neck and he leaned in close and placed his other hand on Spike’s chest in an intimidating gesture.

“We talked about this whole lying thing. Didn’t we?” Warren’s voice was overly patient, and made Spike feel foolish and small, like a stupid child. Oh, God, why had he gone into Warren’s room at all? Why had he been so stupid?

Suddenly, his attention was caught by something he had not noticed before as his downcast eyes fell on Warren’s hand on his chest. An unusual ring on Warren’s finger – the stone on which would have fit perfectly into the chipped place on the sphere upstairs in Warren’s room. Spike was becoming surer by the moment that the orbs upstairs were the source of Warren’s strength.

Suddenly, he realized that he had drifted off, when Warren’s hand at the back of his neck moved lightning fast, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a vicious-looking switchblade. Menace in his eyes, Warren held the slim silver blade against his cheek.

“Pay attention, Sparky,” Warren warned him softly. “I’m talking to you. Now what’d I just say?”

Trembling, struggling desperately to remember, Spike drew in a shaky breath before replying, “W-we talked about lying…not to do it.” Knowing by now that somehow, he had been caught, he added quietly, pleadingly, “’M sorry. Please – don’t.”

Warren pressed just slightly harder with the blade, smiling cruelly at the sharp intake of breath Spike made at the increased pressure. He closed his eyes, terrified, not daring to move an inch, as Warren deliberately prolonged his terror.

Finally, with a soft laugh, he removed the blade, snapping it shut and putting it back in his pocket, and Spike released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“No,” Warren shook his head, releasing Spike and shrugging out of the black leather coat, slinging it carelessly over the banister. “I don’t feel like cleaning up a mess tonight.”

Spike just barely dared to relax a tiny bit, and glanced up at Warren – and his heart sank. Instead of the knife, Warren held the controller in his hand, and his mouth turned up in a smirk as he watched his slave’s reaction to the sight. “And neither are you…” he added, tossing the device casually and catching it in his hand. “…when I get through with you.”

Within a few days, Warren’s purpose for capturing him began to become painfully clear to Spike – with emphasis on the pain.

Warren took him down to the basement, where he had an elaborate computer lab set up. Next to the impressive computer system was a hospital-style bed – or table, Spike wasn’t sure what it was called – complete with leather restraints. He felt his stomach drop with fear as he turned pleading eyes on Warren. This could not possibly be good.

The boy was impassive, unaffected by the haunted, fearful gaze of his captive. “Get on the table,” he ordered.

*Table, then. Not bed,* he thought, rather randomly, as he whispered hesitantly, desperately, “Why? What did I…”

The words were cut off by a cruel fist to his face, sending him stumbling back against a storage rack near the wall, knocking several items off to clatter onto the floor.

Warren was across the room in a moment, gripping the front of his shirt and yanking him close to his face, smiling viciously as he said in that soft, terrifying tone that had become so familiar to Spike, “Now look what you’ve done,” as he gestured to the mess on the floor. His expression hardened as he snapped, “Does *that* work for you?” He paused before adding coldly, “I don’t *need* a reason, Spike. Get that through your head. I’ll do what I want with you, when I want to do it. Who’s gonna stop me, Spike?” he sneered. “The Association for the Prevention of Cruelty to *Vampires*? You don’t even exist, Spike. You are *nothing* but whatever I say you are.” Warren took a stake from his pocket and held it poised over Spike’s heart, adding, “One quick move…and it’d be like you never existed. No body. No evidence. *Nothing*, Spike. That’s what you are. Nothing.”

Spike’s eyes were closed, his body trembling slightly with emotion. God, the words seemed so painfully familiar to his bruised heart! *It’s true,* a traitorous voice whispered in his head. *You’re nothing…worthless…soulless…disgusting thing…*

“Do it,” he whispered, so soft that Warren didn’t catch the words.

“What?” he snapped, irritated that his slave had spoken without permission.

“Just bloody *do it*, then!” Spike’s voice rose in an anguished roar of fury and pain as his fiery eyes met those of his captor. Then his voice softened and tears quenched the flames in his eyes as he added, defeated, “Kill me.”

Warren’s anger faded as understanding dawned, and he smiled a slow, cruel smile. “Maybe later,” he smirked. “For now, I’ve got other plans.” The smile disappeared as he ordered again, “Get on the table.”

And Spike obeyed, without another word. And so began Warren’s “experiments” on Spike’s chip.

That first horrific afternoon, Spike begged him to stop, please just stop, screaming in agony as the electricity tore through his body without mercy. Warren ordered him to be quiet, but even he had to admit that the command was useless. The pain was so intense that Spike really couldn’t help it.

So Warren gagged him.

By the time he was through, several hours later, Spike could barely move or make a sound anyway. Warren untied him and immediately commanded him to get up.

Spike knew he had to obey, knew he would receive more pain if he didn’t, and struggled to sit up on the bed, but it was no use. His meager strength had been drained by the torture he had endured. Irritated and impatient, Warren took him by the arm and helped him sit up. He sat there for just a moment, dizzy and fighting not to black out, until the warning look in Warren’s eyes told him he had better try to stand up.

But the moment his feet hit the floor, and Warren released his arm, he crumpled to the floor, his already weak legs, further weakened by hours of agony, unable to support even his slight weight. He felt like he was going to vomit, though he knew vampires didn’t. A curtain of darkness tried to block his vision, and he couldn’t stop his violent shaking.

Warren glared down at him in annoyance for a moment, before sighing and saying, “Come upstairs as soon as you can. I’m not gonna wait forever, though.”

Spike nodded weakly, still unable to speak, hoping Warren would see that and overlook it this once.

He did, and just turned and walked up the stairs.

Spike sat there on the floor for a while, as the pain and weakness slowly lessened. Finally, he was able to pull himself to his feet, holding onto the edge of the table. As he stood there, gasping for unnecessary but steadying breath, his eyes fell on the computer screen on the other side of the table.

He glanced furtively toward the door at the top of the stairs. It was closed; he would have a little warning if Warren decided to come back down. He looked back across the table at the computer, and made his decision. He wanted to know what Warren was planning. Cautiously, holding onto the table for support, he made his way around to the computer. He dared not sit down at the desk, for fear he would not be able to rise fast enough if Warren came downstairs.

A few minutes perusal of the screen, and the stack of printed research beside the computer, revealed that Warren was building a duplicate chip to the one in his head. And judging by the specific commands he was planning to build into the new chip, Spike realized with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, he was intending to use it on a woman.

He knew about the robot girl Warren had built for himself, and had learned since coming here about Warren’s murder of his ex-girlfriend. When she had failed to yield to him the absolute control he craved, when she’d tried to get away from him, he’d killed her. Now it seemed that he had found a way to gain that complete power after all.

Spike wondered sadly about the girl. Who she was, if she had any idea what was about to happen to her. Because there was no doubt in his mind that Warren would carry out his plan. He had grievously underestimated the boy’s intelligence before, and was paying for it every day. He was the only one who knew what Warren was planning to do, and he was certainly in no position to be able to stop him. Warren’s super-strength, combined with the power the chip held over him, made him utterly helpless to anything about it.

He thought again of the strange orbs in the glass case upstairs. If those could be destroyed – perhaps Warren would lose his strength, and it would not be so easy for him to carry out his scheme. But the chip would still work, he remembered with a shudder at the thought of Warren’s rage if he were to break the orbs. Ok, maybe not an option after all, he thought with a grimace.

Again, he found himself thinking of Buffy, as he looked over Warren’s plans to violate the as-of-yet faceless, nameless girl. The pain swept over him again, worse than the physical suffering he had just endured, at the memory of that night in Buffy’s bathroom. He could picture her face, green eyes blazing at him with disgusted accusation, laughing bitterly at the thought of his half-hearted, weak ideas of helping Warren’s intended victim.

“What right do you have?” he imagined her voice in his mind. “You’re as bad as him! Evil, disgusting – nothing!”

Suddenly, the basement door opened, and Spike jumped back away from the desk. A wave of dizziness and nausea came over him at the sudden motion, and he gripped the table for support before he could collapse again.

A small mercy, Warren did not come downstairs, just yelled down, “Spike! Get your pathetic ass up here, *now*!”

His own guilt and hurt over all the recent pain that had passed between him and Buffy; the physical agony and exhaustion of the past months; his ever-present fear at the sound of Warren’s voice – all of it combined too form a sudden devastating force against him.

And in that moment, as he headed for the stairs, slowly, but as quickly as he was able – something broke in Spike’s battered heart. There would be no escape, he realized, with clarity and certainty. There was no reason for hope.

He didn’t deserve a reason to hope.

Over the next few weeks, Warren continued his experiments on Spike’s chip, spending a few hours each day testing the intricacies of its capabilities, and the limits of Spike’s endurance, which, as weak as he was, was probably comparable to that of a human.

And Spike did not resist. He didn’t say a word as day after day Warren subjected him to the torment of his “research”. At times he couldn’t hold back his cries of agony, but he never again asked Warren to stop, or made any protest at all. He knew that it would not have helped; Warren would have done what he wanted regardless of his pleas for mercy. But really, he simply accepted it as what he deserved – all he could expect from now on.

And when it was over, and he was left alone with a few precious moments of solitude in which to recover, he would let his tears fall, as a silent, desperate cry reverberated in his heart.

*I’m sorry, Buffy! I’m so, so sorry!*


Buffy stood across the street from the First National Bank, watching as the police mingled with official-looking men in suits, taking interviews and collecting what little evidence there was.

The nerds had made another appearance.

She was sure it was them. The crime matched the last robbery in every detail. She sighed. Once again, she’d missed it. They’d gotten away with it. Thankfully, no one had been killed this time. But the injuries sustained by the guards this time indicated that they had been left for dead.

Warren Meers and his friends had become very dangerous.

Frustrated, she turned to go – just in time to get a glimpse of black leather slipping around the corner.

*Spike!* she thought, her heart racing as she took off for the spot where she had seen the figure disappear. She stopped when she rounded the corner and saw that the head atop the long black leather was dark, not platinum. Not Spike. Her disappointment was overwhelming as she turned away.

But as she did, something caught her attention, and she turned back around, looking more closely at the black-clad figure. Her eyes narrowed in recognition, and she stalked down the sidewalk, quickly gaining on the boy. She reached him just as he was passing a dark alley, and he still did not seem to have noticed her.

*How convenient,* she thought with a grim smile, as she gripped Warren by the collar and one shoulder and propelled him into the alley, slamming him face-first against the brick wall.

“Hi, Warren,” she said brightly, leaning in close to give him a large, fake smile.

“Hey, Buffy,” he replied, his voice muffled against the wall, but surprisingly calm.

“You’ve been a busy little boy lately, haven’t you?” she smirked, thinking that she could grow to like dealing with *human* scumbags like Warren. Much easier to handle than demon scumbags. *Maybe those Career Day test results weren’t so far off,* she thought. *Officer Buffy Summers…*

“More than you know,” Warren sneered as she loosened her grip enough to allow him to separate his face from the wall.

She was amazed at his nerve. She was the Slayer! Why wasn’t he appropriately scared of her? She shoved his face into the wall again, saying in her most menacing voice, “Oh, I don’t know, Warren. Cause I know a *lot*!”

As she spoke, she glanced down at the coat Warren was wearing. It was amazing how much it looked like Spike’s – down to every last worn, softened spot in the leather – down to every last tear from his countless fights…

“Where did you get this coat?” she demanded suddenly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Warren’s expression became fearful for a moment – then angry. And suddenly, with an amazing strength he had not revealed before, he shoved her back off of him, spinning around to face her.

“What does it matter?” he asked, his voice defensive. “It’s mine.”

Looking into his dark, hate-filled eyes, Buffy felt a sudden chill of fear. Before she even thought about what she was doing, she slammed her fist into Warren’s face and pushed him back into the wall again.

“What did you do to him?” she demanded in a low voice filled with rage. She knew that while Spike might be able to hurt *her* now, he was still helpless against other humans. If Warren had hurt him…

“What do you care, anyway?” Warren snarled, shoving her back, startling her again with his strength. “You know,” he went on angrily. “I’m done being pushed around, *Slayer*!” He spoke the last word mockingly, advancing on her, and suddenly she was actually a little afraid.

He swung a fist at her, which she blocked, but then he moved in with the other to hit her solidly across the face, knocking her backward onto the ground. She tasted her blood in her mouth as she struggled against the dizziness to get to her feet.

But when she looked around, expecting another attack – Warren was gone. She cursed under her breath as she stepped out of the alley and looked up and down the sidewalk. Gone. And he knew where Spike was. He had done something to him.

“Oh, God,” she moaned softly, putting a hand to her spinning head. She took a moment to recover, and when she looked up, her eyes flashed fury. “If he’s hurt him, I’m gonna kill him,” she muttered to herself as he took off toward home, and a phone.

It was time to call in the troops.


Spike stood alone in the living room, staring down at the small object on the floor which was the source of a great dilemma for him. Warren had left hours ago, and he had no idea when he would be back. The other two were seldom around lately; Spike suspected that Warren didn’t want his friends to know about his little personal project, and was keeping them away.

This made things harder on Spike, because when Warren’s friends were around, he seemed to at least make an attempt to hide his darkest impulses; they called themselves “supervillains”, but even they would have been appalled by the extent of Warren’s abuse of Spike. He used the conveniently helpless vampire to vent his frustrations on a very regular basis, inventing small infractions for which to punish him whenever he happened to be in a foul mood, in spite of his own claim that he didn’t need a reason.

Now, Spike stared at the forgotten item on the floor, which was likely to get him punished regardless of what he did with it.

Warren’s cell phone.

The house had no land-line phones, and Warren’s cell phone was always in his pocket. Somehow, today, he had dropped it.

A part of Spike’s mind screamed, “Trap! Run!” But surely Warren would not have stayed away this long if he had known the phone was there and expected him to try to use it.

He had found it there on the floor only minutes after Warren had left, but so far had not dared to touch it. If he *did* use it, he would have to delete the number so that Warren wouldn’t know that he had, and leave it in exactly the same place and position he had found it.

Even if he didn’t touch it, Warren would likely accuse him of it and punish him anyway. He decided with a sudden spark of his old impulsivity, and snatched up the phone before he could stop himself.

His finger froze over the last digit of Buffy’s phone number. How could he call her, after what had happened? She wouldn’t care. He had meant nothing to her, and that was *before* what he had done.

But…she would care about the girl, Warren’s intended victim. She would want to stop Warren. And when she stopped Warren…

He pressed the last digit before he could talk himself out of it and waited breathlessly.

One ring. Another. He felt sick again. Halfway through the third ring, someone picked up.

“Hello?” Dawn.

Spike’s eyes welled with tears and his throat closed up at the sound of her voice. Oh, how long had it been since he had heard her voice? *Any* kind, warm voice?

“Hello…ok…creepy stalkerish breathing on the other line, not cool…hanging up now.” Dawn sounded bored.

“Niblet,” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper through his tears.

“*Spike*?!” Dawn’s voice was louder, shocked and excited. “Oh my God, where have you *been*? Are you ok? If you’re ok, you are *so* dead, because I have been worried out of my mind…”

“Not ok,” he broke in, in a rough, tearful whisper. He made his voice stronger, gasping back a sob before going on, “Bit, I really need to talk to your sis.”

Dawn’s voice was frightened now. “Spike…what’s going on? Are you *crying*? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t have much time, Bit. I’ve got to talk to the Slayer,” he insisted, not wanting Dawn to know how bad off he really was, though his voice was so weak and strangled with tears that she had to have some idea.

“She’s not here.” The dismay in Dawn’s voice matched what he felt at the words. “Tell me, Spike. I’ll tell her. What’s going on? Do you need help?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice a sob.

“Where are you?”

“I – I don’t know,” he went on, helplessly. “Big house in the country. That’s all I know.”

From the concern and genuine affection in her voice, he knew that Buffy had not told her what he had done, and felt an overwhelming gratitude. The thought of Dawn finding out about that terrified him more than anything Warren had ever done.

“How did you get there? Did somebody hurt you, Spike?”

He fought back another sob, struggling over the words, “W-warren and his friends – he’s gonna hurt someone, Bit. A girl. Tell the Slayer to…”

Suddenly, his words were cut off by a hand clamped over his mouth. “Hang it up,” the familiar menacing voice spoke in a whisper near his ear. “We don’t wanna scare the little girl, do we?” Sick with fear, he tried not to think about what Warren thought Dawn would hear to scare her so much.

“Spike? Spike! Are you okay? Talk to me!” Dawn’s voice sounded frantic in the moments before he snapped the phone shut, disconnecting the call – and his lifeline.


Just as the line went dead, Dawn heard the front door opening and Buffy rushing into the house, slamming the door behind her.

She hurried toward her sister, terrified for her best friend. She had never heard Spike sound so desolate, so fearful and achingly sad. And to have the call cut off like that…

“Buffy!’ she called urgently, stepping through the kitchen doorway.

“Not now, Dawnie, this is really important,” Buffy said, a little sharply, reaching for the phone and dialing Tara’s number.

Dawn started to speak again, but Buffy raised a hand for silence as she spoke into the phone, “Tara, is Will there? I need to talk to her, now!”

Dawn took the moment while Buffy waited for Willow to insert her desperate news – at the same time that Buffy took the moment to explain herself.

Both girls spoke the words at once.

“Warren’s done something to Spike!”

Their eyes widened in surprise as they stared at each other.

Buffy wordlessly hung up the phone. “I ran into Warren. He was wearing Spike’s coat,” she said slowly, staring at her sister.

Dawn’s eyes welled with tears. “He called, Buffy! he was so – so scared and – and he was *crying*, Buffy! We got disconnected, and I think he’s hurt, bad, Buffy! And he doesn’t even know where he is!”

Still stunned herself, Buffy put her arms around her sobbing little sister, staring into space over Dawn’s head.

As she wordlessly held Dawn, her eyes hardened with protective anger, and her mouth became a thin, firm line of determination.

“We’ll find him, Dawnie. We’ll find him.”

Warren was furious with Spike for using the phone, and he was already seriously pissed off from his encounter with the Slayer, though Spike had no way of knowing that. He had immediately taken the phone back and taken out his rage on his slave, beating him savagely with his fists, and finally taking out the control device.

It was the worst he had ever been punished. Warren set the thing higher than he ever had before, and didn’t stop until Spike was barely conscious and unable to move on the living room floor.

The entire time, he kept going on about how stupid, pathetic, worthless he was. Demeaning him, insulting him, reminding him of just how far beneath the human race he was. He mocked him, reminding him that his little conversation had been useless, as he had not known where to tell Dawn to send the Slayer. She might know that he was in trouble, but she had no idea where to find him.

“And her kid sister might have a soft spot for you,” Warren sneered. “Like, you know, a favorite pet that got hit by a car or something.” He paused, laughing derisively. “You look more like it was a train…but I ran into the Slayer tonight, Spike.” His tone was mild, conversational.

By this point, Spike could not even raise his head, but his heart leapt at the words in a combination of fear and hope. He wondered if Buffy was looking for him, but was also afraid for her. Had Warren done something to her?

Warren didn’t volunteer that information, leaving Spike to wonder anxiously how the encounter had gone. “She didn’t even mention you, Spike. Not once. She’s glad you’re out of her life.”

The words hit him like another blow. Warren was right; the cell phone on the floor had given him a deceptive sense of hope – but Buffy would never help him now, even if she could. And there was nothing Dawn could do to help him with the little bit of information he had been able to give her. As Spike pulled himself painfully up, hours later when he could find the strength to move, he thought with a dull sense of despair that he had gone as low as there was to go.

He was wrong.

The lowest point came several days later.

Warren had gone out for the evening. Judging by the way he had prepared for going out, wearing his nicest clothes and wearing cologne, Spike got the impression that he was trying to pick up a girl. He felt nauseated at the thought, wondering if this night would be the night that Warren would choose to carry out his plan.

Apparantly, things did not go well.

Warren came back furious, slamming the door on his way into the house, causing Spike to jump, his eyes darting toward his master with fear. This particular mood of Warren’s never boded well for him.

Of course, that was true of all Warren’s moods.

While Warren stormed about the house, knocking things around, muttering in anger the whole time, things like, “Stupid slut!” and “I’ll kill the little bitch!” Obviously the girl Warren had attempted to pick up had wanted nothing to do with him. Spike just tried to stay out of his way, to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, hoping against hope that Warren wouldn’t notice his favorite stress reliever, crouched on the floor in the corner of the room.

Although it was all he wanted to do, he knew better than to try to hide himself away somewhere. Not being available if Warren needed him for something was just the sort of excuse Warren would use for beating him senseless. So he just stayed there, at a sort of miserable attention, waiting.

Warren had gone to his room for a few minutes, and when he returned, Spike felt his stomach do an odd little twist. In his hand was his latest favorite toy. It was an expensive hunting knife that he had recently purchased. Objectively speaking, even Spike had to recognize that it was a beautiful piece of work. It had a carved handle of ivory, with intricate patterns engraved into it, and the blade swooped into a upward curve at the tip.

Beautiful…but deadly.

Spike stayed still in the corner, trying to avoid attracting Warren’s attention, keeping his eyes carefully diverted, not wanting to be accused of staring…another of Warren’s punishable offenses.

Warren simply sat there on the sofa, his dark eyes smoldering with fury as he stared at the shiny blade in his hand, turning it slowly as it reflected the glow from the fireplace – the only light in the room at the moment.

Spike could see the hatred and resentment in his face. He had been insulted tonight – rejected by some girl – and to Warren that was unbearable. His controlling, possessive nature would not allow him to tolerate it. He was still muttering to himself occasionally as he sat there staring at the knife in his hand, mostly chilling threats of what he wanted to do to the girl who had unknowingly caused this dangerous mood. As Spike glanced down toward the knife in Warren’s hand, he was stunned and disturbed to see that Warren appeared to be becoming aroused -- by the sight and feel of the weapon, or his violent fantasies, Spike couldn’t tell. Probably the combination of the two.

Suddenly, Warren’s eyes were on him, flames of rage and accusation. He quickly averted his eyes, but it was too late.

“What are you staring at, you little freak?” he demanded. He glanced down, a slow sneer of derision on his face as he realized where Spike had been looking. “Huh? You little faggot! What are you *looking at*?” He practically roared the last two words, his smile fading quickly as ever, as he stood up.

“N-nothing!” Spike whispered, trembling, terrified, not daring to look up again. He had never seen Warren quite like this before, out of control, controlled by his rage at yet another in a lifetime of rejections.

He could feel Warren’s scalding glare on him, though he couldn’t see it, his eyes downcast, breathing hard by now with fear.

“Come here.”

Weighed down by dread, a subconscious part of him already knowing what Warren intended, he slowly rose and obeyed, still not looking up, stopping a few feet in front of where Warren stood.

He could hear the smirk in Warren’s voice as he ordered coldly, “Get on your knees.”

Spike’s eyes shot up to his for just an instant, and the menace he saw there made him quickly drop them again.

“I – I – please…” he stammered, sick with fear. *Oh God, no…no…*

“You need some help?” Warren asked softly, threateningly.

Immediately Spike dropped to his knees in front of him. Warren set the knife down on the sofa beside him and reached to unbutton his pants with one hand, while putting his other hand behind Spike’s head.

Panicked, no doubt in his mind now as to his intentions, Spike pulled back against him, desperate to get away. “Please!” he gasped, his voice almost a sob. “No! Don’t, please!” as he struggled uselessly against the powerful hand that held him. It was the first resistance he had shown in weeks.

Warren was not pleased. In an instant the knife was back in his hand, and before Spike knew what had happened, Warren had slipped the vicious blade between his parted, trembling lips, the curved tip of it pressing painfully against the roof of his mouth.

“Shut up,” Warren ordered, and Spike immediately froze, silent, not daring to move or make a sound, shaking violently in terror.

Enjoying his power, Warren drew his hand just slightly back, forcing Spike to move forward a little with the blade, or have his mouth cut to pieces. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak,” Warren said softly. “And I sure as hell didn’t tell you you could move.”

Spike wanted to apologize, to beg him not to do this, but didn’t dare, couldn’t anyway with the cool blade in his mouth, menacing him so cruelly.

“You’re gonna do what I tell you,” Warren went on, smiling now. “And if you’ve got a problem with that – well…” His voice lowered to a near-whisper as he pressed the blade further, almost to the back of his throat, choking him. “You can suck this instead.” His smile, his tone, were mocking, patronizing, as if he was giving him a genuine option.

Spike shook his head, almost beside himself with fear by this point.

“No? Okay then,” Warren sounded satisfied, as he withdrew the weapon smoothly and quickly, and Spike let out a cry more of fear than of pain, leaning down and covering his mouth with his hand, gasping for breath. He had not been cut too badly, but he could taste the blood in his mouth where the blade had sliced into the top of his mouth on the way out.

Warren grabbed him around the back of the neck, pressing the blade against his lips in an afterthought of a threat, as he added menacingly, “And if you even *think* of biting me, you little faggot slut, I’ll cut those fangs of yours right out of your stupid mouth, do you understand me?”

Spike nodded quickly, desperately, resigning himself to what he was about to be forced to do. And he submitted to the assault, as the sadistic boy rammed himself down his throat again and again, all the while talking to him. His words were as bad as the act itself, as he told him again and again how pathetic he was, good only for this, useless and low, stupid and helpless.

He called him a slut, a whore, a bitch, all insults usually reserved for women, and Spike knew that this was not about him at all, really. It was not even about sex. It was Warren’s attempt at regaining the power he felt had been stolen from him by some random girl at some random bar who had exercised her own power and decided that he was not her type.

But although he knew the words aimed at him were really meant for someone else, every one struck home in his wounded heart. After all, he had heard it all before. He knew it was true. And as the cruel violation went on, another piece of his ravaged heart, his brutalized spirit, was shattered in Warren’s merciless hands.

When it was over, and he knelt there on the floor, trembling, choking back sobs of pain and humiliation, Warren crouched beside him, smiling, forcing him to meet the eyes of his abuser. And he still had the knife, though this time it didn’t touch him. Warren held it just a fraction of an inch away from his face, as he said softly, calmly, “If you ever say a word about this to anyone...” He paused, considering, then shrugged and said, “which means basically, my friends, since they’re the only people you ever see…” His expression hardened as he said, “Everything you’ve been through so far…all my research…every time I’ve ever punished you…this…” He leaned in closer and said in a near-whisper by his ear, “Nothing. It’ll all seem like nothing compared to what I’ll do to you. Am I making myself clear, Spike?”

He nodded, his head down, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs, and Warren got up and simply walked away, leaving him there on his knees on the floor, sobbing in hopeless, desolate misery.


“Buffy, I just don’t get it.” There was definite disapproval in Xander’s voice.

Buffy didn’t quite meet his eyes as she responded. She was sitting beside him on her sofa, surrounded by Dawn and the other Scoobies, who had just been informed of what the Summers sisters had learned.

“Xander…if Warren’s holding him prisoner somewhere…I can’t just leave him there,” she said softly.

“No,” Xander agreed. “You have to stop Warren, I get that. But all Spike deserves from you is to get his ass staked, Buffy!”

Buffy shot him a warning look. As of yet, Xander was still the only one who knew what Spike had done, and she had no intention of telling the others, especially Dawn…who was glaring at Xander with furious eyes.

“How can you say that?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger. “He’s nearly gotten himself killed for Buffy and me more times than we can count! He went through torture for me, Xander! How can you think he doesn’t deserve for us to help him?”

Xander didn’t say anything, not meeting Dawn’s eyes, his mouth working with repressed anger. He wanted to respect Buffy’s wishes about such a personal issue, but found it difficult to take the looks the others were giving him. Dawn was not the only one who thought that they should at least try to help Spike. After all, he *had* done a lot to help them over the last few years.

“Xander, she’s right,” Willow broke in, nodding, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Warren’s a murderer. We can’t just leave Spike there with him!”

“You’re right, Will. Sorry, Dawnie,” he muttered, not saying anything else for a moment. Then he smiled falsely at Buffy and said, “Buff, can I see you in the kitchen for a minute?”

Buffy complied with a weary sigh; she had known it was inevitable.

The moment the kitchen door closed behind them, Xander turned on her, fire in his eyes. “Buffy, after what he did…how can you put yourself at risk for him?”

Still not ready to explain the complex situation to Xander, not sure if she ever would be, Buffy tried to diminish the situation, with a wave of her hand, saying, “What risk? This is *Warren* we’re talking about here!”

“Yeah,” Xander nodded, “and you said he knocked you down in that alley. That he was stronger than normal. So apparently whatever he was on when I had that run-in with him in the bar, he’s still got plenty of it! You ought to be careful about taking him on. And you shouldn’t risk it for *Spike*!” He spat out the word in unmistakable hatred.

“Xander,” Buffy began softly, “you don’t understand.” Ready or not, she had a feeling at least part of the explanation was going to have to come out.

“Yes, I do, Buffy,” he argued, his voice gentler now as he put his hands on her arms in an intimate gesture that he wouldn’t have tried only a couple months before…and Buffy thought nothing of it. “I don’t know what you’re going through,” he clarified, drawing her eyes to his and holding her gaze. “but I know that you’re still feeling to blame, feeling like you’re responsible to save him, somehow. But you’re not, Buffy. You’re not responsible for…”

“I *am* responsible for him, Xander!” Buffy suddenly burst out, pulling away from him, tears shining in her eyes. She paused, trying to gain control of her emotions, before she went on more quietly, her eyes downcast and her tears slipping down her cheeks. “There’s a lot more to the story than what you saw, Xander. There – there was wrong on both our parts…I – I knew he loved me…and I – I hurt him, Xander. I hurt him bad.”

“Doesn’t make it your fault, Buffy,” Xander shook his head again, patient, thinking he knew where she was coming from. “Guys get dumped all the time. That doesn’t make it okay for them to go out and try the caveman approach to getting their girls back. It’s not your fault.”

“Not completely,” Buffy conceded. “But it’s not all his fault, either.” She paused. She knew Xander didn’t agree, but he didn’t say anything else, waiting for her to go on. “We have a lot to work out – me and Spike. A lot to talk about. But – but I can’t just leave him to die, Xander. I have to help him.”

“Personally, Buffy,” Xander said, his voice cooler now, “I don’t think there’s that much to talk about. I think you need to just keep him out of your life. I think this might be a blessing in disguise. But ya know,” he shrugged and turned to leave the room, but not before Buffy saw the anger and hurt in his eyes. “it’s your deal, Buffy. Your decision. And I’m behind you – as always.”

Buffy understood the anger; he was her friend, and had no idea about all the things she had done to Spike before he had ever hurt her once. The hurt she found a little more confusing. It almost looked like Xander was – *jealous*? No, she thought. Couldn’t be.
Xander was like a brother to her; it wouldn’t matter to him who she had feelings for, except in the sense of his wanting to protect her from getting hurt.

She sighed heavily. She didn’t have time to think about it now. She had to find a way to get to Spike. Dawn had been so upset after talking to him on the phone; it sounded like whatever was happening to him was terrible.

She walked purposefully back into the living room to join her friends, and make some plans.

Spike lay on the table, on his back, his eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply. He was trying to recover from his latest session of Warren’s experiments. Cautiously, painfully, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, and swung his legs over the side of the table. He fought the usual wave of nausea and dizziness, waiting for the spots of color in his vision to fade.

Warren had left the room twenty minutes before. Every session it got a little worse, a little harder to recover from the agony and weakness.

He was sitting on the edge of the table nearest the computer desk. When he finally made the attempt to get to his feet, too soon obviously, he stumbled and nearly collapsed, catching himself on the desk to keep from falling to the floor. In the attempt, he managed to knock a stack of papers off the edge of the desk, sending them fluttering to the floor.

Fear came over him as he dropped to his knees on the floor to hastily retrieve them with trembling hands. If Warren came downstairs and saw this, he would assume the worst. He would accuse him of going through his things, and he would surely be punished again. After the hours of torment he had just endured, he couldn’t bear the thought of more.

As he hurried to put the stack back together, thinking with despair that he had no idea in what order they were supposed to be, and Warren would kill him when he found out, and…

Suddenly he froze as something on one of the pages caught his eye.

*Buffy*.

The sheet in his hand bore the Slayer’s name, over and over in various places, and as Spike quickly scanned it, more afraid for Buffy than for himself, his eyes widened in horrified realization, as the full impact of Warren’s plan hit him.

“So this is what takes you so long, huh?” Warren’s voice behind him startled him, and he jumped, dropping the paper to the floor and turning quickly to face his master, standing over him with an irritated expression. “I knew I was giving you too long after our sessions.”

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, his mouth going dry with fear. “No, I – I didn’t…it was an accident…I…I fell, and…”

“Didn’t ask you to write me a book, Spike,” Warren smiled coolly, then glared at him as he said. “Didn’t ask you to explain at all, actually. You see any problems with this little scene, then?”

He nodded, confused and unsure as to whether he was supposed to respond. Warren was angry because he had spoken without permission, but he had just now asked him a question. Was he supposed to respond, or not? “Yes, Master,” he whispered, trying to be as respectful as possible. “Shouldn’t have spoken. I’m sorry, Master.”

Warren reached out a hand expectantly, and Spike obediently placed the stack of papers in his hand. Warren glanced at the one on top, and his smile widened. “You had to go sticking your nose in my business, didn’t you?” he smirked. “And I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Spike could feel his anger, long buried under fear and pain, rising up within him at the thought of what Warren was planning to do to Buffy. Dangerous, deadly anger… dangerous and deadly for him, if Warren saw it. He kept his eyes down, fighting for control of his emotions.

Warren must have been able to tell that he was trying to hide something, because he snapped suddenly, “Look at me.”

Spike reluctantly obeyed, meeting Warren’s eyes, hoping his fury and hatred didn’t show. Warren just looked at him for a moment, trying to read his expression.

Then he reared back and backhanded him, hard, across the face, knocking his head back into the desk.

Spike fought the darkness in front of his eyes, needing to stay conscious, some part of him insisting that he had to be alert, aware, he had to help Buffy…

“You can’t help her, Spike,” Warren’s soft voice spoke, suddenly very close to him, and Spike jerked back against the desk instinctively in his fear. “You can’t do anything to stop this. And you know it. She’s gonna be mine...just like you’re mine…” Warren laughed softly then, and amended, “Well, not *exactly*…” The suggestive leer in his voice made Spike want to hit him…kill him…rip out his throat…he realized that an unconscious growl was rumbling in his chest, a moment too late.

Warren gripped his throat and slammed his head back hard against the desk again, his eyes blazing with rage. “Is that a threat, Spike? Are you threatening me?”

Swallowing hard, Spike shook his head, his eyes closed. “N-no,” he whispered. “No.”

“Good,” Warren said in that deceptively soft voice, “because that would be really stupid, Spike. Wouldn’t it?”

He nodded as best he could against the hard hand at his throat, and choked out, “Yes.”

Warren released him with a little shove, standing up again, his eyes still on him, full of anger and menace. Placing the papers back on the desk, he reached down and effortlessly hauled the weak, dizzy vampire to his feet. Between Warren’s incredible strength and the alarming amount of weight Spike had lost due to his slow starvation, Warren had no trouble dragging him up the stairs and out of the basement.

He made a point of locking the basement door behind him, before slinging Spike to the floor a few feet away from him. He slowly advanced on him, glaring down at him without a word. Then he kicked him, hard, in the ribs, smiling cruelly as he coughed, choking on his own blood.

“This isn’t over,” Warren said softly. “You have a real attitude problem today, Spike. And I’m gonna help you get over it. When I get back. Right now…well…I’ve got a big night ahead of me.” His smile was cruel, his tone suggestive, and suddenly Spike realized with fear that Warren was ready to carry out his heinous scheme.

Warren left him there on the floor, stalking out of the house, Spike’s black leather on his retreating form adding insult to the injury he had just inflicted. Spike’s mind was racing, trying to think of something, anything he could do to help Buffy.

As strong as Warren was now, he would easily be a match for the Slayer. And he was trapped here, unable to leave the house, certainly unable to fight Warren even if he could. What could he possibly do to help her?

A feeling of despair washed over him, as he sat there on the floor, cursing his own utter powerlessness. Then, slowly, he raised his head, an idea dawning in his eyes as he turned them toward the stairs. It might cost him his life, he realized, with a soft, bitter laugh. *Not that that’s worth much at this point.* But it would save Buffy – give her back the ability to beat Warren.

Maybe there was something he could do after all.


“Ok, Will. No, that’s ok. You’ve been trying really hard, I know, it’s not your fault… just…” Buffy paused as her friend began apologizing again for her unsuccessful attempts at finding Warren’s new lair.

She had tried a locator spell, but it turned out that it didn’t work on vampires. Then she had thought of checking the city records to look for any recent property purchases of houses out in the country. But if Warren or his friends had purchased the house Spike had mentioned, they had used a false name, because there was no record.

With a sigh of frustration, Buffy hung up the phone and went to sit on the couch between Dawn and Xander.

“No luck, huh?” Xander sounded genuinely disappointed for her.

Buffy gave him a small, sad smile of gratitude. True to his word, although he clearly disagreed with Buffy’s decision to help Spike, he had still been very supportive and helpful, doing anything she had asked of him and putting in suggestions where he could.

So far, nothing had yielded results.

“We’ve just got to try harder,” Dawn said firmly, a determined gleam in her eyes. “It’s not like the answer’s just gonna show up on our doorstep. We’ve got to…”

At that moment, a loud crash sounded from the foyer, and all three rose to their feet, Buffy going into a defensive fighting stance automatically. The front door had been kicked in and had landed across the stairs.

Warren stood in the doorway. Smiling.

“Hey, guys. The party just arrived,” he smirked as he stepped through the door.


“Dawn, get in the kitchen,” Buffy ordered, her voice trembling with rage.

“You might wanna stick around, little sis,” Warren sneered. “It’s gonna be quite a show.”

“Go!” Buffy repeated, turning for a moment toward her sister, who hesitantly obeyed. Turning back to Warren with a tight, angry smile, the Slayer shrugged and explained, “I don’t like to expose her to violence. Especially of the me-being-violent variety. Gotta set a good example and all.”

“That’s disappointing,” Warren replied. “I love an audience.”

The suggestive leer on his face and in his voice was infuriating to Buffy. She charged him, drawing back her fist for the first blow.

He beat her to it.

An incredibly powerful blow to her face sent her crashing into the coffee table, hitting her back hard. She let out a groan as she hurriedly pulled herself to her feet. Xander had immediately stepped between her and Warren when he had seen her go down, standing protectively over her.

“Xander, get out of here!” Buffy snapped, concerned for his safety. If Warren could do that to *her*…

Xander ignored her, facing Warren bravely, though he had to have known he didn’t stand a chance.

Warren dropped him with one blow, knocking him unconscious and stepping over his crumpled form toward Buffy. “Just the two of us,” he smirked, glancing at her fallen friend, and toward the kitchen door where Dawn had disappeared.

“Yeah,” she muttered in response, gearing up to attack again. She spun into a kick aimed at his side, but he only caught her ankle and yanked hard, slamming her down onto the floor again.

And as she struggled to rise, while Warren stood there, laughing, not even winded, she realized with a sinking feeling that this was not a fight she was going to win.


Spike struggled, limping, up the stairs to Warren’s room. Urgently searching the dark room for something he could use, his eyes fell on the nightstick Warren had used to threaten him when he had first arrived here, sticking half-way under Warren’s bed. He crouched down painfully and picked it up, testing its weight in his hand. Standing back up straight was equally painful; Warren’s kick must have cracked a few ribs, he realized.

He had not realized how truly weakened he really was, until he tried to lift the thing and found it difficult. True, it was a heavy weapon, but in his former state, it would have been nothing for him. Now, it was a strain on the languishing muscles of his arms, fatigued and shaking from the recent torture.

He turned toward the glass case on the desk, enclosing the orbs. It was a long shot; it was possible that he was wrong and these were not even the source of Warren’s strength, after all. But it was the only chance he had to help Buffy, to save her from Warren’s sick little plot.

With a hiss of pain through his teeth at the motion, and an extreme effort, he raised the stick over his head and slammed it down with all his strength into the case. Panting with the exertion, he steadied himself with a hand on the desk and looked at the case to gauge his results.

The case was shattered, but still intact. One more blow did it, and the case fell to pieces on the desk and the floor. Spike carefully took the two orbs in his hands, wondering what effect they might have. He felt nothing; whatever process Warren had gone through to transfer their power to the ring he wore must have affected them. Still, he would not have locked them up in the case in the first place if they did not still hold *some* sort of power.

Spike set them carefully on the desk beside the shattered remnants of the case, and raised the nightstick in his hands again, his breathing labored, his chest and stomach screaming with pain; he knew he had pushed himself almost to the limit. But just another few moments, and he would be done, able to rest. He had to finish this. He brought the weapon down hard onto the orbs, and was pleasantly surprised that they were easily crushed under the admittedly weak blow, as easily as glass Christmas ornaments.

Hoping desperately that his actions would have the results he suspected they would, he collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily, on his hands and knees.

*Ok, Slayer,* he thought grimly to himself. *The rest is up to you.*


Buffy fought to pull herself back up, bracing her arm against the coffee table for leverage, winded by the impact of her fall. Warren came at her again, leveling a kick at her side. She rolled quickly out of the way, barely avoiding the blow, and in an instant was back on her feet, facing him, scared and unsure now, but determined not to go down without giving him the fight of his life.

Then, she saw his fist flying toward her face, and there was no time to dodge it, and she knew if the blow was anywhere near as powerful as the others he had dealt, it would knock her out cold.

It wasn’t.

The drastically lessened force of his punch snapped her face to the side momentarily, but did not even come close to knocking her down.

She turned her face back to look at him, and saw the stunned expression on his face, as if he was just realizing the same thing she was. She smiled slowly. Whatever energy was powering Warren’s little rampage, it seemed the battery had just run out.

“Ow,” she complained with a little grimace of annoyance. “That kinda stung a little.” Her eyes narrowing into slits of menace, she drew back her own fist and struck the boy across the face, hard, sending him staggering backward into the wall.

She advanced on him quickly, delivering a couple more quick, strong blows to his face and stomach, and he dropped to his knees on the floor. Buffy roughly yanked him back to his feet, twisting his arm up behind his back and shoving his face against the wall.

“I’m really glad you stopped by, Warren,” Buffy smiled. “I’d been thinking we needed to have a little talk. Since we kind of got interrupted last time.”

Warren’s mind was spinning. This was not the way he had expected it to turn out. At first he could not figure out what had happened, how his strength had suddenly failed him at this crucial moment.

Then he realized what must have happened, and his eyes narrowed in anger. Powerless in the hands of a very pissed off, now very strong Slayer, he could do nothing to stop her as she manhandled him into her living room and shoved him down on the couch.

The only outlet for his rage at the moment was not in this room, he realized with the hint of a vindictive smile about his lips.

The Slayer and her friend, who was just starting to come around from the knock-out punch he had taken, missed the smile, in all the excitement.

They also missed the hand that Warren slipped into his pocket, closing around the tiny device he kept there, pressing the button, and locking it down.

Buffy flung Warren down onto the couch, then kicked the coffee table out of her way, hard enough to slam it against the opposite wall – solely for dramatic effect – to stand directly in front of him, intimidatingly close, her arms crossed over her chest and her furious eyes boring into him.

“So…like I was saying,” she began with a smile. “About that fabulous coat you’re wearing…where’d you get it?” Her eyes were narrowed menacingly, and her tone was unyielding.

“I bought it,” Warren responded, his tone defiant. “What does it matter, Buffy? It’s just a coat.”

Dusting himself off as he walked to stand beside Buffy, Xander inserted sarcastically, “Right. You bought it. Like in, 1975. Oh wait…you weren’t alive then…never mind.”

“It *does* look a little worn around the edges, Warren,” Buffy said, nodding in a mockingly apologetic way. Her expression hardened as she added, “Like your story. Now,” she went on, gripping Warren by the collar of the worn leather coat in question and yanking him up off the couch. “I’m gonna ask you again, and if I get the same lie, I’m gonna start getting a little cranky. Where did you get it?”

“I bought it!” Warren insisted. “Not new…just from…some guy…”

His words were cut off when Buffy slammed his back against the wall, with enough force to take his breath, and make him groan in pain.

“Ok, I’m not playing around here, Warren,” she said, her voice softer now, and a frightening intensity in her green eyes. “I know where you got the coat. There’s only one thing that really matters to me right now. Where’s Spike?”

“How should I know? I haven’t seen him since I sold him that robot-you,” Warren sneered, obviously taking pleasure in the little flinch that reminder got from the Slayer.

The next reaction it got was not so welcome.

Buffy’s fist slammed into his face, hard, knocking his head against the wall behind him with an audible crack.

“Buffy!” Xander sounded alarmed. “Careful!”

“Yeah, you’re right, Xand,” Buffy said quietly, still smiling at Warren, who was looking up at her with genuine fear now. “I don’t want him unconscious before he tells me what I want to know.” She paused before going on, “Where is he?”

“I – I don’t know, Buffy, I swear!” Warren replied in a pleading tone. Obviously, he had underestimated the Slayer’s concern for his vampire slave. If she was upset now, he did not want to be around for her reaction when she saw the condition Spike was in.

“You know, I’m just having a really hard time believing that,” Buffy said, shaking her head sadly. Quickly, expertly, she spun the boy around so that his back was to her and twisted his left arm behind him, jerking it upward at an awkward angle and holding her other hand poised to strike. “You’re going to tell me where he is, right now…or I’m going to start systematically breaking every bone in your body…shall we begin?”

She twisted harder, and Warren moaned in pain. “Wait!” he gasped. “Wait, I’ll – I’ll tell you!”

“No,” Buffy smiled in triumph behind his back. “You’ll *show* me. Cause you know, if you’re lying…I’m gonna want to get started right away on torturing the truth out of you…so it’d kinda be better if you’re along for the ride.”

“Ok! Ok!” Warren gasped. “Whatever you say, Buffy! Please!”

Quite pleased with herself, Buffy turned and smiled at Xander, who was looking at her, aghast. “Remind me never to get you mad,” he muttered, as Buffy led her captive toward the door.

“Wait!” Dawn’s voice suddenly spoke from the kitchen doorway, and Buffy turned to look at her younger sister, suddenly wondering uncomfortably how long she had been silently watching the scene.

Torture and intimidation were not exactly qualities she wanted Dawn to pick up from her.

“I’m going.” Dawn’s voice was firm.

“No,” Buffy shook her head. “We don’t know what we’re gonna find there. You need to wait here.”

“No,” Dawn argued, coming to stand in front of her sister, her arms crossed in a mirror of Buffy’s stance only minutes before. “He’s hurt, Buffy. I need to be there for him.”

Buffy regarded her sister for a moment, troubled. She thought back to the last time she had seen Spike, all the badness that existed between them…this reunion could be a little on the awkward side. Maybe it would be better if Dawn was along, to be there for Spike if he really needed someone to be…and she couldn’t manage it.

“Ok,” she conceded finally. “But you’re staying in the car.”

“Ok,” Dawn chirped, rushing ahead of them out the door and to their mom’s old SUV, having absolutely no intention of actually staying in the car.

When they reached the old house, about fifteen miles out of town, and Xander parked the car, Dawn was out the door almost before the car had stopped.

“Wait,” Buffy said quietly, and Dawn actually did, surprised by her sister’s calmness and the lack of ordering her back into the vehicle.

Gripping Warren’s arm tightly in one hand and a handful of his hair in the other, she jerked his head back threateningly and asked him in a soft voice, “Are your friends inside?”

“No,” he whispered, obviously terrified of this infinitely more frightening version of Buffy that he had never seen before. “No, I swear it!”

“If you’re lying,” Buffy warned him softly. “You’re going to be very, very sorry, Warren.”

“I’m not,” he insisted fearfully, and Buffy looked at him carefully for a moment before nodding her okay for Dawn to go along. After all, if Warren was the only one here besides Spike, and Buffy had him under control, what was the danger of allowing the girl to go inside?

The moment they were through the door, Buffy began looking around for Spike, but saw no sign of him. All was quiet and still.

“Spike?” Dawn called, glancing around the living room before heading for the stairs. “Spike?”

There was no response, as Buffy followed her sister up the stairs, dragging Warren along with her, with Xander bringing up the rear.

Buffy heard Dawn’s startled, horrified gasp as her sister reached the doorway to Warren’s room before she did, and released Warren, thrusting him toward Xander, to run through the door. Xander caught the smaller boy firmly by the arms and held him there, before he could even consider making a break for it.

By the time Buffy entered the room, Dawn was already kneeling at Spike’s side, tears streaking her face as she spoke his name in a scared whisper, trying to rouse him. He lay facedown on the floor, unconscious.

Buffy reached them and gently helped her sister to turn him over, speaking to him in a quiet but urgent voice. “Spike? Spike, wake up! Spike!”

She stopped talking, drawing in her breath sharply at the sight of his battered face. It was a mess of bruises, some very fresh, layered over others that were older – the evidence of many brutal beatings. She was troubled as she gently shook his shoulders, trying to get him to wake up, by the way his body was trembling oddly under her hands, although he was unconscious. A slow burning flame of rage began to consume her as she looked at the decimation of this man, once her lover, who had loved her so deeply for so long and sacrificed and given more for her than a few dark moments in her bathroom could possibly erase.

She slowly raised furious eyes to the figure in the doorway, restrained by Xander’s strong hands. He was responsible for this, and he was going to pay. She stood up, approaching him with such malice in her eyes that the boy’s eyes widened with terror and he shrank back from her.

“Buffy…Buffy, wait…please!” he gasped as she reached him and grabbed him by the throat, spinning him around and slamming him hard onto his back across his desk.

“What did you do to him?” she demanded in a voice of cold steel.

“I didn’t do it!” Warren pleaded. “I – I found him like this! I’ve been – uh – taking care of him,” he lied.

Buffy’s hand at his throat gripped him harder, choking him and cutting off his words. “Lie to me again and I’m gonna lose my temper, Warren, and *then* you’re going to find out what pain is, little boy. Do you understand me?” she snarled. “What is wrong with him?”

“I – I don’t know!” Warren insisted, but as he spoke his hand unconsciously went to his pocket, closing protectively over the device concealed there.

Buffy was standing too close to him to notice the action. But Dawn wasn’t. She was holding Spike’s head in her lap, gently rocking him, trying to coax him awake, but for the past few moments she had been anxiously watching her sister’s interrogation of Warren, desperate as well to know what was wrong with her friend.

When she saw his hand go to his pocket, she rose purposefully, gently lowering Spike’s head to the floor and walking across the room to her sister. Against the protest that began on Buffy’s lips, she shoved her hand into Warren’s pocket and yanked out the control device, holding it up for her sister to see.

Buffy stared at it for a moment, not understanding. She slowly took it from her sister’s hand before turning back to Warren. “What is this?” she demanded quietly.

“It – it’s nothing, Buffy, it has nothing to do with…”

Buffy’s fist smashed into his face brutally, and she repeated in a voice that was almost a shout, “What is it?”

“It controls the chip!” Warren finally admitted, in a trembling voice, the pressure finally too much for him.

Buffy’s eyes widened and she looked back at the tiny thing in her hand. “Spike’s chip?” she repeated dumbly. “It – it makes it fire?”

Warren nodded slowly, in defeat.

Buffy stared at it for a moment longer, before her mind registered the depressed button on the top of it, and the tiny slide catch that was holding it down. She didn’t know how long the button had been down, how long the chip had been firing, but it had been long enough to drive Spike into unconsciousness. As her finger quickly slid the catch back, allowing the button to rise, she turned her icy glare on Warren.

“You disgusting…you little piece of…” she hissed, shaking her head, her words trailing off as she could not think of anything bad enough to call Warren.

Dawn had immediately returned to Spike’s side, and was relieved to note that with the end of the vicious electric current coursing through his body had come the end of the tremors that shook him, though he still showed no signs of returning to consciousness. The lack of dusting was the only good sign at the moment. She pulled his limp form close to her again, rocking slightly and whispering to him, trying to rouse him.

Buffy released Warren with a shove back down onto the desk, stepping back and regarding the device in her hand. With a firm resolve in her eyes she dropped the thing to the floor and raised her foot to crush it.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Warren smirked, and Buffy was surprised and infuriated by his nerve even in the face of the revelation of what he had done.

But something in his tone gave her pause, and she asked warningly, “Why not?”

“If you do he’s dead…well, not dead, exactly…worse…the chip will go into an automatic fire mode that’s pretty…well, pretty much permanent,” Warren explained, slowly raising his back off the desk, but still leaning on it for support.

Buffy quickly moved her foot from over the device, leaning down to pick it up.

“And also,” Warren went on, his voice stronger now. “I put a lot of work into that, and I’m not really willing to let you just destroy it.”

Buffy looked up quickly at the change in his voice, and froze, stunned. Warren had reached under the desk and taken out a pistol that he kept there, and now aimed it at her. Slowly she stood up straight, an odd sense of fear going through her.

Demons, she could handle. Vampires, no problem. Bullets…she didn’t know how to defeat.

Xander stepped forward, moving to come between Buffy and the gun, but Warren ordered coldly, “Don’t move or I’ll shoot her,” and he froze where he was.

“Warren,” Buffy said softly, instantly changing modes as she held out her hands placatingly in front of her. “You don’t want to do this.” Her heart pounded with fear and her mind raced, desperately seeking a way out of this situation.

“Don’t I?” he sneered. “Why not, exactly, Buffy? It’s not like you guys were gonna let me walk away from this, were you? I mean, you either kill me, or if I’m *really* lucky,” he went on sarcastically, “you let me live and just call the cops on me, and I get twenty for armed robbery. I mean, come on, Buffy. Why would I *not* want to do this?”

Buffy didn’t have an answer for him. For someone with Warren’s deranged view of things, there was no argument that would convince him to lay down the weapon. Her eyes darted past him anxiously to where her sister and Spike were on the floor behind him. She tried to think, tried to come up with a plan. She had to get the gun away from him; she had to get Dawn and Spike away from him – she had to do both without getting anyone killed.

*Except maybe Warren,* a growing part of her mind amended. *That might be all right.*

“Ok,” she said softly, still trying to calm him down. “Just – just go, Warren. We won’t stop you. But if you try to actually kill us…you’re gonna have a hard time getting rid of all these bodies, all the blood, my car, every bit of evidence to keep yourself from getting caught…your only option is to go, really…and we won’t try to stop you…just go…”

If he left right now, that would be best, she thought. They could go home where it was safe, and come up with a way to catch him – later, with no guns involved. But it would diffuse the dangerous situation they were in at the moment, without anyone getting hurt. Ordinarily, she was not one to back down from a fight because of the threat of death.

Ordinarily, the threat of death was not also aimed at so many people that she loved.

“I’m way ahead of you, Slayer,” Warren laughed derisively. “I’m out of here.” His eyes hardened cruelly as he added, “But not without what’s mine.” He gestured with the gun in his hand to the device in her hand. “Throw that over here.”

And with a chill Buffy realized that, although she could not fathom why, he meant to take Spike with him. Otherwise why would he need the controller?

And she realized in the same moment, as her hand tightened around the tiny device, that she would die, or he would, before she would let that happen.

Through the dense fog, the haze of pain that surrounded him, Spike could hear Warren’s angry voice, snarling in rage and hatred. He wanted to slip back into the darkness, to escape the inevitable pain that always followed that sound, but the pain he was already experiencing was so intense that he knew it would follow him there. The chip had stopped firing, finally, at some point after it had stolen his consciousness, but the searing, white-hot agony still wracked his body, as he lay helpless on the cold, hard floor of Warren’s bedroom.

Except – wait. Not cold, and not hard. His head was resting on something soft and warm and yielding – a pillow? Surely not. Warren had never allowed him such a comfort. Where was he? What…?

Suddenly, he heard *her* voice. *Buffy*! She was speaking calmly, softly, but he could hear the fear in her voice, and that she was trying to hide it. Had he failed her then? Had Warren captured her? He struggled to open his eyes, desperate to see her, to help her.

When he finally, painfully managed it, his eyes immediately fell on her, standing a few yards from him, holding out her hands in an appeasing gesture. His heart dropped in fear when he saw the person she was trying to appease.

Warren. And he had a gun.

Weakly he tried to rise, but it was still impossible for him; the recent shocks had drained all his remaining strength. The pitiful attempt was overwhelming, and all faded into darkness again.

Dawn didn’t notice the slight movement of his head in her lap. Her attention was riveted on the tense stand-off between her sister and Warren. Then Buffy caught her eye, and Dawn knew without a word what she meant to do. She nodded slightly behind Warren’s back, and prepared herself to act on Buffy’s cue.

“Ok,” Buffy said softly. “Whatever you say, Warren. Here it is.” She lowered the hand which held the control device, as if to toss it underhanded to Warren, and he held out his hand to catch it.

At the last second, however, she changed direction and aimed for Dawn. Warren moved sideways and backwards in an attempt to catch it, losing his balance and stumbling as Dawn caught the controller in her hand.

Buffy took the opportunity she had created to hurl herself at Warren, slamming him to the floor, catching his wrist in her hand as she did. She raised it and slammed it painfully down on the floor, and he released his grip on the gun with a moan of pain.

“That,” Buffy said, rising with the gun in her hand, “was stupid.” She drew back the weapon and smashed it across Warren’s face, hard, but not with her full strength; she had a feeling she might need the boy conscious a little while longer.

“Buffy.” Xander’s voice behind her was warning, concerned.

She paused, breathing hard, glaring down at the terrified boy beneath her. Slowly she rose, and turned her attention toward Spike. She handed the gun to Xander, saying in a quiet, emotionless tone, “If he moves, shoot him.”

Xander took a deep breath, then dutifully pointed the weapon at Warren and tried to look as if he would actually use it.

Slowly, Buffy approached her sister, and Spike, who was just beginning to come around. He was stirring slightly, his head in Dawn’s lap rolling to the side.

“Spike?” the younger girl whispered, hopefully through her tears, her small hand gently stroking back his dirty, disheveled blonde hair.

Buffy knelt in front of him, putting one gentle hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, and said in a voice stronger than Dawn’s, but still trembling, “Spike. Come on, Baby, wake up.” The endearment slipped past her lips without her even noticing it. But Dawn and Xander both noticed and looked at her, Dawn with a small smile, Xander with resentment.

Slowly, Spike opened his eyes, bluer and more beautiful than she’d remembered, though full of confusion and fear. He felt smothered, trapped, and he flinched back from their hands, drawing in a shaky breath as he weakly tried to pull away, in a panic.

“Hey,” Buffy spoke softly, her eyes welling with tears as she moved her hand from his face to his other shoulder, trying to steady him. “Hey, it’s just us. You’re ok. You’re ok, Spike. We’re here.”

Gradually, his eyes came to focus on her, and she saw the stunned disbelief, the wonder, the tremendous relief he almost dared not feel, when he realized that she was really there – followed in the next instant by a stricken look of heartbreaking pain, as he turned his head away in shame, his eyes tightly shut again.

Buffy slowly withdrew her hands, her eyes widened in dismay at his reaction, though she could understand it, after all that had happened between them. She stood slowly, watching as her little sister gently coaxed him back, whispering his name, stroking her fingers through his hair until he looked up at her.

His eyes flooded with tears at the sight of Dawn, and he whispered in a voice thick with tears and hoarse from disuse, “Bit…my little Bit…”

Dawn lowered her head, pulling him closer to her as her tears ran down her face, falling to mingle with his. “Spike,” she whispered. “It’s okay, we’re gonna take you home now. You’re gonna be all right.”

A deep throbbing ache rose in his chest at the words. How could an innocent like Dawn ever understand the truth, that he would never, ever be all right again?

Buffy turned to Xander. “We need to get him out of here. We need to take him to my house. He – he’s not gonna be able to walk out of here. Can you carry him?” She would have done it herself, but she didn’t like the idea of not having her hands free to deal with Warren if necessary.

Xander nodded wordlessly, handing the gun back to Buffy and slowly approaching Dawn and Spike. As he carefully reached toward the trembling, still-suffering vampire, Spike drew back in fear from the boy he used to mock. Despite the fact that he despised Spike, it made Xander feel a little sick to see him cringing in fear from *him*. The terror in Spike’s eyes made him wonder just exactly what had gone on in this house to put it there.

“It’s ok, Buddy,” Xander carefully kept his voice soft, even. “I’m not gonna hurt you, ok? Just hold still for a minute, I’m gonna get you out to the car, ok?”

The feeling of nausea intensified when at the words “hold still”, Spike immediately froze, instantly obeying the command he had heard so frequently, though not from Xander’s lips.

Buffy did not miss the little scene, either, and her eyes narrowed as her fury threatened to overwhelm her. *Keep it together, Buffy,* she warned herself. She grabbed Warren’s arms roughly, yanking them behind his back and dragging him toward the door.

“Easy,” Xander said softly, as he lifted Spike carefully into his arms, alarmed in spite of his determination not to care by how very easy it was to lift him. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he repeated.

“Oh my God, Buffy,” he whispered, looking up at her with wide eyes. “He can’t weigh even a hundred pounds!”

Buffy stopped in the doorway to slam Warren’s head into the doorjamb, demanding, “So you’ve been starving him, too, Warren?”

“No!” the boy objected, his voice high and frightened, and a bit slurred from the blows he had taken to the head. “No, I’ve – I’ve been giving him blood every day!”

Spike’s eyes flew to his in a look of silent accusation, as he let out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Tell them!” Warren insisted, directing his words to Spike, and there was an odd note in his voice that Buffy couldn’t quite place, as he added, “Tell them I didn’t starve you.”

Spike’s gaze quickly dropped to the floor, and Xander could feel his trembling increase against him.

Buffy saw the little exchange, and suddenly knew exactly what Warren was doing. In that moment, the Slayer had had enough.

“Ok, listen to me!” she snarled, slamming Warren back into the wall and holding him there by the throat, almost cutting off his air completely. The dark eyes lost their menace as they stared wide and fearful at the furious Slayer. “Don’t you *dare* try to threaten him! You are never going to touch him again! If you so much as look his way again – I’ll kill you, Warren. Do you understand? I will kill you.”

Warren nodded desperately, gasping for breath.

Buffy nodded too, momentarily satisfied, and started toward the stairs, dragging Warren along. Dawn got up and followed her. Both of them missed the troubled look Xander cast on his friend as he came behind them, carrying Spike.

Buffy took out a set of iron manacles she had brought with her from her house and used them to chain Warren, hands behind his back, to the piping that ran along one wall. She had determined that it would be better if they were not around when the police arrived, so they would leave Warren securely bound in his house, then call the police and give them the address once they reached the safety of her house.

As Xander neared the door, he and Dawn were surprised by Spike’s reaction. He flinched and pulled back, whimpering, “No! No, I – I can’t…”

Dawn drew nearer to him, taking his hand gently. “What? You can’t what, Spike?”

“I can’t leave,” he replied in a broken whisper.

Dawn was confused.

Buffy was not. Grabbing Warren by the hair and yanking his head back, she snarled, “What is he talking about?”

“Nothing!” he gasped in pain. “He can leave anytime he wants to!” A cruel smile crossed his lips in spite of his situation as he added, softer, “He always could.”

A shocked, strangled little cry rose in Spike’s throat, his eyes widening in disbelief, as he realized the cruel deception that had held him here for so long. The revelation of the truth was Warren’s final blow, and it hit its mark.

With rising horror and disgust, though she didn’t know exactly what had happened, Buffy knew that somehow Warren had convinced Spike that he couldn’t leave the house, when in reality, he could have all along. She fought with her rising rage, knowing that if she started in on Warren now, she might not stop. Perhaps if she had known all that had gone on in this place, she would not have cared. But she didn’t know, and at the moment, murder was not a line she was prepared to cross.

Dawn looked as if she felt otherwise, as she stalked away from Xander and Spike toward Warren, where he knelt, bound with his back to the wall. Her eyes blazed fury as she delivered a vicious kick to his face, drawing blood with the pointed toe of her small black boot.

Buffy gently but firmly took her arms and pulled her back, not allowing her to do nearly as much damage as she wanted to. “Dawn,” she said softly, soothingly. “Dawnie, we need to think about Spike. We need to get him home.”

That got Dawn’s attention, and though she kept her hate-filled eyes fastened on Warren, she stopped trying to get at him.

Xander hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he should go through it or not.

Leaning in close to Warren’s face, meeting his eyes with menace in her own, Buffy said softly, “If he gets hurt when we take him through that door – I’m gonna forget all about the police and take care of this myself. So you’d better be telling the truth. Is it safe for him to go through that door?”

“Yes! I swear it!” Warren insisted, very, very afraid of the murderous rage he saw in the Slayer’s eyes.

Buffy stood up and turned toward Xander, nodding grimly. With a deep breath, Xander walked through the doorway and into the night, and they all breathed a sigh of relief when nothing happened.

Spike had tensed as Xander had approached the door, a very large part of him still expecting terrible punishment for trying to leave. As he slowly realized that they were outside, they had left the house, and there was no pain – well, no *more* pain – he choked back a sob of intense relief, and a deep agony of spirit that he would never be able to express in words.

Dawn hurried ahead to the car to open the door for Xander, while Buffy stayed behind to make sure Warren could not get away and everything was secure. As she opened the door, Dawn suddenly said, “Wait!” and climbed into the vehicle ahead of him, helping him to gently lay Spike’s ravaged, trembling body across the seat, his head once again resting in her lap, her small warm arms wrapped gently around him, holding him close to her.

Her eyes filled with fresh tears as one shaking, tentative hand reached up to clutch weakly at the arm wrapped loosely about his shoulders. A single, soft sob that he had been trying desperately to hold back, nevertheless escape his lips, and she squeezed him gently tighter, running her hand through his hair, along his brow, again, as she tried to comfort the depths of pain and fear she had heard in that one sound.

“It’s okay, now, Spike. You’re safe now. We’re going home.”


Inside the house, Buffy checked the chains on Warren’s wrists, finding that they were painfully tight, tight enough to cut off his circulation. She smiled in satisfaction as she stood to face him.

“Now let’s get one thing straight,” she said softly, standing over him with her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re going to prison. You’re going for a long, long time, if justice is served. If it’s not – or you convince them you’re a good enough little boy to come out and play again – whenever it is that you get out…” She crouched down in front of him, regarding the gun in her hand for a moment before pressing it to his temple, eliciting a frightened gasp.

Speaking slowly and distinctly, she went on in a voice of quiet, deadly menace, “If you ever come near Spike – or me – or anyone I care about, again – believe that I mean it with everything in me when I say that I *will* kill you, Warren. Suicide by Slayer – that’s what it would be. I’m telling you now that the next time I see you – I will kill you. Is that clear?”

Speechless with terror, Warren nodded, closing his eyes, on the verge of tears as she pressed the weapon just slightly harder against his head for just a moment before removing it and standing up.

“I don’t know why it’s such a big deal,” Warren muttered, resentful in spite of his fear. “It’s not like he’s a *person*!”

Buffy’s mouth worked with repressed fury for a moment, before she smiled, “You know, I’m *really* glad I don’t need you conscious anymore!” And she brought the pistol down hard across the side of his head, knocking him out cold.

She turned to leave, to find Xander standing in the doorway, watching her with an inscrutable expression.

She did not explain herself, did not even look the slightest bit defensive, as she reached him and they fell into step together, toward the SUV.

“Buffy,” he began cautiously.

“Xander, if you try to remind me that *Spike* is a monster, and Warren is human, I will be driving home, because I will most likely knock *you* out,” Buffy said calmly, and though the words were a joke, her tone was not.

Xander did not say another word as they reached the vehicle. Buffy suddenly stopped in her tracks, frowning slightly.

“What is it?” he asked her, pausing beside the open driver’s side door.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, turning purposefully back toward the house.

“Buffy…” Xander tried to stop her, alarmed.

She simply held up a hand to silence him as she walked back toward the door, then disappeared inside.

Anxious and unsettled, hoping that Buffy was not about to do something that would stay with her for the rest of her life, he got into the vehicle and waited in the driver’s seat, glancing nervously up at the door occasionally.

A few moments later, Buffy reappeared, walking quickly toward the car with her mouth set in a firm line, her eyes hard, but shining with tears.

Over her arm was folded carefully a worn, black leather coat.

“We’re gonna have to stop by the butcher’s shop on the way home,” Buffy spoke softly as she stared straight ahead through the windshield. She hadn’t yet dared to turn and look at Spike, *really* look at him, without the distractions that had surrounded them since she had found him.

Xander nodded silently. Then his eyes widened and he added his own realization, “I’m gonna have to fix your front door!”

Buffy suddenly remembered what she had not given a thought in her hurry to get to Spike. Super-Warren had smashed in her front door before reverting to Pathetic-Warren and getting the crap smacked out of him by her. The thought of Warren infuriated her; she felt like going back to his house and beating him some more for what he had done to Spike.

The only thing that stopped her was the fear that she would not stop there.

She finally ventured to turn in her seat and look at her former lover. Spike was asleep, or unconscious again, with her sister’s arms protectively encircling him. Fresh tears came to Buffy’s eyes as she took in the pitiful sight of the once strong, confident vampire. Every inch of skin that was exposed – his face, neck, and arms – were covered in dark, ugly bruises and other odd marks, which she guessed were signs of internal burning from the shocks produced by the chip.

Here in the light from the SUV’s dome light, she could see that all these were interspersed with various vicious cuts and other marks. Her throat closed up with tears and her chest burned with rage; Spike had been savagely tortured. He seemed so small, painfully thin, trembling even in his sleep. His clothes, his hair, were ragged and filthy.

She realized with an uncomfortable feeling that the task of getting him cleaned up and cared for was going to be hers. To have Xander do it would be humiliating for Spike, and letting Dawn do it was out of the question, though she knew she would certainly be willing. And though she had no aversions to caring for Spike, after all he had obviously been through, the idea of taking him into the bathroom and undressing him, just being in *that* room with him…

She steeled herself, setting her jaw. She would just have to get through it…there was no way around it.

She shifted in her seat and felt the odd pressure of the small object she had placed there earlier. Suddenly alarmed, she quickly withdrew it. It would not do to accidentally activate the thing. She stared at the tiny device in her hand, turning it slowly, her eyes wide and solemn with thoughts of the damage the little thing was capable of inflicting.

Xander glanced away from the road to see what she was looking at, then up to her face with curiosity. “What are you gonna do with it?” he asked.

Buffy hesitated. “Can’t destroy it. It’d hurt him.” She paused, staring at it in morbid fascination. “I guess I’m gonna have to hold onto it.” As distasteful as the thought was to her, she knew that she had to keep the dangerous device from falling into the wrong hands, at all costs. No matter what, she was determined to keep Spike from being hurt again.


Spike lay silent in the backseat, extremely unsettled by the Slayer’s mere presence. The sight of her had been such an incredible relief for him, but now that he had time to think – to wonder what she was thinking of him – his shame and fear overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes.

That was why when he saw her turning around in her seat to look at him, he quickly closed his eyes, too ashamed, and terrified of what he would see in her eyes, to look at her. How could he ever face her again? he wondered in despair. It was more than he had hoped for that she had even come for him at all. He knew he did not deserve it, after what he had done to her.

He felt her gaze on him though he couldn’t see it, and imagined in it all the hatred and rejection he felt he deserved from her. If she was simply taking him away from Warren so that she could stake him herself, he would accept it as his due – and at this point probably a mercy.

When he felt her eyes leave him, heard the faint rustling of her turning back around in her seat, his eyes opened to look at her again. His stomach twisted in rising panic as he saw her take out the device from her pocket and look it over slowly and carefully.

*Please, Buffy, please don’t!* the cry echoed only in his mind, as his entire body tensed, trembling in dreadful anticipation of the punishment he had come to expect, and believed that she had the right and reason to mete out.

He heard her speaking softly, heard anger and disgust in her voice, though he was too shaken to register her words. All he heard was the emotion in them, and thought it was directed at him. *I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!* he wanted to sob out, but he couldn’t force his mouth to work.

“Buffy!” Dawn’s frightened voice rang out in the stillness that had taken over the vehicle, and Buffy quickly looked back toward her sister, then aghast at Spike when she saw the way he was shrinking back against the seat, his terrified eyes locked onto the device in her hand.

“Oh God,” Buffy whispered, horrified as she realized what he must be thinking, and the enormity of what he was going through struck her again.

Spike flinched back against Dawn’s warm support, closing his eyes again. *Stupid. You stupid little nothing!* his own mental voice spoke Warren’s words. *Now you’ve done it. Shouldn’t have drawn attention to yourself. You’re in for it now.*

Dawn’s comforting arms tightened around him as Buffy quickly looked for a place to put the device down, settling hurriedly on the glove compartment before climbing over the seat to kneel in front of him. He shuddered and pulled back further at her approach.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dawn was repeating softly. “She’s not gonna hurt you, Spike.”

Buffy cautiously took his hand, feeling it tense up under her touch, but not pull away. That was good, she thought hopefully. He didn’t pull away from her.

What she didn’t know was that he didn’t dare.

“Spike…” she whispered, reaching a gentle hand to stroke his hair back. “I would *never, never* do that to you. You have to know that, Spike. I’m only keeping it to protect you, so no one else gets it, I promise, Spike. I would never hurt you…”

Her words caught in her throat as a memory flashed into her mind unbidden – of a dark, brutal night in an alley nearly six months ago. “I wouldn’t,” she whispered, softly insistent, trying to convince them both. “Never…never again.” The last word was an admission she had never made before, and when Dawn looked up at her sharply, she knew she would have some explaining to do later.

Spike was clearly trying to calm down, but he was shaking violently, his eyes focused on the floor.

“Spike, would you look at me, please?” Buffy asked softly. Remembering his reaction to Xander’s well-intentioned command at Warren’s house, she was careful to make it a request, not an order.

Still, his eyes were instantly on hers in immediate obedience, and the stark pain and fear she saw there took her breath, sending a physical pain through her chest at the sight. She made herself speak through it as she gently enfolded his hand in both of hers and looked deep into his eyes.

“Spike, I’m going to take this horrible thing and put it away somewhere, and never touch it. Ok? Just so no one else can get to it, I swear, Spike. I promise that I’m never, ever going to use it against you. I promise. Ok?” Her eyes were solemn, her voice low and earnest.

He nodded, and once again she got the impression that he was just being compliant.

“Do you believe me?” she asked him gently, seeking the eyes he had dropped again.

They remained downcast as he nodded slowly, but she could see the trembling easing, and though still unsure, he did not seem so panicked.

When they reached the house, Buffy began the task of getting him out of the car and inside. As she gently lifted him into her arms, he reached up to put his arm around her neck in an attempt to help her. Against her will, Buffy felt a shiver go down her spine at his touch. She was fine touching *him*, to comfort him, but his cool arm around her neck brought back unwelcome memories.

He felt her tremor and immediately started to withdraw his hand, now resting across her shoulder, but she caught it gently in her own, stopping him.

His face was a mask of shame and guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m sorry, Buffy.” There was a desperate, pleading note in his voice that tore at her heart.

Buffy felt tears beginning in her eyes, forced them back. This was not the time for this conversation. She gave his hand at her shoulder a light squeeze before lifting him up in her arms, but otherwise did not acknowledge his words.

Willow and Tara met them at the spot where the door had been with worried expressions.

“Buffy!” Willow gasped, relief and concern mingling in her voice at the sight of the vampire in her arms. “We came by and saw the door – we were so worried! We almost called the police, but – but we figured it probably wasn’t something they could handle…”

“It is now,” Buffy said grimly as she carefully laid Spike down on the sofa. “And they’ll be handling it in a few minutes, at Warren’s.”

Xander took his cue to head for the phone in the kitchen, and Dawn went to her knees at Spike’s side, as Buffy quickly explained as much as she knew to Tara and Willow. She realized in the telling that she really didn’t know much. She had been so concerned by Spike’s condition that she had not thought to ask any questions.

She sighed. The rest of the story would have to come from Spike – when he was ready. Not now. He was in pain, starving, and obviously deeply traumatized. She had never seen him this vulnerable, so scared and insecure. The Spike she remembered was confident to the point of arrogance, always defiant. But he had been shattered, what he once was crushed until all that was left was the broken, beaten creature before her.

*You broke him first,* her accusing heart reminded her, and she knew it was true.

Willow and Tara set about fixing up the mess that had been made of her living room during the fight with Warren, while Xander hung up the phone and began on the door.

After a few moments and a brief whispered conference with Tara, Willow approached Buffy and said softly, “Buffy, I can stay at Tara’s for a little while. Spike can have my room. He needs to have a place that’s his after all this – where he can feel safe.”

Buffy felt a wave of gratitude for her friend’s sensitivity. “Thanks, Will,” she whispered.

She had been wondering what they would do. She could not imagine making Spike stay in the basement, in his condition, and knew he would feel too exposed and vulnerable, not to mention uncomfortable, on the sofa. She had been prepared to let him use her room, and sleep on the couch herself. But now that would not be necessary.

“Dawnie, honey,” she said, turning to her sister. “Can you go help Will get some stuff together and get the room ready for Spike? I’m gonna help him get cleaned up a little.”

Dawn nodded, understanding. Before rising, she gave him a very gentle hug, just barely touching his body, and whispered in his ear in response to the fear she saw rising in his eyes, “It’s okay. She’s not gonna hurt you.”

Spike wondered at the fact that in this room with two powerful witches and a Slayer, it was the normal fifteen-year-old girl that made him feel safe. He tried not to let it, but he could feel the fear overcoming him again as once again he was lifted like a child in arms too soft to be so very strong.

Buffy had promised not to hurt him, but the only thing he could focus on was his utter helplessness – the only constant left in his life. He was at the mercy of someone who had every reason to want him dead. And as she slowly mounted the stairs, he felt a new panic joining the first one as they approached the scene of his heinous crime.

“I – I can do it,” he whispered, dangerously close to tears. “I can clean up myself, Buffy, you don’t – you don’t – have to…”

“Hush,” she gently reprimanded him. “You can’t even stand, Spike. The little creep really did a number on you.” She paused before adding in a softer tone, “Just let me help you, okay?”

He did not respond, a slave as usual, if not to the mastery of the chip, to the dictates of her wishes.

Gently she helped him to sit up on the closed toilet, while she carefully filled the tub, making sure the water was good and deep, and not too hot, but hot enough. After all, he was much more sensitive to heat than she would have been.

He noticed that she had grown very quiet upon entering the room, her mouth set against the emotions that dwelt here. No longer accustomed to speaking of his own accord, and fighting back tears of his own, he fell into silence as well.

“Can you lift your arms?” she asked him quietly, trying to figure out how they were going to get the tattered, filthy black t-shirt he was wearing off.

He dutifully attempted, biting back a whimper of pain when he couldn’t manage to raise them above his chest. He closed his eyes and tried again, but Buffy gently stopped his arms, pushing them gently back down.

He opened his eyes to look at her, and was stunned by the depth of sorrow in her wide green eyes as she stared at him, her mouth working with the effort to hold back her tears.

“I – I can do it!” he insisted in a trembling voice, distressed that his weakness was upsetting her. *Stupid, stupid, all your fault…*

“No,” she said more firmly, trying to stop him, but he pulled away from her, determined to do as she had asked him, as much as to not appear helpless in front of her. *Too late,* the voice in his head taunted. *Helpless, pathetic, worthless…*

“Stop it, Spike,” she added, raising her voice slightly, trying to get her hands back on his arms to stop him, though he kept struggling against her, in spite of the movement that tore at his broken ribs and made him gasp in agony.

Seeing the pain he was causing himself, she repeated, sharply, tearfully, “Stop it!” finally catching his arms and holding them firmly down.

He flinched at the harsh note in her voice and her strong touch. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” he whispered, his eyes closed and his head turned away in an instinctive reaction.

The fear in his voice broke her; she was no longer capable of holding back the tears. “Oh, Spike…” she whispered in a voice full of heartache. “Oh, my poor Spike…”

The unmistakable sound of her concern, of her heart breaking -- for *him*, even after what he’d done -- caused his own tears to fall, as he stopped fighting her and gripped her arms in his weak, trembling hands, bowing his head, unable to look at her.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry, Buffy, I’m so sorry,” he kept repeating, sobbing now, and she knew he was no longer talking about fighting her.

And all she could do was take the broken, sobbing vampire in her arms, pulling him close to her, gently pulling his head down onto her shoulder. “Shh,” she whispered in his ear between her own sobs. “No, Baby…no it’s ok… it’s ok, Spike.”

She held him like that for a long time, just letting him sob out the months of agony, and the pain of what had preceded it, just gently whispering in his ear, her hand gently rubbing his back. “I’m so sorry, too, Baby…it’s gonna be ok…it’s gonna be all right, Spike. It’s ok…”

And silently in her aching heart, she determined that she was going to do whatever it took, no matter what, to make that promise reality.

When his tears seemed to finally have ebbed, at least for the moment, Buffy gently pushed back from him to look him in the eye. The tenderness and compassion he saw in hers, after months of nothing but abuse and cruelty, was almost overwhelming. A part of him allowed himself to be comforted by it; but at the same time, it made him feel anxious, guilty. It was as if her kindness was something he knew he had no right to, and at any moment he would be caught with it, it would be snatched away, and he would be punished for presuming to call it his.

“We need to get you taken care of, Spike,” she whispered, sniffling back her own tears. “You need to eat, and then you need to rest.”

He nodded obediently. *Whatever you say, Buffy…I’ll do whatever you want me to do,* his open, vulnerable eyes seemed to say. “Ok,” he whispered simply.

She looked again with distaste at the ruined garments he wore. “It’s beyond hope, I’m afraid,” she sighed, giving him a small, apologetic smile.

*You’re beyond hope! No one can help you!* He tried to shut out the cruel voice in his head, and focus instead on Buffy’s words, as she gently steadied him on the seat with a hand behind his back.

“I’m gonna go get some scissors,” Buffy was saying softly. “We’ll cut them off.” When she was satisfied that he had regained enough strength to sit up, she stepped back away from him, and he intensely felt the loss of her touch. “I’ll be right back,” she assured him, and disappeared out the door.

The moment she was gone, his doubts and fears assailed him, darkness closing in on him now that his light, his defender, had gone.

*Disgusting, dirty thing! How could you dare to touch her like that, after what you did? Do you think she wants you to touch her? You don’t deserve her!*

A horrified feeling came over him at the thought as the memory of the last few minutes played over in his mind, distorted and dimmed by his tears and twisted by the torment of his guilt. His fighting against Buffy as she tried to hold him back, how that must have been for her after what he’d done in this room! Then, his having the nerve to throw himself into her arms, demanding her *comfort*, of all things, comfort from the woman he had victimized!

The facts that in reality this struggle had been nothing like the other, and this time he was as weak as a kitten, unable to raise a hand against her if he’d wanted to, did not occur to him. All he saw was his own weakness, selfishness, taking from her the affection and kindness that he had no right to ask, and he was sickened, disgusted with himself.

No wonder she had rushed out so suddenly, he realized in despair. *Can’t do anything right…ruin everything…you’ve ruined everything…*


Buffy ran into Xander on her way down the stairs.

“Door’s fixed,” he informed her, his serious dark eyes searching hers when he saw the tearstains on her cheeks, her blouse.

“Thanks,” she smiled bravely, determined not to say a word about what was happening between her and Spike. It was intensely personal, and would be embarrassing for Spike, and she was through with disregarding his wishes, disrespecting him completely. “I just need to get some scissors. He’s in so much pain, he can’t even move enough to get his shirt off.”

“Buffy, you don’t have to do this,” Xander said, shaking his head slightly as he moved to block her way down. “I can do this for you. You shouldn’t have to…”

“No, Xander,” Buffy broke in, her gratitude for his concern softening the impatience in her voice, as she slid past him down the stairs, and he turned to follow her. “If there’s a shred of dignity left somewhere in him, I’d really like to leave it there.”

“I just hate the thought of you having to go through this, after…”

At the kitchen doorway, Buffy turned to face him, speaking suddenly in a voice that was too bright, too strong, “You know, Xander, there *is* something you can do for me. Can you run to Walmart for me and get him some clothes?” Without waiting for an answer she picked up her purse from the counter and started looking for some money to give him.

Xander looked annoyed at the not-very-subtle dismissal, but he just said, “Sure, Buff. Whatever you need me to do.”

Buffy retrieved the scissors from the drawer in the kitchen and went back upstairs. Spike was staring at the floor, and did not look up when she entered.

She went to stand in front of him and began cutting the filthy fabric away. He sat perfectly still, his downcast eyes wide and haunted with some unnamed emotion as she worked. Fresh tears flooded her eyes at the condition of his chest and back.

It seemed that if the way existed to hurt a person, Warren had done it to Spike. Cuts, burns, bruises, as well as marks she couldn’t even begin to identify, all in various stages of healing – none of which had been tended at all until now.

“Monster,” Buffy muttered under her breath, wanting to go back and kill Warren. Too bad he would already be in police custody by now.

As she crouched down to take off his equally dirty, ragged black jeans, she missed his flinch at the word. *She’s right. I am. Monster…thing…evil…disgusting…*

Because he could not lift his hips, either, without pain, the pants would have to be cut away as well. It didn’t really matter, as they were beyond repair and only fit for the garbage anyway. Buffy was dismayed but not surprised to find the lower half of his body in much the same condition as the top.

The whole time, he did not move an inch, did not make a sound, but his mouth was working with the effort to hold back the intense emotions he was feeling. He was ashamed to have her see him like this, to have her *have* to see him like this, feeling utterly unworthy of her help, the tender care she was giving him.

“Ok, Baby,” Buffy whispered when he was completely naked, as she moved to put her arms under and around him. “I’m trying not to hurt you, okay?”

He nodded, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out as she lifted him off the seat and gently lowered him into the tub. The hot water stung against his numerous wounds, but it felt good, easing the ache of his sore, impossibly tense muscles, and he leaned back against the tub and tried to relax.

He had not been truly relaxed in months.

Buffy took in the terrible damage that had been done to Spike’s brutalized body, trying not to look as if she was staring. He was alarmingly thin; she was certain that if he had been human, he could not have still been alive in this emaciated state.

In addition to the countless other marks marring his once flawless body, she could now see the reason he had been unable to lift his arms. A wide ring of nasty, bluish-black bruises circled his ribcage, indicative of several broken ribs.

Her eyes drifted lower, and she was terrified by the condition of his legs. They had obviously been badly broken, but never set properly, judging by the awkward angle at which they now lay. There would only be one way to fix that, she thought, feeling sick at the idea. There was no way Spike would be up to that for a long while yet.

She gave him a little while to just soak in the warmth of the tub before setting about the task of actually washing him. She was only slightly surprised to find that she was not bothered by it as she had thought she would be. After all, there was nothing even remotely threatening about Spike anymore; he was infinitely more vulnerable to her in this situation than she had ever been to him. Her only concern at this point was helping him get well.

As she gently helped him to sit up a little so that she could wash his back, her eyes widened as they fell on the vicious scars that ran along his shoulders and down the backs of his arms; she noticed that his wrists had similar scarring.

She could feel fury rising in her again. It took a lot to scar a vampire.

She *really* wished she had killed Warren.

Gently running her fingers along the marks, Buffy said softly, “What happened?” wondering even as she did if it was wise or kind to ask.

He cringed inwardly, though his expression did not change. The memory was painful for him, and he didn’t want to tell her, as an overwhelming sense of shame came over him again.

But the lesson of obedience that had been beaten and tortured mercilessly into him for the past months was a strong one. In his mind, she had asked a question, and he must answer. He had no right to refuse.

“Right at the start,” he said softly, his eyes downcast. “He – he chained me up to a – a radiator…”

Buffy drew in a sharp breath, stunned and horrified by the sheer cruelty of it. She could not imagine how painful that would be as a human, and she knew that Spike would have felt it much more intensely than she would have. Her eyes narrowed slowly; fury was developing into murderous rage. She began to wonder how soon after his disappearance Spike had been captured by Warren – how long he had been forced to endure such torment.

She asked him simply, “How long?”

Misunderstanding, he replied in a haunted whisper, “Hours.”

Buffy’s breath caught in her throat at the revelation she had not meant to ask for. It was a long moment before she could recover enough to ask, “How long did he – were you there?”

Spike didn’t answer for a moment. Then he asked in a soft voice full of raw pain, “What month is it?”

The fact that he didn’t know made her heart sink with dread of what the answer would be. *Oh my God…* To think of him, completely isolated, trapped with that sadistic creep…for…how long…?

“April.”

He paused before closing his eyes and whispering, “Five months.”

Five months. Five months at the mercy of a clearly sadistic, twisted person who had tortured him in every way she could imagine. While she had been less than twenty miles away the entire time, and never even looked for him. Done absolutely nothing.

She knelt down beside the tub and reached a tentative hand to turn his face to her. He flinched, but allowed her to do it. She knew it would take him a long time to not expect every touch to hurt.

“Spike,” she murmured, seeking his eyes and holding them with her own wide, guilt-stricken gaze. “I had no idea. I’m so, so sorry. I want you to know that if I’d had any idea – I’d have come for you. A long time ago.”

He looked down again, swallowing hard, and said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. He had never expected her to come at all, after all the terrible things that had happened between them, the terrible thing he had done. She was speaking as if she expected him to somehow blame her, resent the fact that she had left him there.

He was just wondering why she had come for him at all.

“Please, Spike, please believe me,” Buffy pleaded softly, misreading his reaction.

“I do,” he whispered immediately, still not looking up at her.

She was confused, troubled, trying to understand, but unable to read the fathomless expression in his closed, guarded eyes.

Against everything in her nature, for once in her life…Buffy let it go. Her take-charge personality longed to be able to *do* something – preferably involving violence – to make this whole situation immediately all right again. But this was something that was completely outside her control. Spike was struggling with emotions and memories that she had no way of understanding.

All she could do was tend to his physical needs, do her best to make him feel as safe and protected as possible, and let him know that she was right beside him as he stumbled his own way toward some sort of recovery.

There were so many things that she wanted to ask him, so many questions still unanswered, but with an extreme force of will, she refrained from asking them. He would tell her when he was ready.

So she just kept talking softly to him as she tenderly ministered to the wounds that covered his body, telling him how glad she was to have found him and that he was home, reassuring him that he was safe here, that Warren was going to prison for a very long time, and would never be able to touch him again.

The entire time he didn’t say a word, just listened, mostly with his eyes closed, fighting back tears. But Buffy didn’t show any reaction to what he saw as his own pathetic weakness; she took it in stride, trying her best with soothing words and touches to calm the turmoil of confusing emotions he was struggling with.

Finally, she was finished, and reached to let the water out.

Spike finally spoke, hesitantly. “I – I think I might be able to – to stand, now.”

Buffy could not help showing her surprise. She had assumed from the shape his legs were in that he was not able to walk at all. “I thought…”

“It…it was just the shocks…from the chip,” he explained in a slow, cautious voice, talking about it obviously painful for him. “Drained my strength. I think it’s passed now.”

“Ok,” Buffy kept her voice even, and calm, preparing herself not to show disappointment if he was wrong. “We’ll try.”

However, she didn’t think the attempt to stand should be made in the slippery, wet bathtub. She carefully lifted him from the tub and gently sat him down on the closed toilet again, over which she had draped a soft towel. Then she stepped back a bit, holding out her arms for him to use as a support.

“Come on,” she gently coaxed him, as he reached out to brace himself on her arms and pull himself to his feet. Slowly, cautiously, she moved a few steps backward toward the door, letting him stand on his own. “That’s good,” she said softly, with a pleased smile. “Can you walk?”

Focusing, he nodded quickly, and took a couple of hesitant steps toward her. Then he looked up at her and nodded again, more firmly. “Yeah. Good as new,” he affirmed with an ironic, slightly bitter half-smile.

Her eyes softened as she looked at him. The bath had probably made him feel better, but it didn’t make him look much better. In fact, the glaring bruises and burns and other marks stood out more now than they had before.

“You will be,” she amended, meeting his eyes with a firm promise in her own.

Suddenly self-conscious, as if just remembering that he was standing naked and exposed in front of her, and *where* he was standing, he looked away again, but not before she saw the lost, vulnerable look in his blue eyes.

Wanting to respect his feelings, to give him a little bit of privacy, she turned away slightly as she said, “Xander was going to get you some clothes. I’ll go see if he’s back yet.”

She stepped out into the hallway and walked down the stairs. Willow and Tara had left for Tara’s apartment a while ago, and Dawn and Xander sat on the floor by the coffee table, playing cards.

Dawn jumped up when she saw Buffy. “How is he?” she asked anxiously, her wide eyes full of concern.

“Better,” Buffy forced a small smile for her sister’s sake. “Not good,” she admitted with a little grimace. “but better.”

“Can I go see him now?” Dawn asked.

“Not yet, Sweetie. He’s not even dressed yet,” she said, turning a questioning look on Xander.

He held up a plastic Walmart bag for her to see, and she gratefully smiled at him as she took it to inspect its contents. She nodded in satisfaction and headed back up the stairs.

Xander caught her arm halfway up, turning her gently around as he said, “Buffy.”

“What?” she asked, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

“How’re you doing?” His voice was low and concerned as his dark eyes met hers.

Her defenses fell a bit, and she softened at the tone of his voice. She shook her head a little, looking away for a moment, finding no words to express what she was feeling. Then she suddenly met his eyes with a blazing fire in hers. Her voice was harder as she said simply, “I should have killed him.”

Xander looked startled by her words, but then, amazingly nodded slowly in understanding, looking away for a moment before looking back at her with a slightly sad expression. “It probably would have been more merciful,” he said apologetically.

Buffy frowned in confusion for a moment before she realized his meaning. Her eyes widened in shock, the moment before Xander saw them slowly fill with contempt and a sort of betrayal.

“*Warren*,” she clarified, in a voice of low, controlled anger and disgust.

His own eyes widened, stunned by her true meaning, and the implications of it.

“Buffy…” he began, following her up the stairs.

She stopped short without turning, and stopped him with a single word, low and furious, “Don’t.”

He froze as she kept walking up the stairs, each of them feeling betrayed and worried and wondering if they even knew their best friend at all anymore.

Getting Spike’s injuries treated and bandaged was a slow, painstaking process, simply because there were so *many* injuries. Buffy carefully wrapped his shattered ribcage with soft but strong bandages, and then helped him get into the soft black sleep-pants and t-shirt that Xander had wisely picked out.

She then gently took his arm and led him toward the stairs. He was able to walk on his own now, but he was still weak and a little unsteady on his feet, and the odd limp with which he walked made Buffy feel a little sick, and very sad, remembering the confident grace with which he had always moved in the past.

He felt foolish and weak and very self-conscious about the fact that he couldn’t do something as simple as making it down the stairs on his own. A memory flashed into his mind – leaving the upstairs bedroom at Warren’s house for the first time, on his battered, still painful legs – Warren’s anger and impatience at the slow pace that had been the best he could do. In sharp contrast to such cruelty, Buffy was being so patient, so gentle with him as they made their way slowly down the stairs, that it brought tears to his eyes again.

*Shut up you blubbering nancy-boy,* he berated himself silently. *All you ever do is whine!*

Xander was sitting in the armchair in the living room, and as they reached the bottom of the stairs, Dawn appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with a steaming mug in her hand. The warm, rich smell of blood made him suddenly feel the ravenous ache of hunger that he had almost ceased to notice, it had become such a constant part of his life.

Dawn’s smile was radiant as her green eyes fell on him. “You’re walking!” she exclaimed as she reached him and put her arm around his waist on the opposite side from Buffy.

“Appears so,” he replied quietly, still self-conscious as he tried for a smile that didn’t quite make it. The two sisters led him to the couch and helped him to sit down.

Dawn immediately sat down beside him, and held out the mug for him to take. With both trembling hands he hesitantly took the mug from her, careful not to spill any on Buffy’s couch. He raised the mug to his lips and drained it in seconds. Dawn laughed in approving surprise and stood up, taking the mug.

“I’ll go get you some more,” she offered, starting toward the kitchen. She paused for a moment, raising her eyebrows, as she added teasingly, “I think I’m gonna need a bigger mug.”

“No, you don’t have to…” he began to object, partly because he felt uncomfortable with her waiting on him…he was the one who was supposed to do that, right?...and partly because he just felt so much safer with her there. Not physically safer, necessarily, but things were just still so uncertain between him and Buffy, and he could feel Xander’s barely concealed hostility a mile away.

As soon as Dawn had vacated the seat, Buffy sat awkwardly beside him and placed a small, soft hand on his arm, drawing his gaze with hers, as she asked, “How long since you’ve eaten?”

He could see the sorrow in her eyes when he had to think about the answer. “Coupla days?” he guessed, his voice low and uncertain. “Not rightly sure.”

Dawn returned with an entire thermos of blood, looking very pleased with herself at his wide-eyed look of surprise. His eyes darted to Buffy’s in a hesitant question, and it hurt her heart that he felt he had to ask her.

“It’s here for *you*, Spike,” she reassured him quietly, her fingers tracing a slow, delicate pattern on his arm. “It’s not like you have to save any for someone else!” She wrinkled her nose in mild distaste. Her eyes grew more serious as she added softly, “You can have all you want.”

The relief and gratitude in those brilliant, shining blue eyes was heart-breaking to her, as he took the thermos from Dawn. Unwilling to be separated from him even slightly, when she saw that Buffy had taken her seat, Dawn simply sat on the floor by his feet, casually resting her arm across his knees.

Buffy noticed with a feeling of warmth and gratitude toward her sister that even that light, easy contact seemed to have a calming effect on the uneasy, insecure vampire. But joining the warmth and gratitude was just a little bit of…jealousy, she realized. She wanted him to rely on her, to trust her like that.

*It’s your own fault he doesn’t,* she reminded herself. *What has trusting you ever gotten him besides pain?*

Looking into her sister’s eyes, Buffy saw a troubled expression. Beneath the easy smile and comfortable chatter that was for Spike’s benefit, there was a smoldering rage, just below the surface. Buffy recognized it because it was how she felt. Seeing Spike like this, so vulnerable and hurting, having been denied even his most basic needs to the point that he was afraid to accept them when they were offered – made Buffy want to hurt something…a specific someone, but that was no longer an option, she remembered ruefully.

Abruptly Xander stood up. “I’m gonna go,” he said flatly, but Buffy could hear the undercurrent of annoyance in his voice. “My work here is done. I’ll come by tomorrow,” he added, and he started toward the door.

“Xander,” Buffy said softly, not looking up, and he stopped where he stood, waiting, hoping – he wasn’t really sure for what.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” There was no anger in her voice as she spoke. It was a simple statement of fact.

He turned slowly to face her, an incredulous, disbelieving expression on his face. “How can you say that to me?” he demanded, raising his voice in hurt anger.

Buffy felt Spike jump under her hand, and a glance at his face revealed that Xander’s anger was frightening him.

Now, she was mad.

She stood up, advancing on her friend, as Dawn, who had also felt Spike’s physical reaction of fear, promptly took the seat beside him and put her arm around him. His eyes were on the floor, not daring to look up, to be so presumptuous as to watch the conflict.

*None of your business. Don’t look up. Don’t draw attention.*

“I just don’t think that your attitude is what we need around here right now,” Buffy snapped as she reached the foyer where Xander had stopped.

“My *attitude* is the only intelligent thought that seems to be going on around here right now, Buffy!” he retorted. “No one else seems to remember that that’s not an injured kitten or something over there. He’s capable of *doing* as bad as has been done to him!”

“Xander, he’s hurt. Bad.” Buffy’s voice was lower; she was obviously trying to regain her control, and not really succeeding. “I can’t just leave him to his own devices after everything he’s been through, after everything he’s done for me!”

“Everything he’s done *for* you?” Xander echoed with a scoff. “Interesting choice of words, Buff. I think I would have said everything he’s done *to* you!”

“Xander,” Buffy cut him off warningly.

But Spike’s eyes had shot up to Xander’s, stricken with guilt and fear, when he realized that he *knew* -- he knew what he had done. Dawn saw his reaction, though she did not understand it, and tried to comfort him, but his attention was now riveted on the scene in the foyer.

“No, Buffy!” Xander refused to be quieted. “I did not sit here for the past five months and watch you cry and hurt over what *that thing* did to you…” he declared, pointing an accusing finger at Spike, who flinched, more at the thought of Buffy’s suffering than at the accusation. “…just to watch you sit back and act like everything’s fine when he suddenly shows up again.” His voice a little calmer, he nodded in concession, “Ok, in pretty bad shape, I’ll give you that. But maybe it’s just justice, Buffy. Maybe it’s what he deserves.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide with horrified disbelief. “No, Xander,” she finally whispered, when she could speak again. “Nobody deserves that. You didn’t see what that – that *disgusting monster* did to him!”

Spike lowered his head again, ashamed, as Dawn sat there helplessly, not knowing what they were talking about, and unable to do anything to help him except just be there with him.

Buffy paused before she went on, “*Justice* is what *I* got five months ago. You didn’t see all that happened before that night, Xander. All the stuff that led up to it. I hurt him. Bad. In a lot of ways.” She looked down, fighting with her own shame, before meeting his eyes again and going on, “He’s not human, Xander. He doesn’t have a soul or a conscience to go by like we do. But he wanted to; he wanted to do good. All he had to go by was what I showed him.” She paused, and then finished in a voice choked with tears, “And what I showed him was what he did to me.”

Xander was speechless for a moment, stunned by her words – then shook his head, refusing to accept them. “You’re right, Buffy. He’s *not* human. If you’re looking for a monster…well, look no further!” he snapped, gesturing with a hand toward the couch. “But go ahead. Take your chances. I can’t stop you.” He threw up his hands in disgust as he turned and stalked out.

Buffy sighed wearily, her heart overwhelmed with the pain of the night’s events already, topped off by the unexpected conflict with her best friend. She turned to go back to the couch, to help Dawn deal with the wreckage Xander’s little tirade had left of Spike.

The door opened, and she turned to face Xander. In his hand was the control device she had left in the glove compartment. She had a moment’s irrational fear before he snarled, “Here!” and tossed it to her. “You might need this.”

Buffy caught the wretched thing quickly, and put it down on the coffee table, before turning to face her sister, and Spike, who was shaking violently at the very sight of the device.

Dawn was livid as she jumped to her feet and started to go after Xander.

Buffy caught her, stopping her with a shake of her head and a glance toward Spike.

Dawn turned back to him, distracted from her rage by the sight of her friend. He sat completely still on the couch, his wide eyes focused on his knees, visibly trembling.

Dawn’s anger evaporated, consumed by her concern for him, as she went to him and put her arms around him again. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”

“He wouldn’t have – he wasn’t going to…” Buffy’s attempts trailed off, and she dropped to her knees in front of Spike, taking his trembling hands in hers, seeking his eyes.

He wouldn’t look at her, and she could see the shame in his expression, the slump of his shoulders.

“Spike – this isn’t your fault. None of it. And – and before – that wasn’t your fault, either…”

He looked up at her suddenly in confusion and pain. “Buffy,” he whispered, shaking his head slightly. “I hurt you! I almost…”

“Shhh,” she broke in softly, not wanting him to say it in front of Dawn – not wanting him to say it at all, really – and he immediately was silent, waiting for her to speak.

“I hurt you, too, Baby,” she said, her voice husky with unshed tears. “We’ve both done things we regret. But all you need to worry about right now is getting better. Okay?”

He nodded automatically as she moved her hands up his arms to pull him into her embrace. But then unexpectedly he weakly tried to push her back, with a strangled cry that was little more than a whimper. Instantly she let go of him, not wanting him to feel controlled in any way. If he didn’t want her to touch him, she was absolutely not going to.

“No,” he argued in an anguished whisper. “No, Buffy, he’s right. I bloody well deserved it, all of it, after what I did to you!”

Seeing that he was not letting Buffy touch him, that she didn’t seem to be getting through to him, Dawn put her hand to his cheek and gently turned his face to look at her. Her wide, innocent eyes were full of love and concern as she asked softly, “What did you do, Spike? You couldn’t have done anything to deserve this!”

His impossibly blue eyes filled with such pain at the innocent trust in her eyes. She really had no idea what he was capable of, he thought with overwhelming shame – and terror that she would find out. He drew in a deep, ragged breath that was almost a sob, as he looked away, unable to face her.

“No. He didn’t,” Buffy agreed firmly. “You didn’t, Spike,” she assured him. “You didn’t deserve this.”

But he did not look up, did not respond, just slowly shook his head in despair.

Not knowing what to say to help, knowing only that she had to reach out to her desperately hurting friend, Dawn simply tightened her arms around him, holding him closer to her. “You need to get some rest,” she told him, a soft murmur in his ear as she held him. “You’re so tired after everything that’s happened…you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

As Buffy took the long since empty thermos from his hand and they helped him to his feet, a cold despair washed over him. Dawn’s optimistic prediction only spoke of her childish naivete, her innocence. This was not something that could be fixed by a meal, a hot bath, and a good night’s sleep. He was quite sure it was not something that could be fixed at all.

As Buffy’s presence only seemed to be upsetting him further at the moment, she dejectedly left Dawn in Willow’s room with Spike, to help him get settled for the night.

Once he was in the bed, settled as comfortably as possible, Dawn just sat beside him for a while, holding his hand and gently rubbing his back, as he lay on his side facing her. She chattered on for a little while, telling him about things that had happened while he had been gone. Finally she paused, giving him a brilliant smile that for him seemed to light the room, as she said sincerely, “I’m so glad you’re back. I missed you so much.”

He did not reply, his guilt-haunted eyes filling with tears again as he looked away from her.

“Spike – whatever it is – it can’t be that bad,” she assured him, her clear voice soft and even in the stillness of the room.

He longed to let himself be reassured by the warmth and certainty in her voice, but knew it was only a false hope. The child simply had no concept of just how bad it was possible for him to be.

“Bit – if you knew…” he began miserably.

“Tell me,” she urged him, squeezing his hand gently. “Spike, I’m still gonna love you, no matter what.” She spoke the words matter-of-factly. “Just tell me.”

“You’d hate me,” he whispered, tears escaping in spite of his resolve to hold them back.

She studied his face, tear-streaked and tormented in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. She knew that whatever it was had to be pretty serious; he had always seemed almost proud of his bad deeds in the past. It was as if he wanted to say, “Look, I might be chipped, but I’m still *bad*!” So why was he suddenly so ashamed of this particular crime? She wanted to help him, to be there for him, but knew that she could only come as close as he would let her.

Slowly, not wanting to startle him, she leaned down and placed a tender kiss on his cheek, pulling away to look him earnestly in the eyes and say firmly, softly, “Never.”


Buffy stood by her window, tears streaming from her eyes. Was it really too late to undo the damage she had so cruelly, thoughtlessly inflicted on this man – yes, *man*! – who had once loved her? Still did, apparently, she thought with hope, and then shame. Because the guilt he was feeling over the crime he had only almost committed, that *she* had driven him to, was destroying him. She desperately wanted to help him, but knew that she couldn’t unless he would let her.

And that did not appear to be likely at the moment.

As she sat down on the edge of her bed, covering her face with her hands, she heard her door slowly open, then close. Her first wild hope was that it was him, though she knew in her heart that the shaken, broken version of Spike in the next room would not dare to enter her bedroom uninvited.

She looked up – into the firmly set, if a bit apprehensive, face of her little sister.

Dawn regarded her for a moment, taking in the tears, the defeated stance, before crossing her arms over her chest and speaking with adamant resolve.

“We need to talk.”

Buffy was absolutely, completely terrified. No demon she had ever fought, no moment in which she had been certain that death had finally found her, had in any way compared to the fear she felt looking into her little sister’s unyielding eyes, blazing with the fire of her damnation.

“You’re right,” she whispered, forcing herself to meet that gaze. “We do.”

“There’s something going on here that everybody seems to know about but me, Buffy. And you’re all freaked out, and Spike’s freaked out, but he won’t tell me anything. Oh, yeah,” she stated the obvious in a sarcastic tone, “And Xander might have freaked out a little too!” She stepped closer to her sister, and now Buffy could see the worry and uncertainty in those young, wise green eyes. “I have to know Buffy. Spike needs me to help him – but I can’t if I don’t know what’s wrong!”

Buffy took a deep breath as if preparing to speak – then buried her face in her hands again. “Oh, God,” she moaned.

“Buffy,” Dawn said suddenly, after a short pause, her voice low, even, and controlled. “What did you mean earlier – in the car? About not hurting him *again*?”

Buffy cringed. Trust the little sister of a Slayer to go straight for the throat. She took another deep breath, hoping she could actually speak this time. “Maybe I should just start at the beginning, Dawnie,” she said at last. “It’ll make more sense that way.” She paused, then amended with an ashamed look at the floor, “No, it still won’t make sense. I – I really messed up a lot last year, Dawnie.”

“Just tell me what you did to him,” Dawn’s voice was cold steel, and sent a little tremor through Buffy’s stomach.

“You might wanna sit down, Dawnie,” Buffy suggested, waving a hand vaguely toward the chair at her desk. When Dawn didn’t move, she met her eyes and said, “Seriously. This might take a while.”

Grudgingly, as if by sitting down she was cutting her sister slack she was unwilling to give her, Dawn slowly complied.

“When I came back,” Buffy began, her voice soft, subdued, not looking at Dawn as she spoke. “I was so screwed up, Dawnie. I – I didn’t want to be here, I hated myself, I hated – I hated everyone. I just – didn’t even feel alive, and I didn’t *want* to be. But at the same time I hated feeling so – so numb – like I wasn’t really even here.”

“Spike,” she paused, swallowing hard as her eyes filled with tears of memory. “He loved me. He really did. He tried to help me, to be there for me, because I sure couldn’t talk to Will or Xander. They were the ones who…” Her words choked off, and the bitter pain in her voice told Dawn that she had yet to completely forgive her friends for pulling her out of heaven.

“So I talked to him. I opened up to him, when I couldn’t talk to anyone else.”

“You could have talked to me.” The pain in the simple statement smote Buffy’s heart. God, was there anyone she cared about that she *hadn’t* hurt?

“I didn’t want to worry you, Dawnie,” she said, and the excuse sounded so lame, even to her own ears.

“Oh *that* worked,” Dawn countered sarcastically. “I didn’t worry a bit.” The sarcasm gone in an instant, she went on seriously, “I just didn’t know exactly what I was worrying *about*. I wish you would have told me what was wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, miserably. “I made a mistake.”

Dawn shrugged, trying not to show the hurt that was evident in her eyes. “You sure did. But that’s not the mistake we’re talking about,” she pointed out.

*Damn, she’s good!* Buffy realized with dismay. “When did you become the mom around here?” Buffy asked, her irritation tempered with affection.

“About the time you became the moody, depressive child,” Dawn shot back. “So you started confiding in Spike.” She dragged the conversation back on track without giving Buffy the chance to recover from her stinging words. “That doesn’t explain how you hurt him. When did you guys start sleeping together?” she asked bluntly.

“Right after that stupid singing demon that messed everything up,” Buffy muttered in annoyance at the memory.

“Everything was already messed up,” Dawn pointed out quietly.

“I guess so. But anyway, I kissed Spike, outside the Bronze that night. And then – I was a bitch about it,” Buffy admitted. “I refused to talk to him, I kept putting him down, saying what a horrible mistake it was, how – how disgusting he was – but – but I did it again.”

She looked anxiously at her sister, trying to gauge her reaction, but her young face was impassive, waiting for her to go on.

“Then the night he found out he could hit me – we got in this huge fight. He hit me first,” she quickly pointed out, defensively.

“Um, excuse me?” Dawn interrupted with rising anger, standing up. “No, Buffy, I really don’t think so! You hit him *a lot* when he couldn’t hit back, ever since he got chipped! So don’t go blaming him because when he finally could fight back, he did!”

“You’re right,” Buffy sighed, realizing that her excuses were no good. “I’d had it coming for a couple years. Anyway, the fight turned into – not so much a fight.” Her face colored in embarrassment as she glanced awkwardly up at Dawn.

“God, I’m such a bad example!” she moaned, rolling her eyes helplessly toward the ceiling, before continuing, staring off at the wall with a sad, distant tone in her quiet voice, “Poor Spike. He must have thought his dreams had come true. But – but I was mean to him. I kept on going to him after that, he made me feel so – so – I guess he just made me *feel*.”

“But I felt so bad about going to him, because he’s a vampire, and I’m a Slayer, and – and all that happened with – with Angel, and – well, I guess I started taking it out on him. I kept telling him I didn’t want to see him anymore, to go away – I kept saying no – but I kept going to him anyway. It had to be so confusing for him.”

“Until it just got to be too much,” Buffy went on, carefully not mentioning Riley’s part in her break-up with Spike. “I – I broke it off. Completely. I – I dumped him. And that’s when he slept with Anya, and I was really upset with him over that…”

“*You* dumped *him*!” Dawn broke in indignantly. “How could you be mad at *him*? You’d broken up with him, so what right did you have to be upset if he was with someone else? You can’t have it both ways, Buffy, it is *not* all about you!”

“I *know* that!” Buffy snapped, defensive. Then she added sadly, “Now. Back then – well, I’m ashamed to say it now but I didn’t realize what it was doing to him…”

“Yes, you did!” Dawn’s voice was bitter and angry as she spoke again; Buffy didn’t dare look at her face. “How could you miss it, Buffy? Everything Spike feels shows. Always. You saw it, you just didn’t care!”

“Ok. You’re right, ok? I didn’t,” Buffy admitted tearfully in a guilt-stricken voice just above a whisper. “All I cared about back then was ‘poor Buffy’. I – I broke his heart.”

There was silence for a moment as the words sank in for her for the first time, before Dawn said, in a voice that was cool and calm, “Somehow I don’t think that’s what you were talking about in the car, Buffy. He thought you were actually going to *hurt* him. *Physically* hurt him, Buffy. And you said you never would *again*. What was that about?”

Buffy raised her eyes to meet Dawn’s – and wished she hadn’t. The younger girl’s face was full of protective anger for her best friend, fully prepared to pass judgment on her for the unidentified crime that she knew Buffy had committed. Buffy knew that there would be no getting around this one.

*I’ve been straight with her this far,* Buffy reminded herself, determining in that moment to give Dawn the respect she was showing that she deserved, and tell her the complete truth that she sought. She owed her that much.

She owed *Spike* that much.

“Do you remember when I thought – I thought I’d killed that girl? The girl that Warren killed?” she asked cautiously. “And I was gonna turn myself in to the police.”

Dawn’s eyes narrowed as she tried to call up the memory, trying to figure out how it placed in this situation.

In a small, miserable voice, staring at the floor, Buffy went on, “Spike didn’t want me to do it. He tried to stop me.”

Dawn’s eyes slowly widened as she remembered the day after that, when she had been confused and distraught over Buffy’s almost leaving her again, and had gone to see Spike in his crypt.

“He told me he got hurt patrolling,” she said in an unearthly quiet voice suggestive of the eye of a violent storm. Then those green eyes locked on Buffy’s with disbelief and accusation. “*You* did that? Oh my God, *Buffy*! How could you…” Her voice broke, as she was overwhelmed by the thought, the unwelcome mental image, of her sister, brutally beating Spike, who loved her with everything in him, until he had been in the pitiful condition in which she had found him that day.

“I’m sorry!” Buffy cried, tears streaming from her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I’d go back and change it all if I could but I can’t! I’m so, so sorry!” She was sobbing now, but her sister’s face was hard, though it was streaked with tears as well.

Her compassion was fully spent on her suffering best friend; she had none left for his abuser – even if it was her own sister.

“There’s just one thing I don’t get,” Dawn said in a trembling voice of rage. “Why the *hell* does he think that *you* should hate *him*?” The scathing accusation in her voice was worse than a slap in the face to Buffy.

She wasn’t sure how to tell her this part. She no longer saw Spike as the villain of this particular piece, and didn’t want it to seem to Dawn as if she did. And more importantly, she wanted Dawn to understand what had driven him to his desperate actions – to lay the appropriate blame on *her* shoulders, as well as his.

It didn’t really look like that was going to be a problem.

She didn’t look at Dawn as she began in an expressionless tone, “He came to the house to talk to me. After – Anya. Of course, I didn’t want to talk to him.” Her voice was full of self-disgust, remembering the way she had dismissed his attempt at apology, dismissed *him*, as if he meant nothing to her.

“Of course,” Dawn bit out sarcastically, obviously feeling the same way about it.

Buffy bravely ignored her and went on. “So – he thought he’d convince me to forgive him – another way.” She paused. “He wanted to remind me how much I wanted him – to prove to me that I really did love him.” She glanced at her sister to be sure she was following her, to be sure she understood exactly what “way” she was talking about, and could tell from the look on her face that she did.

“I told him no – but you know I’d said that so many times before, usually about an hour before showing up at his crypt, raring to go!” She smiled bitterly through her tears, shaking her head a little in disgust toward her own foolish, selfish actions of the past. “So – so how was he to know that I – that I meant it this time?”

Her tearful eyes sought Dawn’s again, hoping desperately that Dawn would realize what had happened without her having to say any more.

She did.

Dawn’s eyes were wide and stricken with pain, at last for her sister. “Oh – oh, Buffy,” she whispered, shaking her head in denial, not wanting to accept that the ugliness she was hearing about had actually existed between her sister and her friend. “Did he – he…?”

“He didn’t,” Buffy assured her, shaking her head. “He tried. I kicked him off me, and – and he stopped. He was out of control for a few minutes there, though. I was so scared! I was hurt, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to fight him off.” Her tears were flowing again as the painful memory flooded back.

“I did, though. And the look on his face, Dawnie…” When Buffy’s haunted, pleading eyes met Dawn’s this time, the plea for mercy was for Spike, not herself.

Because she could see the warring emotions in her sister’s eyes. Dawn was angry with her for hurting Spike, yes, but Buffy was still her *sister*, and her loyalties were being tested by the knowledge of what she had gone through as well.

“Dawnie, he was as shocked as I was, he didn’t even realize what he was doing!” Buffy insisted tearfully. “He might have even stopped on his own if I hadn’t stopped him, I don’t know. He was just so hurt, and confused, and desperate! And I’d been so cruel to him for so long…” her eyes were focused on the floor as her sobs overcame her, so she didn’t see her sister’s slow approach.

No matter the crimes she was guilty of, this was her sister, and she was hurting. Dawn put her arms around Buffy and held her as she dissolved into sobs. “I know I hurt him for so much longer and so much worse than he ever did me!” she gasped between sobs. “But we *both* hurt each other *so much*, and I don’t know if we’re ever gonna get to make it right!”

Dawn held her close, running her fingers soothingly through her tangled blonde hair. She finally pulled away to look into Buffy’s red, tearful eyes. Her own were solemn and earnest as she replied.

“You get to try.”


She walked quietly to the door and stopped, almost not daring to open it. She didn’t want to disturb him if he was finally sleeping, but she wanted to be sure he was okay. Silently, she slid the door open just a bit and slipped inside, closing it behind her. She stood there for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

Gradually, she could make out Spike’s trembling form – sitting up in the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest defensively. He was looking up at her, midnight blue eyes sparkling with tears in the moonlight.

Silently she slipped over to the bed and sat down on it beside him, drawing her own legs up in imitation of his position and bracing her back on the headboard. She didn’t look at him for a moment, just sat there with him in silence, and he slowly looked away.

“You talked to your sister, then,” he said in a low, hesitant voice, obviously unsure of her feelings.

“I did.”

He waited for her to say more, but she just sat there in silence. Finally, he dared to whisper the one word that was the embodiment of his fearful wonderings.

“And?”

“And nothing’s changed.” He felt a wave of tremendous relief at the gentle reassurance in her tone, leaning his head back against the headboard and closing his eyes. “Oh, God,” he whispered, tears of relief flowing down his face. “I – I was so afraid…”

“Shh,” she whispered soothingly, gently putting her arm around him and pulling him to her. “It’s all right.” She urgently sought his eyes until he hesitantly met her shining emerald gaze, and said slowly, firmly, “She forgives you for what happened. *I* forgive you, Spike. I forgive you.”

The tears flowed harder as he bowed his head, not feeling worthy of the mercy that was being bestowed. She put both arms around him when he moved forward and cradled him against her chest, rocking slightly as she ran her fingers through his loose, tangled blonde curls.

She just held him like that for a long time, struggling to find the words she knew she needed to say. It was next to impossible to speak over the growing lump in her throat as her own tears fell silently down her face into his hair. That was okay; she still hadn’t found any words.

Maybe there were none.

Finally, she tried to speak, her voice low and choked, barely able to be forced out.

“I – I need…” She stopped, shaking with rising sobs.

He pulled away slightly, his glistening blue eyes wide and concerned as he looked up into her face. “What…what, love?” he asked urgently, not knowing if he could, but wanting to help her.

She sobbed harder at the affectionate word, so long since she had heard it! “I need…I need you to…to forgive *me*!” she cried, bowing her head and raising her hands to rest at his shoulders, not daring to look him in the face.

His heart filled with so many emotions, most he did not even have words for as he gazed at her in disbelief and wonder. He could not think of why she would need his forgiveness; he was the one who had done the wrong. *Always…always your fault,* the haunting voice in his head reminded him. Yet here she was, sobbing brokenly and begging for redemption, from *him*!

And suddenly, it was just all too much. The whirlwind events of the night, the blessed salvation she had brought him that he had thought to be impossible, the kindness and tenderness he had experienced at her hands after so long bereft of it, her raw pain and need, here in his arms at last…

He broke down completely, bowing his head against her shoulder, his arms around her, clutching at her with desperate, trembling hands. “Oh, Buffy…oh, Buffy, Buffy, my love,” he whispered, his voice full of an aching need too deep for words – and in it, though he did not speak the words, she heard the reassurance she had desperately craved.

He forgave her. He had forgiven her long ago.

So she simply held him close to her, though she knew her best efforts at comfort were by far inadequate. There was too much hurt here to be healed by a single night of peace and kindness. She didn’t even know if she would ever be able to heal all the harm that had been done to him -- much of it at her own hands.

But she could try.

“Miss, can I help you with those?” the attendant at the Sunnydale train station asked the pretty brunette as she stepped off the train and onto the platform, glancing around with an apprehensive look on her face.

“No thank you,” she murmured quietly, not really noticing the helpful man at all, just responding as she knew was appropriate. Her attention was focused on her painfully familiar surroundings.

She had not been back to Sunnydale since…

Since she had given up her humanity.

Since everything had fallen apart.

Since her heart had been shattered into a million pieces.

She had hoped to never have to return to this place that had seen her downfall, the devastation of the great power she had once held, leaving her nothing more than a powerless, heartbroken girl. Well, she had not stayed down. She had done what she had to do to return to her former power. She had shown them all.

Except…they didn’t know it yet.

And that was not why she was here, anyway. If her mission brought her into contact with those who had hurt her, if they happened to see how well she had recovered from her humiliation, how much better off she was without them…well, that was just a bonus.

A recent job had brought her as close to Sunnydale as she had been since she had left the place for good…a small, lonely desert town in Arizona.

And she could hear the anguished cries from there. It was awful…worse than anything she had ever heard in all her life. The agony, the despair, the absolute hopelessness of it. A desolate voice crying out, without any hope that anyone would actually hear their cry…a desperate cry – for vengeance.

With a grim resolve, Anyanka stepped off the platform and onto the sidewalk, heading toward her destination. She had work to do.


Buffy woke up that morning, a bit disoriented on finding herself fully clothed on Willow’s bed, instead of in her pajamas in her own. Then, she felt the oddly comforting weight of the body that lay halfway across her own, and the memory of the night before came rushing back with a mixture of sick uncertainty and the warmth of hope.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. She just remembered sitting there for the longest time, just holding Spike in her arms as they cried together. They hadn’t said much; what they were experiencing really went beyond words. She had just comforted him the best she could with her touch, her presence, until he had gone to sleep in her arms, utterly spent from the chaotic events of the evening, the venting of his overwhelming emotions, and the physical strain they had put on his abused, exhausted body.

After that, she had not wanted to get up. She had just sat there, holding him, running her fingers through his hair, just wanting to feel the certainty that it was real, that she had really found him, he was really here, safe in her arms again.

She knew they still had a long way to go. She was not foolish or idealistic enough to believe that the simple words “I forgive you” would banish the torment of Spike’s guilt from his heart and mind. She did not know all that he had been through, but she knew that emotionally, he was a wreck, and it would take a lot of time to get past the hurt and find healing.

She hoped that he would let her help him find it.

But the feel of his body in her arms – in a soft, affectionate embrace, not a violently passionate assault – was comforting to her, made her hope that maybe, somehow, they could make things right between them again.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up here, with Spike still asleep, his head resting just below her chest, even in sleep his hands holding onto her, at her sides, needing the comfort of knowing that she was there – and not going anywhere.

She watched him in silence for a few moments, a sort of sad smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Without even thinking about it, just wanting to touch him, she reached out with gentle fingers to run down his cheek in a light caress. Even like this – bruised and battered and troubled even in sleep – his face was still the most beautiful she had ever seen.

How could she have missed it for so long?

With a start, suddenly, he awoke, at her touch, flinching away as his eyes opened, wide and frightened, and he drew in a little gasping breath as he pulled back a little from her.

“Shhh,” she whispered, soothingly, repeating the caress and placing her other hand on his back as his eyes focused on her. “Just me. It’s okay.”

When he realized where he was, the relief was visible as he let out the breath he had drawn, and rested his head on her again, breathing deeply, his eyes closed as he tried to control the physical reaction of the fear that overtook him upon waking, the fear that it had all been a beautiful dream, and he was back in Warren’s house.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open again, as he realized not only where he was, but where *she* was, and quickly scrambled backward off of her.

“Oh, God, Buffy, I’m sorry!” he gasped, a look of horrified guilt in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Buffy, I didn’t mean to…”

“Spike,” she said in a soft but firm voice, putting her hand to his cheek and making him look her in the eye, making him see the assurance in hers that she really meant her words. “It’s all right. I stayed here all night with you because I *wanted* to. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He didn’t say anything, but she could see the doubt in his eyes, the fear that he had done something to make her regret her kindness to him. But she could see something else there, something she hadn’t seen the night before.

Just the tiniest spark – barely even there – of hope.

“Come here,” she murmured, gently pulling him back down with her, at her side, so that his head was at her shoulder. He seemed uncomfortable, unsure of where to put his hands, but she tenderly took one of them and drew his arm across her waist, slowly intertwining her fingers with his and holding his hand there in hers.

She just held him like that for a little while, as she had done while he slept, running her other hand lightly up and down the tense muscles of his back, until she felt some of the tension leave his body, felt him actually dare to relax against her a bit.

She waited a few moments, trying to find exactly the right words to say what she wanted to tell him. Finally she spoke, her voice soft and clear in the peaceful quiet that enveloped them.

“I want you to feel safe with me, Spike,” she began, looking straight ahead, and speaking slowly and evenly. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me, like you can touch me, and it’s gonna be okay. Because it is. I *want* you to, Spike.”

“How can you…” was all he managed to choke out before closing his eyes against the tears, shaking his head a little. “How…”

“Because I always felt safe with you, Spike,” she answered the unfinished question immediately. “I always knew that you weren’t going to get mad, or hurt, or stop – stop loving me.” She deliberately emphasized the word, finally acknowledging to him that she knew he really had loved her. “And I knew you were willing to die for me if you had to, to protect me and Dawn. And that made me feel safe.”

His soft, pained intake of breath told her what he was thinking, though he didn’t say a word.

She didn’t react in any way, just kept talking. “And in the one moment,” she went on, bravely facing the demon that was hounding him, though it was the only demon she didn’t know if she was up to fighting, “that I didn’t – feel safe with you – one moment for all the thousands I must have given you – the very next moment…all I wanted…was for you to hold me…and tell me it was all going to be okay.”

She could feel the shaking of his silent sobs beside her, and fought back the ones rising up in her as she continued. “I want to do that for you, Spike. I want to be there for you through this. I don’t know all that’s happened to you. I – I don’t have to. You don’t have to tell me anything. But – but I want you to know that if you *want* to…I’m here for you.”

She paused again before she added, “Whatever you need me to do to help you get through this…I’ll do it. You’re not alone anymore, Spike. I’m here. I’m here for you.”

He was crying in earnest by now, and she turned over on her side to face him, tenderly wiping a tear from his cheek with the backs of her fingers, gazing into his eyes with such compassion, such heartfelt tenderness, that it nearly took his breath – not that he needed it.

“How can you?” he sobbed, his sapphire eyes wide with disbelief, mingled with open need. “How can you do that for me, Buffy?” And she knew that he was not questioning her ability, but the reasons for her desire, to be there for him.

Her eyes drifted down from his to his perfect, though trembling lips, slightly parted, displaying his vulnerability. She wondered at the fact that even like this, he had the power to make her want him so desperately. But she knew better than to think that it would be anything but taking advantage of his need if she acted on her desires now.

And taking advantage of Spike was something she had vowed never to do again.

The kiss fell, sweet, slow, and chaste, on his face just to the side of his lips, as she pulled back to look into his eyes and whisper, “How could I not?” Her hand at his cheek rose to brush back through his hair. “After all the times you’ve been there for me, and all I ever did to pay you back was hurt you? You’ve earned this, Spike. You’ve earned it.”

He couldn’t speak, blown away by the power of the emotion in her eyes that he dared not attempt to define. It couldn’t be. Not for him. Not ever.

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door.

Nervously, Spike pulled back from Buffy, glancing at her self-consciously. He knew that she would not want anyone to see them like this. It was a purely innocent embrace, but still, Buffy had never wanted anyone to know that she thought of him as anything but an annoyance, if an occasional help.

But her soft arms around him stayed firm as she gently pulled him back against her. He gave her an anxious, questioning look, but she just shook her head slowly and smiled.

“No more hiding, Spike,” she explained firmly, before turning back to the door and calling, “Come in.”

Dawn didn’t show any reaction, any surprise or discomfort, at the sight of her sister and Spike holding each other on the bed. “Morning, guys,” she spoke cheerfully as she approached them, two steaming mugs in her hands.

“Extra-caffeiney French roast for you,” she said, placing one of them in Buffy’s hand, “and the house special for you,” she finished, giving the mug of blood to Spike.

“So what’s with the extra helpful bit this morning?” Buffy asked, a note of suspicion in her voice, but her eyes were playful. It had been such a tremendous relief for her to finally open up to her sister the night before; she felt like they had finally taken several huge steps toward making things right between them again.

Dawn looked offended. “Can’t I do someone a favor without getting jumped on?” she demanded, not really upset. “I mean, it’s not *that* weird for me to be nice, is it?”

Thinking that Dawn probably wanted a few minutes with Spike after the revelation of last night, and knowing that it would do Spike good to see for himself that Dawn’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed, Buffy gently unentangled herself from Spike’s arms, giving him a reassuring smile, and as she got up, he turned and sat up himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed nearest Dawn.

“I’d better go get dressed...um…again,” Buffy amended with a frown, realizing that she *was* dressed, in yesterday’s clothes.

As she left the room, Spike felt a bit of apprehension as he looked anxiously up at Dawn. The girl was standing a few feet from him at the side of the bed, her arms crossed, just looking at him calmly.

Then her expression faded into a warm, understanding smile as she moved forward to hug him tightly, carefully keeping her embrace above his tender ribcage. She just held onto him, wordlessly, for a few moments, before she spoke in a near-whisper close to his ear, her tone softly reproving, and infinitely reassuring.

“Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t stop loving you?”


Buffy stood in the center of her bedroom, staring at the hated object in her hand. Where should she put it? she wondered. She couldn’t risk its being found by the wrong person, or accidentally bumped and set off. The device was frighteningly easy to activate, she thought with an uncomfortable feeling. She guessed that Warren hadn’t cared much about safety features for the device, to keep it from going off accidentally. The creep probably would have thought it was funny, she thought with disgust.

So, somewhere out of reach, where it was unlikely to be found, or touched. With a sigh, she reached up to the top shelf of her closet and took down a worn shoebox full of old letters, notes, pictures, that she hadn’t looked at in a couple of years. Placing the item underneath the other contents of the box, she carefully closed the lid and placed it back on the shelf, a feeling of sadness coming over her again as she thought of all Spike had suffered.

“Hey.”

The low, familiar male voice from her doorway startled her, and she jumped as she spun around to face him. “Xander!” she gasped. “You scared me!”

“There’s a first,” he smiled hesitantly, his eyes uncertain as they met hers.

Remembering the incident of the night before, Buffy felt her face harden into impassivity. Not sure what to say, certain only that she was *not* going to argue with him again, she turned toward her desk and began rearranging things without thinking about it, just needing something to do to focus her attention off of him.

“Buffy,” he said, the joking gone from his voice, replaced by a pleading note, as he cautiously approached her.

“Unless you want to apologize, Xander, I really have nothing left to say,” Buffy said, her voice quiet and firm, not looking up at him.

His eyes widened in surprised dismay. “Buffy, look, I *am* sorry, okay? That we fought like that, and…”

She whirled on him suddenly, angrily. “Are you sorry for saying those things, Xander? About something so *incredibly* personal to me that you swore you’d never mention to anyone?”

“I didn’t…Dawn didn’t know what I was talking about…” Xander began to defend himself.

“She didn’t. But she does now. Because *you* put the questions in her head,” Buffy pointed out. She was actually glad now that she had come clean to her sister, but Xander didn’t have to know that yet. “Are you sorry for saying those hurtful things in front of *Spike*, who just spent the last five months not only being tortured, but torturing *himself* over what happened?”

“And that reminds me…” she went on, building up steam as she stepped closer to him, her eyes blazing. “Are you sorry for scaring the crap out of him with the very torture device that he was tortured *with*? Tossing it around like it was nothing? I’m sorry, Xander, but I never thought you could be that cruel! That was just…just *low*, Xander!”

Truthfully, Xander was not sorry. He had not given a thought to Spike’s feelings about the whole affair. He really didn’t care how the vampire felt or if he was scared or not. His only concern was that Buffy was letting the man who had tried to rape her back into her life, and in a very big way.

Still, he could see that Buffy was furious, and he was not going to win this by telling her that. “I’m sorry, Buffy,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to – to cause any trouble, okay? But…”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed on him, understanding completely why he had chosen the words he had. “But you’re not. Not sorry for what you did to *him* last night.” Seeing the truth in his eyes, she threw up her hands in frustration and stalked past him toward the stairs.

Dismissed. Again. Now Xander was getting angry himself. “No, Buffy. No, I’m not! I’m sorry that I hurt you, that I upset you, yeah! But excuse me if I don’t feel sorry for the poor helpless *brutal killer* that got a little taste of his own medicine for once!” he spat out as he followed her down the stairs to the living room.

Buffy had deliberately moved the argument downstairs, knowing that Dawn and Spike were still in the upstairs bedroom. She didn’t want either of them to hear any more of this than they had to.

“I can’t believe you, Xander! You don’t have an ounce of compassion in your body, do you?” she demanded, anger and disbelief in her eyes as she shook her head.

As she spoke, the doorbell rang, but in their fury, neither of them paid it any attention. If it was important, whoever it was would come back later.

“No, I don’t! Not for him! Buffy, maybe it makes you feel better about your choices to pretend he’s actually a person, but he’s *not*!”

“How dare you talk to me like that!” Buffy’s voice was low and furious, her eyes showing how close she was to losing control.

The doorbell rang again.

“A demon is a demon, Buffy,” Xander said angrily, heading toward the door, more out of annoyance at the interruption and wanting to send the person on their way than anything else. “So you went through a time there when your standards weren’t so high and you thought that was okay,” he snapped out the hurtful words. “But he is what he is, Buffy. He’s a demon.”

Buffy was stunned that he would talk to her that way, so contemptuously. As he reached for the door to answer it, she retorted furiously, “How can you say that, how can you even begin to feel that way, after spending the last three years mooning over…”

“Anya!” Xander’s hushed voice broke in from the doorway. Buffy frowned, momentarily irritated that he had finished her thought and taken the force out of her very valid point – until he stepped slowly out of the way -- revealing the former vengeance demon standing awkwardly, nervously, on the front porch.

“Um…hi.” Anya finally spoke in a falsely bright tone. She stood there, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other, in uncomfortable silence for a few moments, before Buffy finally remembered herself.

“A-anya!” she said with a forced smile. “Wow, it’s been…forever!”

It was not that she had any problem with the girl, but the timing could have been a little better, and it *was* quite simply very surprising to see her. Anya had left town just a few days after she and Spike had their little “indiscretion”, and none of them had heard from her since then. Buffy had assumed that the embarrassment of the incident had simply been too much for her, and she was gone for good.

Now, five months later, she had simply turned up out of nowhere.

“Not really. Not even close,” Anya corrected matter-of-factly, her characteristic unnatural smile in place. “Can I come in?” she asked after a moment, when neither of the two standing there staring at her seemed inclined to move.

“Oh! Oh, of course!” Buffy finally responded, as she remembered herself and stepped away from the door to allow her entrance.

But Xander still did not move. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at her in stunned silence.

The time had been when Anya would have looked back at him with sorrow and longing, still hoping in some part of her that they would somehow find their way back to each other.

Now, her look held only annoyance at him, as nothing more than the obstacle in her path. She looked expectantly at him for a moment before turning to Buffy and asking, “Can you move him? He’s in the way.”

The derisive comment seemed to snap Xander out of his trance, because he suddenly stepped back, repeating nervously, “Anya!” and then adding, “W-what are you doing here?” He quickly backpedaled, “I mean, not that it’s not okay for you to be here, because it is, but…”

“Not coming to see you, Xander Harris,” she was quick to clarify as she entered the house. “Otherwise I would have come to *your* house. But I didn’t, I came to Buffy’s. So don’t add to this very uncomfortable situation by trying to make polite conversation with me.”

“Anya, it’s not…I mean…wow…um…God, this is awkward!” he finally admitted. Taken aback as much by her abrupt, dismissive manner as by her sudden appearance, he left the foyer and went to sit down in the living room, placing a little bit of distance between himself and the accusing eyes of his ex-fiance.

“So, Anya,” Buffy said, mostly just trying to fill the uncomfortable, empty silence. Anya’s words had surprised her as well; if she wasn’t here to see Xander, then why *was* she here exactly? “Um…what’s up? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but usually when someone shows up here after a long time away it means something extra Hellmouthy is about to happen.”

“Nothing I’m aware of,” Anya shrugged. “No, I just…was in town, and…thought I’d stop by to…see how you were doing.” She paused, just looking at Buffy blankly. “So…how are you doing?” she asked with obviously feigned concern.

“Um…fine…”

As Buffy uncomfortably responded, Xander smiled to himself. *Not here to see me… yeah, right!* Her story was so obviously fake; his ex was just trying to spare her pride, but it was clear that she had missed him and wanted to see him again.

And the truth was, though he had tried to avoid admitting it since she had left – he missed her, too. He glanced up at her speculatively as she and Buffy came into the living room and sat down on the sofa, both girls sitting on the edge of their seats, as if afraid to get too comfortable.

“So,” Anya asked Buffy with feigned innocence. “How’s…everyone else?”

Xander’s secret smile widened as he glanced downward to hide it. Clearly by “everyone else” she really meant him. The girl was so obvious it was almost embarrassing.


“Ok, time to go greet the rest of the world,” Dawn said brightly, as she reached to gently help Spike to his feet, both of them still blissfully unaware of the conversations taking place downstairs.

He didn’t reply, only nodded with grim determination, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs as he braced himself on Dawn’s arm to rise. He had a moment’s concern as to whether or not the girl could support him, before remembering with a sense of disgust for his own weakness – it was not like his slight weight was anything even resembling a burden for the girl at the moment.

Dawn was concerned by his silence. He had barely said two words that morning. At first she had thought that he was nervous as to what she thought of him, now that she knew the truth about what had happened between him and Buffy. But she had quickly reassured him of her continued friendship, and he had seemed to accept it. Come to think of it, she realized, he really hadn’t said much since they had brought him home.

“You’re so quiet,” she commented softly as she helped him toward the bedroom door.

He shrugged without looking at her. “Not much to say, I s’pose,” he replied, his voice low and quiet.

His response did not make her feel any better about it. It just seemed odd. One of the things she remembered the most about Spike was his absolute inability to shut up. Not having much to say did not usually stop him.

But she didn’t push it. And after a moment or two, as they reached the door, he continued in a soft, carefully controlled voice, “S’pose I just…got used to not talking. Wasn’t allowed, you know.”

Dawn stopped their slow journey, but did not respond for a moment as the words sank in. “You weren’t *allowed* to *talk*?” she finally spoke, her voice low and trembling with outrage.

He swallowed hard, and shook his head. He wanted her to understand, to know why he was not the same person she had known before, but it was just so difficult to put it all into words. And here he had buggered it up again.

*Shouldn’t have said anything. Stupid. Pathetic. And now she knows just how pathetic you really are.* “Well, sometimes,” he amended, feeling embarrassed by his revelation, wanting to diminish it somehow. “but…not without permission.”

Dawn’s gazed down at his hand in hers, up the exposed part of his arm, displaying the evidence of the savagery that had been inflicted on him, and felt her fury growing in her at the thought of the monster that had done it.

“Jail’s too easy for him,” she muttered.

Uncomfortable with her protective anger over him, still hardly daring to show anger toward his abuser himself, he did not respond, his eyes focused on the floor.

Sensing that the conversation was making him uncomfortable, Dawn did not say anything else. They had reached the stairs, and all her attention was focused on helping him make it down them.

But her mind was still working, smoldering thoughts of fury, fervently wishing that her sister had not left Warren to the police. She had some ideas of her own as to what sort of punishment would be more fitting for his crimes.

If only she could make it happen.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they were both distracted from their grim musings by the sight of Anya sitting on the couch with Buffy, across from Xander.

The first thought that occurred to Spike was surprise at the realization that the girl was a vengeance demon again. He could tell it just by looking at her, though he doubted that the humans could. Not sure if they knew yet, or how they would react, he decided not to say anything about it just yet.

The next thought that came to him was utter and complete shame. It was not enough that the last few months of his life had been an exercise in humiliation and degradation; and he had been rescued by the woman he loved, whom he had assaulted in her own home. The fates saw fit to lay yet another reminder of his dismal failures upon him, in the form of Anya.

All he thought of when he saw her was the last time he had seen her, at the Magic Box that night, the night he had paid Buffy back for breaking his heart by breaking hers in turn. He wondered, heartsick, if Buffy could think of anything else, either.

And why was the girl staring at him like that? Anya’s eyes were wide, focused on him the moment she spotted him, her attention immediately torn from whatever it was Buffy was saying to her. There was a sort of stricken expression of pain and…and pity, he realized, feeling sick…as she looked at him.

“Anya!” Dawn exclaimed, then paused, unsure what to say. Finally, she settled on, “Hey!”

“Hey,” Anya repeated, still focused on Spike.

“Hello, Anya,” Spike forced himself to speak, deliberately avoiding the use of words like “love” or “pet” that came so naturally to his lips. There were at least two humans in this room that could be quite offended by such innocent terms of endearment between the two of them.

“Hi, Spike,” Anya said softly.

There was a moment of awkward silence in which no one spoke, before Anya continued, “Um…could I talk to you?” She glanced pointedly at the others in the room before adding in an irritable tone, “*Alone*?”

He was taken aback by the request. He really hadn’t spent much time around Anya prior to the disastrous mistake they had made last fall. He glanced self-consciously toward Buffy, who looked just as surprised…and a little displeased…by her words.

He didn’t dare look at Xander.

“Um…I don’t know, pet,” he replied in a near-whisper, not meeting her eyes, forgetting himself in his nervousness and then immediately cringing when he realized what he’d said. “I mean…um…”

“It’s okay, Spike,” Buffy said suddenly, a decisive look on her face as she caught his eye. “Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry,” Anya said, still staring at him. “But it’s really important.”

“Well…okay, then,” he mumbled, looking at the floor.

He had no idea what she would want to talk to him about after all this time, but knew that neither Buffy or Xander could possibly be comfortable with the situation. He hated the idea of drawing more of Xander’s hatred onto himself, but mostly he was terribly afraid of upsetting Buffy.

He could scarcely believe the kindness and affection she had shown him in the past twenty-four hours, and the last thing he wanted to do was anything to spoil it.

With a forced smile, Buffy stood up, as Dawn helped Spike to sit down on the couch. “Well, we’ll be upstairs if you need us.” She glanced anxiously at Xander.

He had not moved.

“Um, Xander, if you want to come upstairs with me,” Buffy said pointedly, trying to catch his eye. “We can finish our conversation.”

Xander still did not move.

In the awkward silence that followed, Spike could feel Xander’s eyes boring into him, and chanced a brief glance across the coffee table at the boy.

He wished he hadn’t.

Xander’s dark eyes locked onto his, holding his gaze, blazing with fury. There was a menacing hatred in them that nearly took his breath with fear. Slowly, not taking his eyes off Spike, Xander rose from the chair and walked toward the door.

“No thanks, Buffy,” he said without looking at her, maintaining the wordless threat of his gaze on Spike. “I think we’re done here.”

“Xander,” Buffy began, concerned by his tone, though she was behind him and couldn’t see the look in his eyes. She just didn’t want for him to leave in this sort of mood; no matter how angry she was with him, she had been friends with Xander for years, and didn’t want that to change now.

“No, really, Buff. I’m through talking,” he bit off the words before finally turning his furious eyes on her and stalking out the front door.

“Ok, well he’s in a really bad mood,” Anya pointed out unnecessarily to anyone who was listening.

“Um…like I said,” Buffy repeated softly, trying to catch Spike’s eyes from where she stood on the stairway, though he wouldn’t look at her. “we’ll be upstairs. Anya, if you could just let us know when you’re done.”

Anya nodded, looking at Spike again…who was looking at the floor.

As soon as the girls disappeared up the stairs, Anya spoke quietly, “What happened?”

Spike was a little confused, glancing up at her uncertainly, his mind still focused on the frightening anger he had seen on Xander’s face. She must mean his obvious injured state.

“Ah, got in a tangle with a nasty just a bit bigger than I was,” he replied, trying for a casual, easy tone she would remember, that didn’t quite come out right.

“Spike,” Anya continued in the same quiet tone. “Really…”

“So!” he broke in, trying desperately to shift the conversation, to put *her* on the defensive. “You’re a vengeance demon again. When’d that happen?”

“A long time ago. That’s why I’m here, actually,” Anya pointed out. “I – I’m here for – I’m here on business.”

“Would have thought you’d wanted to steer clear of Sunnydale, pet,” he said softly, looking at the floor again. “I did.”

“I did, too,” Anya admitted quietly. She paused before going on, “I tried to stay away. I did for a long time. But – I could hear you. Miles and miles away.”

His eyes shot up to hers, frowning in confusion and alarm. “What do you mean, you could hear me?”

“It’s how we know when someone needs vengeance,” she explained. “It’s like if someone is being wronged, their spirit is crying out, even though they can’t hear it. No one around them can hear it. But we can.”

“What’s it sound like?” he asked softly, staring at the floor at his feet.

“Usually…it’s kind of a faint cry…like…a soft, moaning sort of sound…that you don’t really hear, you more…*feel* it,” she tried to explain, obviously frustrated with the human words that didn’t really convey her meaning.

He had slowly looked up again, his eyes remaining on her face when he saw that her eyes were focused away from him as she tried to find the right words. Suddenly, her green eyes shot back to his and held them with a serious, wide-eyed look.

“But you,” she began, shaking her head slowly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You – you were *screaming*. I – I couldn’t block it out. I knew it was coming from Sunnydale, and I didn’t want to come, but…but I couldn’t get it out of my head. And then the closer I got…I could tell…that it was you.”

His gaze fell again, disconcerted by the knowledge she shouldn’t have had, as well as by the pity in her eyes. “You’re a bit late, pet,” he muttered. “Slayer and her sis got me out, and the bloke what done it’s headed to jail.” He paused before adding bitterly, “Justice served.”

“I’m not talking about justice,” Anya shook her head. “I’m talking about vengeance. And it’s yours.”

Spike just stared at her for a long moment as the impact of what she had just said hit him. After so long under the cruel control of someone else, powerless to make even the smallest change in his situation, he couldn’t make the concept of having that much power seem real to him.

Vengeance.

To think that with a simple wish, he could make Warren pay for the last five months of hell he had put him through! But – with what consequences?

*You deserved it…he’ll find you if you do it…he’ll make you pay for it…* His doubts and fears circled around in his mind, warning him away from taking the opportunity she was offering.

“No, thanks, pet,” he sighed wearily, trying to keep his voice casual. “I’ve seen how your wishes usually turn out, and I think I’d rather not.”

“The problem with a lot of wishes is that people are too vague about what they want,” Anya dismissed his excuse with a wave of her hand. “You’d just need to be very specific about exactly what you want to happen to whoever hurt you.”

“I don’t know, Anya.” His eyes were uncertain as he looked at her, then away quickly before she could read too much of the emotions in his eyes. “I – I wouldn’t even know what to wish for, really. I could wish him dead, but – but that wouldn’t really change anything that’s happened, would it?”

“Spike,” Anya cut him off, but her voice was kind. “You don’t have to be afraid of him.”

Spike immediately dropped his eyes, ashamed that his fear was so obvious, that she had been able to read him so easily. “I – I’m not,” he argued quietly, pointlessly, he knew. The words sounded hollow, empty, and he knew she did not believe him.

“If you want it, you can make him pay for what he did to you, and do it in a way so that there’s no chance he could ever hurt you again,” Anya pointed out, thoughtfully ignoring his obvious lie.

“I – I don’t know,” he stammered weakly. He knew in his head that she was right, that he could wish Warren dead in whatever bloody, painful way he desired if he chose, and be rid of the fear of him forever.

But would he be, really? Because his heart wasn’t getting the same message. There was a part of him that was still terrified of brutal retribution even for escaping Warren in the first place. If he should dare to actually strike out against the one who had all but destroyed him before…

He knew it was irrational, that Warren would not be able to touch him again if he made the right wish, but the consistent lesson that had been mercilessly imprinted in his mind – that resistance, defiance, disobedience, could only result in suffering – was so powerful.

Anya was silent for a moment, watching him with serious eyes. “My God, Spike,” she said softly. “What did he do to you?”

His head bowed lower as his tears began to escape again, and he silently derided himself again for his weakness. “It’d be easier to tell you what he didn’t do, love,” he replied finally, his voice low and thick with tears. “Can’t think of anything you could do to him that would begin to make up for it.”

“Maybe I could help you come up with something…appropriate,” Anya suggested, then added softly. “*Try* to tell me. Maybe it’ll help. What happened?”

*Nothing can help. Ever.*

Spike took a deep, shaky breath, still staring down at the couch between them, picking at it nervously as he tried to find the words to describe what had been done to him.

“Got taken prisoner. The boy’s some sort of computer genius, figured out how to make my chip fire whenever he bloody wanted it to. Made me his – his slave.” The words were spoken just barely above a whisper. “For the past five months.”

Gently, Anya touched his scarred, bruised arm. “He did all this?” she asked, moving her hand to gesture upward toward his battered face.

Spike nodded without looking up. “I’m such a soddin’ idiot,” he spoke in a tone of bitter self-loathing. “Was always doing stupid things, getting myself beat, or – or worse. He told me I wasn’t to speak, wasn’t even to move half the time, ‘less he allowed it.” He paused, taking in a deep shaky breath before letting it out in a sigh. “Never was too good at taking orders. Brought a lot of suffering on myself.”

Anya was silent for a moment, taking in what he was telling her. Then she said softly, “There’s more. Isn’t there?”

“What more could there be?” There was a fearful note in his defensive voice.

“Spike,” Anya began, choosing her words cautiously. “I’ve spent over a thousand years literally listening to the pain of all kinds of people, who’ve been done all kinds of wrong. I know what the cries of a battered wife sound like; I know when I hear a parent who’s lost their child to a violent crime. Every type of pain has its own specific sound.”

She paused, then added gently, “I heard it, Spike. That sort of thing,” and for him there was no mistaking what “sort of thing” she was referring to, “that’s a – a different kind of pain, Spike. There’s nothing else that sounds like that.”

His throat was constricted with overwhelming emotion, and his shame was like a physical weight, preventing him from lifting his head, driving his shoulders down in a defeated, humiliated slump.

Anya could almost physically feel his pain, a tangible presence in the room with them. She had never been very good at dealing with human emotions, her own or those of others. But the agony Spike had been through, was still going through, tore at her heart. Instinctively she reached out and took his hand, encouraging him with her wordless support.

“I couldn’t stop him,” the plea for her understanding came out in a sob. “He – he…I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t…”

“I know,” Anya replied simply.

“Please,” he begged her brokenly. “Please don’t tell them! They don’t know! I couldn’t – I couldn’t bear it if they did!”

“Of course I won’t,” Anya assured him. “This is just between us, I won’t say a word.” She waited a moment, before adding gently, “It wasn’t your fault. He controlled your chip, so you were helpless against him, Spike. But you can have *him* at *your* mercy, if you want to. All you’ve got to do is wish it.”

He thought about it for a moment, before shaking his head sadly, wistfully. “I can’t. I don’t even know what I’d wish for, love. And – and nothing I could ask could ever make it right again. It’s done.” He hesitated for a moment, before looking up at her hopefully through tearful eyes. “Could I – can I wish it’d never happened? Can I wish to go back?”

Anya gave an apologetic grimace. “No. It doesn’t really work that way. That kind of wish wouldn’t really hurt him in any way, so it’s not technically vengeance. And – if you go back,” she hesitated, not wanting to upset him any further. “there’s no guarantee it wouldn’t all just…happen again.”

He shuddered at the very thought.

“It has to be something that would punish him for what he did.”

He didn’t speak for a few moments, overwhelmed by all she was telling him. “I don’t know,” he replied finally in a soft voice full of pain and confusion. Reliving the memory of what had been done to him, knowing that Anya knew about it, felt like going through it all over again. “I don’t know what to say, Anya.” He shook his head helplessly.

Anya felt equally helpless, not knowing how to help him. She squeezed his hand gently. “I’m gonna stay around town for a while, Spike. So if you need time to think about it…to decide what you want to do…that’s fine, I’ll be here. You can just let me know later. All you have to do is call, and I’ll hear you and come. Okay?”

He nodded, sniffing back tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” she said firmly as she stood, still holding his hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Spike. You’re not the one who did wrong, here.” She released his hand and headed toward the stairs to get the girls, calling back over her shoulder, “I’m here if you need me.”

*Nothing to be sorry for?* he thought with miserable disbelief at the painful irony. *I’m just glad she’s not here for vengeance for Buffy! If she only knew what I’d done…she wouldn’t want to help me at all!*


Anya felt discouraged by the whole encounter as she climbed the stairs. She should have known from the desperate nature of the cries she had heard that he would be broken, but she had not expected his self-worth and sense of pride to be so utterly shattered that he was unable even to wish for the suffering due his tormentor. Maybe in time, she hoped, he would come to see himself as deserving of vengeance.

“Anya!” Dawn’s voice hissed from right beside her as she reached the top of the stairs.

Never mind the fact that she was a millennium-old vengeance demon and Dawn was only a teenage girl; Anya nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Dawn!” she yelped. “You…”

“Shhh!” Dawn whispered, taking her arm and pulling her toward her room, glancing anxiously down the stairs.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Dawn turned to face her, bracing her back against the door. There was a determination in her eyes that won a little bit of the older woman’s respect. This was not a mere child she was dealing with, Anya realized.

“I need to talk to you, Anya,” Dawn said firmly, meeting her gaze. “Or should I say Anyanka,” she added pointedly, her eyebrows raised challengingly.

Anya felt a little nervous. “Hey! How did you know that? Is it that obvious?” she asked, glancing toward the door as if she thought the Slayer might have heard, even though she was nowhere in sight.

“No,” Dawn admitted with a shrug and a sheepish half-smile. “Never underestimate the power of eavesdropping.”

Anya’s eyes widened. “You were listening to us?”

Dawn nodded, her expression serious and troubled…and not a little angry.

“How – how much did you hear?” Anya asked her, slowly, cautiously.

“Pretty much – well, pretty much everything,” Dawn admitted.

“Look, I’m not trying to cause any trouble while I’m here in town,” Anya began defensively, holding up her hands and shaking her head a little. “I’m only here for Spike because we’re old friends and I think he deserves a little justice for what he’s been through. But if Buffy’s gonna have a problem with this, I can leave, it’s no problem, I just…”

“Buffy’s not gonna know about it, unless you or Spike tell her,” Dawn cut in, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because I’m not saying a word.”

She didn’t say anything else for a moment, and Anya began to understand. “What do you want?” she asked the girl.

Dawn glanced down for a moment before meeting Anya’s eyes unflinchingly, barely bridled fury in her green eyes. “Did I understand that conversation correctly? Did Warren do what I think he did to Spike?”

“*Warren*? Geek Warren? *That’s* who did that to him?” Anya asked incredulously. “Because I never would have thought he could have pulled off something like that, and…”

“Anya.”

Anya sighed heavily, realizing her avoidance of the actual question had been easily seen through. “Maybe you should ask him,” she said quietly. “I think that’s his business.”

Dawn heard the truth in what Anya didn’t say. She nodded slowly, accepting it, the flames of rage in her eyes growing stronger.

“And he wouldn’t wish anything on him? Wouldn’t wish for vengeance?”

Anya shook her head slowly, still meeting Dawn’s eyes.

Dawn was silent for a moment before she said coldly, “Warren Meers deserves to die. Slowly and painfully, and knowing every second that it’s because of what he did to Spike.”

Anya nodded, a slow smile beginning at the corners of her mouth. “I couldn’t agree more,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “Did you have something particular in mind? Because Spike doesn’t have to necessarily make the wish himself.”

Dawn did not reply for a moment. Finally she said in a hard voice, “Give me a couple days. I have an idea. And I really won’t need that much. Just a little help.” She paused before explaining, “I want to do this myself.”

Anya looked dismayed and a little worried. “Dawn, are you sure?” she asked her cautiously. “I mean…vengeance is a time-honored and respected tradition but…it can get a little messy. Are you sure you don’t want me to just do it for you…whatever it is?”

“Positive.” Dawn’s voice was certain, unyielding. “I can handle this. I *want* to handle this. This is personal, Anya. Spike is my best friend, and that creep treated him like – like nothing. Like a – a possession – no, worse, because most people actually take care of their possessions.” She shook her head, the words escaping her. “There are no words for what he did to him,” she finally admitted in a voice of quietly murderous rage.

“And I’m going to make him pay for it.”

Buffy stepped out of her room into the hallway and listened carefully for a moment. She could hear nothing from the living room, but there had been no sign of Anya. Hadn’t she said she would come upstairs and get them when she and Spike were finished with their conversation?

*That’s turning into one long conversation,* she thought irritably. Then in the next moment, she felt guilty for her irritation. *You dumped him, Buffy. He’s got the right to talk to anyone he wants for as long as he wants. You made the bed so you might just have to lie in it…alone.* she reminded herself.

She walked across the hall and knocked on Dawn’s door, then opened it a little without waiting for a response. Dawn was standing by her desk, and jumped when she opened the door, whirling around. “Don’t you *knock*?” she snapped defensively.

“Um…I did,” Buffy pointed out, frowning. Dawn had her guilt-face on. She glanced around the room, but nothing seemed out of place or suspicious in any way.

“What’s the point of knocking if you don’t wait for an answer,” Dawn demanded testily.

“Sorry, I was just wondering if Anya’s been up here yet.”

Dawn seemed startled by the question. “Oh, yeah! She was. But she left. I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

Irritated again, Buffy headed back for the stairs to go down and check on Spike. When she reached the top of the staircase, she was surprised to see him standing on the fourth stair up.

He had stopped for a rest, breathing hard with exertion.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she gently reproved him, immediately going down to help him.

To her surprise, he shook her hand off his arm. “No, Buffy, I can do it,” he insisted, with just a hint of something in his voice that she used to hear all the time, but had not heard since they had found him.

Annoyance.

It was a tremendous relief to her to hear it.

Of course, it was immediately followed by an anxious look as he said in a much more timid tone, “I’m sorry, I just…I mean…I…” It was obvious that he was afraid that he might have angered her.

“Spike…it’s okay if I’m getting on your nerves with the whole Florence Nightengale routine,” Buffy assured him with a soft laugh. “I’m just wanting to help you, but I’m probably taking it too far, and you don’t have to like it!” She paused when he gave her an uncertain look, remembering that anger or any sort of negative feelings on his part had been consistently punished, until yesterday. She added, softer, being sure to catch his eye, “You’re allowed to get mad at me, you know. You have a right to your own feelings.”

He looked down, swallowing hard, and she carefully advanced and put her hands on his arms, steadying him. “I’m sorry, Buffy,” he repeated. “I’m just so bloody sick of being helpless, love. I ought to be able to at least make it up a soddin’ flight of stairs without needing help.”

Buffy felt a wave of sadness wash over her; his pitiful physical condition was of concern to her, too. “You will,” she assured him. “Just give it a little time.” But even as she spoke, a little anxious feeling came over her.

How long would it take him to heal? Months of mistreatment and starvation had done more damage to him that she had ever seen done to anyone before. Even with accelerated vampire healing, it could take a while, even if he were to get human blood – which he was not getting. All that she had access to was what she could get at the local butchers.

And the problem with his legs – that was not something that even time would heal. The bones had healed already, only wrong. The only thing Buffy could think of to keep him from being permanently crippled was to have them rebroken, and set properly. And she couldn’t bear the thought of putting him through that much pain, after all he had been through already. She simply saw no way around it, eventually.

Unless…

A sudden idea occurred to her, and she considered it as he gave in and allowed her to help him up the stairs. When they reached the top, Buffy gave his arm a little squeeze before letting go.

“I need to go back down and make a phone call,” she told him as she turned back toward the stairs.

“All right. I’ll go see what Dawnie’s up to,” he said with a little shrug, and Buffy felt a little bad for leaving him. He wasn’t much for being alone lately, and understandably so.

But this was important. And it was for him.

Once in the kitchen, she picked up the phone and quickly dialed a number she had come to know by heart recently, and waited while it rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Tara? Hey, this is Buffy. No, that’s okay, I don’t need Will. I was actually calling to talk to you.”


Spike could tell immediately that something was on Dawn’s mind. From the moment he entered the room, she seemed oddly distant.

And just his bloody luck, it had to be at the first time since he’d been back that he actually felt the desire to talk!

The conversation with Anya had had an odd effect on him. On the one hand, it was painful and humiliating to go over the most degrading of the events of the past few months again. Just knowing that she knew about it flooded his heart with shame.

But something about her visit had brought to his memory with painful clarity the way he used to be, before all this. Perhaps it was her startled, dismayed reaction to seeing him so broken, not the “big bad” he used to be; or perhaps it was her offer of actual power over his enemy, after so long of feeling so utterly powerless.

But whatever it was, it had left him with the desire to go back – to be what he was before, before every vestige of control over his own life had been brutally stripped from him. He was growing increasingly frustrated with his own weakness, though he had no idea how to change it.

He hated the fear that threatened to overtake him any time he spoke without being spoken to, or did some little thing that, here, was perfectly safe, but in Warren’s hands, would have surely resulted in vicious punishment.

He hated being physically weak and incapable of caring for himself, having to rely on the kindness of others for his very survival.

He hated it.

He didn’t know how he was going to be able to overcome the ghosts of his slavery that surrounded him, whispering continuously in his mind of his utter hopelessness, unworthiness, his complete inability to ever return to what he had been. He wasn’t even really sure that he could.

But he knew that he wanted to – desperately.

Suddenly, as he sat there on the couch waiting for Dawn and Buffy to return, he did not want to be alone anymore, and it was not simply due to the gripping fear that seemed to take hold of him since he had escaped, any time that he was alone.

He didn’t know if he could even find the words at all, and he knew that there were some things he would never tell Buffy or Dawn, but something deep inside him yearned just for someone to understand his pain, to really understand it, and still be able to tell him that it was all going to be all right.

He didn’t really know if he would even be able to bring himself to talk about it with anyone. All he knew was that at the moment, he didn’t want to be alone – and he wanted to try.


“Hey, Niblet,” Spike’s unusually soft voice spoke from the doorway to Dawn’s room. Well, not so unusual anymore, she remembered with a mixture of sadness and anger – and triumph. Soon he would be avenged.

“Hey,” she greeted him warmly, smiling for his sake. “Come on in.”

He obeyed, standing awkwardly just inside the room.

Dawn went to close the door, realizing immediately that something was troubling him, and having a better idea of what it was then she should have had.

“Wanna sit down?” she asked him, her eyes searching his, though they were guarded and would not quite meet hers.

“Yeah,” he nodded, and sat down on the edge of her bed, quickly, before she could reach him to help him.

Too quickly. He winced at the pain in his ribs as he took in a sharp, pained breath.

“Spike, what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, and he gave her an odd look, reminded again of how much like Buffy she could be sometimes, even to using the very words the Slayer had used with him only minutes before.

Difference was, Dawn was usually a little more straightforward with him than Buffy was.

“That wasn’t very bright,” she pointed out flatly, as she sat down on the bed beside him and began gently rubbing his back, trying to help him recover from the self-induced pain. “You know, the macho act goes off a little better without the cringing in pain,” she suggested dryly.

“You know,” he countered, with just a hint of a self-deprecating smile, “it’s a good thing I haven’t any dignity left, because if I did you’d be crushing it, Bit.”

She smiled, pleased that he was at least able to joke about something in his terrible situation. It was a good sign. “Really, what are you trying to prove?” she asked him, shaking her head reprovingly. “You’re gonna get better, but not if you hurt yourself again by trying too much too soon.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m just so tired of this, Bit. I’m tired of having to have you and Buffy help me with every little thing, like I’m a bloody child! I ought to be able to do things as simple as sitting down by myself.”

“You can’t help what he did to you, Spike. It’s not like you asked for this to happen to you,” she pointed out. This time the defensive anger in her voice made him feel a little less uncomfortable, and a little more protected and loved.

Still, he did not feel as if he deserved her concern. He did not respond, just sat there, looking at the floor in front of him.

“Quit blaming yourself,” she ordered with childish simplicity.

He turned a sarcastic smile on her and replied, “Right, then. Right this second, I’ll get right on that, Niblet!”

Dawn was not the slightest bit offended; rather she was delighted. His sarcasm meant that he at least felt safe with *her*. If there was no one else he felt safe with yet, at least it was a start.

“I know it’s not easy,” she admitted, putting her arm around him and leaning her head on his shoulder. “But it’ll get easier, I promise.”

“I know, you’re right, Bit,” he sighed softly, leaning his head down to rest on the top of hers, and his next words warmed her heart. “You’re making it easier.”


That night, Buffy once again slipped quietly into Spike’s room. Once again, she could tell that he was still awake, though this time he was lying down on his side with his back to her, and he didn’t turn around when she entered.

As she drew closer she could see that he was trembling; he still didn’t feel safe, she realized sadly, and in that moment decided that until he did she would come here every night – as long as he needed her.

She hesitated for a moment to do what felt like the natural thing, wondering if it would be more help or hindrance. But then she decided to follow her instincts, and slowly approached the bed. She laid silently down behind him on the bed, wrapping her arm gently around him, laying her head lightly on his shoulder.

When she felt his body relax back against her a little, snuggling closer to her warmth, she knew she had made the right decision. They just lay there in silence for a few moments, a weighted, meaningful silence.

Finally he spoke softly into the silence, a quiet desperation in his voice, husky from the tears he had shed in the lonely darkness. “When will it get easier?”

The heart-breaking question tore at her emotions; she wished she had an answer for him, but she had no idea. “I don’t know, Baby,” she admitted in a whisper, her hand tracing up and down his arm in a tender caress. “But it will.”

They were silent for a moment before she went on carefully, knowing his natural aversion to the topic she was about to bring up, “I talked to Tara tonight.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, until he realized that whatever she was beginning to say was important. “About what, love?” he asked her.

“About – about a healing spell,” she blurted out, not able to think of an easy way to say it. “For your legs.”

“No.” The answer was surprising to her in its immediacy. Then, as usual lately, he quickly backtracked, saying hesitantly, “I – I don’t want to, Buffy. No magic. Please.”

“It’s up to you,” she assured him, not liking the way he seemed to assume that she would go ahead with it whether or not he wanted to. “It would just be to straighten them out, Spike. Anything more would be too hard on Tara…and on you. She said that there shouldn’t be any negative side effects, not really. It’s just very physically taxing…like exhausting, sort of. Otherwise she’d just…you know…fix you up completely.”

“Whatever you think is best, Buffy,” he whispered, and she could hear the fear in his voice.

“Spike,” she said firmly, pulling back and gently pulling him with her, over onto his back so that she could face him. “No. This is your decision. It’s just an option. But…the thing is,” she hesitated, searching his eyes, “if we don’t do the healing spell, there’s only one other way to fix your legs. We’d have to break them again and set them right.”

He winced at the thought of the terrible pain that would involve, remembering the agony of his shattered legs after the accident.

“Or…we can do neither,” Buffy went on, looking down. She wanted it to really be his decision, so she didn’t want him to see in her eyes how very much she hated option number three. “and leave them the way they are. But they won’t heal on their own, no matter how much time we give it.”

“So I’d be a bloody cripple the rest of my unlife,” he muttered, sounding incredibly unhappy with his options.

Buffy said nothing.

“Right, then,” he sighed, resigning himself to yet another circumstance of his life that was outside his control. “Let’s do the soddin’ spell, then. If that’s what you think is best, Buffy.”

Buffy felt a little uncomfortable, sensing that he was agreeing to it mostly because he knew it was the only answer that would truly please her. But her genuine concern for what was best for him outweighed her guilty feeling at the idea that she was pushing him into it.

“It’s gonna be hard,” she warned him gently. “Tara said it could really take a lot of strength out of you…maybe make the rest of your healing take a little longer. But in the end you’ll really be good as new.”

“Not a lot of strength left to take, love,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes.

Buffy waited a moment before broaching her second unwelcome topic of discussion. “I have an idea. To make you stronger,” she said in a quiet voice, focusing her eyes on the mattress between them.

He waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, finally looked up at her eyes again. “What, Buffy? What is it?” he asked her.

“Human blood would be better for you than butcher’s blood,” she pointed out, her words coming slowly and cautiously.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Yes,” he replied, his voice slow as well, and a little suspicious. “It would. But – that’s not an option, love.”

“No,” Buffy agreed. “Not really. I don’t have access to human blood, anyway. But – if human blood would help…then…Slayer’s blood…”

“*No!*” The vehemence of his tone startled her; it was as adamant as she had heard him in the past couple of days. Then, softer, but with horror in his tone, shaking his head, staring at her wide-eyed, he repeated, “No, Buffy. No. I – I can’t do that to you.”

“But,” she began, a little tremble in her voice. She wanted so badly to be able to do something to help him -- *really* help him. When Tara had suggested it, it had seemed like the perfect solution. But if he wouldn’t accept it… “I want you to. You wouldn’t hurt me. You – you wouldn’t even have to do anything if you don’t want to. I could – I could just…”

“No,” he whispered, turning away, his voice choked with emotion. After a moment he added, a pleading note in his voice, “For God’s sake, Buffy, if you want anything to be my choice, please, *please* let it be this. I won’t do it. I won’t.”

The tone of his voice told her that if she chose to push it, to use the influence she had, had always had, over him, she could make him give in. But his words smote her heart, and she knew that he was right. She couldn’t run roughshod over his wishes and take the power over his life that was only his to wield; the decision had to be his.

“Okay,” she whispered simply, though her disappointment was almost a physical pain. She had so wanted to give this to him. She had thought it would be the greatest gift she had to offer him.

But she realized now she had a greater gift, something that had once been his, but had been cruelly stolen away from him. And she was going to give it to him, no matter how it went against her nature, no matter how badly she wanted to withhold it.

The gift of choice.

Anya was surprised and annoyed by the sound of the knock at the door of her shabby little motel room. No one who knew she was here would be likely to show up here. In the first place, she had told none of them exactly where she was staying.

And secondly, neither Dawn nor Spike would have been able to make the trip across town to the motel – it was too far to walk, even for a healthy teenage girl like Dawn. Buffy was not likely to seek her out. That only left…

She groaned and turned the television up louder, letting the brawling sounds of the Jerry Springer rerun she was half-watching fill the room. Now *there* were some people in serious need of vengeance! Infidelity, deceit, and all manner of crimes against each other paraded across the screen, and she tried to focus on them and ignore the sound of the louder, more insistent second knock on the door.

He was the last person she wanted to talk to at the moment. She had known immediately by his reaction when she had asked to talk to Spike alone, that it was only a matter of time before he showed up, looking for some sort of explanation.

But she did not have to explain herself to him anymore. He had lost that right when he had decided that he didn’t want her.

When the third knock seemed loud and strong enough to break the door down, she got up off the bed in irritation and stalked toward the door, flinging it back and glaring at the young man who stood there.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“I want to talk to you,” he replied without hesitation.

“We have nothing left to talk about,” she snapped. “Go away.”

“Wait! Ahn!” There was a pleading note in his voice, and in spite of herself Anya hesitated. She had intended to close the door in his face…so why was the door still open? Why was she standing there, waiting for whatever it was he was going to say?

Why did she care?

But in spite of her better judgment, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. “What?” she asked impatiently.

“I just want to talk to you, Anya. My God, it’s been months!” He paused, and she found herself trying not to remember the effect those deep chocolate brown eyes had always had on her. “Can’t I come in?” he asked her softly.

With a weary sigh, she stepped back from the door, allowing his entrance. “Fine,” she muttered. “Suit yourself.”

He seemed terribly relieved as he stepped through the door. Once he was inside, however, an awkward silence fell as he took a seat by the small table next to the bed.

“So…how are you?” he asked in a voice of genuine concern.

It made her sick. “Doing just fine, thank you,” she breezed. “Not still nursing a broken heart if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I didn’t think…I mean…”

“Because I’m over you, Xander Harris. I got over you pretty quickly actually, before I ever left Sunnydale,” she informed him.

His expression made it obvious that he was becoming annoyed with the manner in which she was treating him, speaking to him. “Yeah,” he said pointedly in a bitter tone. “I remember.”

Her eyes widened; the words stung a bit, reminding her of what he clearly saw as her betrayal. But it wasn’t! she insisted to herself. He had left her! What right did he have to say anything about who she chose to see?

“That’s not what I meant,” she said quietly, feeling ashamed, and angry at him for making her feel that way.

“Yeah, well, intentions don’t mean much. It’s what you do that counts,” he pointed out scathingly.

Her eyes narrowed in anger. “Oh, you know all about that, don’t you, Xander?” she snapped. “Intentions that mean nothing!”

Now it was his turn to wince, stung by her words. But they only hurt because they were true. “Look, I’m not here to argue with you,” he said with a weary, defeated sigh. “I just thought maybe we could have an actual conversation for once…”

“No, you just *thought* that you could ease your curiosity and find out what I’m doing here and why I needed to talk to Spike!” she corrected, a challenge in her fiery green eyes.

He flinched a little at the words; as usual, Anya was right on the money when it came to him and his motivations – and painfully so.

“Ok, fine. So I’m curious,” he admitted cautiously, knowing that he would not be able to fool her completely.

“Jealous,” she corrected.

“I am not jealous of that pathetic little creep,” Xander snarled, and the venomous hatred in his tone was startling, almost frightening, to Anya. “I’m just sick and tired of standing by and watching him hurt the women in my life that I care about, because for some weird reason, they all seem to find him irresistible!”

“You mean you’re tired of watching him *take* the women you *want*.” This correction was more brutal than any of the others, and a little warning feeling in the back of her head told her it might not be wise to provoke Xander any further when it came to Spike – not right now, when the recovering vampire was still so helpless. But she was furious, and she was going for the jugular in this particular battle of words.

She knew immediately that her words had hit their mark, and hard. Xander’s eyes blazed with fury. “He hasn’t taken *anything* from me, Anya,” he snapped.

“No. He can’t take what’s not yours,” she agreed snidely.

“You know, why did I even bother coming over here?” Xander threw up his hands in frustrated anger. “I don’t know why I thought we could actually have a civil conversation.”

“I don’t either,” Anya replied. “It’s hard to be civil with someone who shattered your heart into a million pieces the last time you saw them!”

“My thoughts exactly,” he retorted, but his voice was softer now – sadder.

A sorrowful silence fell between them for a few moments, as each remembered their own separate hurts.

Finally Anya asked quietly, “Why *did* you come here, Xander?”

He waited a moment before answering. “I missed you, Ahn. Every day.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you…” Anya suddenly cut off the bitter words that seemed to flow out so naturally, her mouth working with the struggle of her conflicting emotions. Then she admitted softly, “I missed you, too.”

“How long are you in town for?” Xander asked after a pause, sounding much more subdued now.

“I’m not sure yet,” she replied, unable to keep the slightly hopeful note from her voice. “I – have some things to take care of, and then I’ll be on my way again. I’m not really sure how long it’ll take.”

“Maybe – if you have a little extra time – we could get together – and talk. Some more,” Xander suggested haltingly, with an awkward shrug.

“Oh yeah, because *this* talk went so well,” Anya snorted in sarcastic derision.

Giving up, Xander headed toward the door.

“But,” she quickly amended, her voice hesitant but hopeful. “Maybe – since we’ve just vented all our pent up hostilities toward each other – it might be easier – next time.”

He half-turned toward her, a cautious smile beginning on his lips as he met those terribly vulnerable, wide green eyes. “Maybe,” he conceded.

She paused, unsure. God, how she had missed him! But her pride and her scarred heart were screaming at her to flee, not to give him the chance to hurt her again. “We’ll see,” she finally said, not committing to anything yet.

She followed him to the door, and he stepped out into the cool night air. Suddenly he turned to face her again, a finger raised as if just remembering something he’d forgotten. “So…what *did* you need to talk to Spike about?”

“Good *night*, Xander,” she said firmly, rolling her eyes as she closed the door before he could press the issue.

As Xander walked away, he was overwhelmed by a very confusing mix of emotions. Judging from Anya’s reactions to him, she had genuinely missed him in the months that she had been gone. And he knew he had missed her, desperately. Deep down he knew that while the dream of Buffy would always be there, there had only been one person who had ever known him and loved him like no one else – Anya.

Maybe, just maybe, they still had a chance.

Yet mingled with his hopeful feelings toward his ex-fiancee was a sick, angry feeling slowly rising up within him, as he recalled the unmistakably guilty, defensive look in her eyes before she had closed the door, when he had asked her about Spike.

She was hiding something, and it involved Spike.

If those two were in any way renewing their little fling of last fall…

The thought made him furious. And with Spike already firmly rooted in Buffy’s affections, there was little he could do about it without permanently jeopardizing his already fragile friendship with Buffy. Still, he was determined to get to the bottom of the situation. If the little bloodsucking creep thought he was going to play either of the women that Xander cared about more than anyone else in the world, he was dead wrong.

Or maybe just dead.

No, that was just wishful thinking on his part, he knew. As long as Buffy foolishly chose to place her affection and misguided trust with Spike, Xander knew he couldn’t touch him, no matter how badly he might want to.

It was so frustrating to him, knowing that Buffy was investing so much of herself in the very one who had hurt her so badly. He remembered the months he had spent watching Buffy hurt over the incident, and his fury grew in intensity.

And now, here he was, instead of Buffy’s most intimate confidante, pushed to the outer edges of her life, *replaced* by the very person he had despised long before he had earned it by invading territory that Xander felt was rightfully his.

He knew deep down that there was only one way to get back into Buffy’s good graces, and that was to at least pretend to go along with her way of thinking about Spike.

The very thought made him feel physically ill.

But if he didn’t, that meant that Spike would be basically free to play whatever sick, twisted little mind game he had planned this time, completely unchecked. Buffy and Dawn were too blinded by their affection for him to see through him; without someone there who could look at the situation objectively, they were at the mercy of the little con artist.

With a sigh, he headed toward the Doublemeat Palace. Willow had told him earlier that Buffy was returning to work today. As she had put it, she could “only get so much mileage out of the ‘family crisis’ story before they figured out she was just a big fat liar – only not that big -- and not fat at all, and only lying just this once -- and for a very good reason!”

He didn’t know what he would have done over the past few days if not for Willow.

Okay, he thought, taking a deep breath as his rambling thoughts were cut short by the sight of the fast food restaurant in front of him. Time to swallow his pride and do some sucking up. Once he was back in good standing with his friend, he would be able to do something to help her, to do something about Spike.


“Welcome to Doublemeat Palace, can I take your order?” Buffy rattled off in a monotone before she looked up at the face of the customer in front of her and realized who it was.

“Oh,” she said, feeling a little uncomfortable – and sad. Since when had she had to feel uncomfortable around Xander? “Hey.”

“Hey, Buffy.” There was a soft hesitant look in those warm brown eyes she knew so well. “Can you – can you take a break? I really need to talk to you.”

“Um…okay,” she replied, nodding with a shaky breath, as she nervously tucked a stray strand of blonde hair back behind her ear. “I’ve got a break in like ten minutes, so if you can hang out…”

He took a seat at a table within her view, and as she took the next few orders, she kept glancing toward him, wondering how things had gotten so bad between them so fast. She knew Xander’s answer would be simple – he would say it was all Spike’s fault.

And therein lay the problem.

Xander’s incredible bias against Spike, his utter inability to see anything good in him, to focus on anything but his failures, was a very big part of why she had kept her “relationship” with Spike a secret in the first place. Spike seemed to be the one issue on which they couldn’t come to agreement, no matter how hard they tried.

With a vague sense of apprehension, she took off her grotesque hat and went to sit at the table with him.

“So what’s up?” she asked with a forced casual tone.

Xander looked down at the table for a moment, then back up into her eyes, earnestly. “I’m sorry, Buffy.”

She took a deep breath, looking away and shaking her head a little. “We’ve done this before, Xander,” she reminded him quietly. “And you’re only sorry if saying it will somehow get me to see things your way. And it won’t.” She met his eyes firmly, and he could see her determination there.

“No, see, that’s just it, Buffy,” he argued, but without any anger, still holding her gaze. “I know I’m not gonna get you to see things my way. And honestly, you’re not gonna get me to see them yours.” He paused for a moment, as she raised her eyebrows skeptically, wondering where he was going with this.

When he didn’t say anything, she finally asked softly, with just a hint of desperation in her voice, “So what are we going to do?”

“Simple, Buffy. Spike’s staying in your house. Your house, your rules. My opinion about Spike shouldn’t matter. I’m your friend, Buffy, no matter what. So I’m gonna respect your decisions.” He paused, letting the surprisingly rational words sink in. “If I don’t agree with you, I’m not gonna make an issue of it, because it’s your business. You know how I feel, so there’s no reason to keep going over it again and again and just getting us both upset.”

She felt a rush of warmth toward her friend, always so loyal and willing to sacrifice whatever it took to keep things right between them. And she did know what a sacrifice even this small concession was for Xander.

“I know what I’m doing, Xander,” she assured him, but her tone was gentle, not defensive or accusing.

“I know. You’ve almost always been right in the past, Buffy, so I’m just gonna have to trust your judgment on this one,” he said simply with a shrug and a smile. His eyes were serious as he went on, “Our friendship is worth too much to me to lose it over a disagreement like this.”

“Me, too,” she agreed, and there was relief in her voice now. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

She glanced at her watch, and stood reluctantly. “I’ve gotta…” Her voice trailed off as she nodded back toward the counter.

Xander stood with her and stepped forward to embrace her, holding her tight for a few moments. “I love you, Buffy,” he whispered.

“I love you, too.”

He pulled back from the hug, smiling at her. “You get off in an hour, right?”

“Right,” she nodded.

“As a show of good faith, how about I go pick up a couple movies?” he suggested. “We’ll hang out at your house tonight. *All* of us. And I promise to get along. Maybe try to make things better. Okay?”

Buffy smiled through her tears, feeling so relieved and happy. “Okay,” she agreed.

“Do you have your keys?” he asked her. “I’ll get the movies and go on over and wait for you.”

She took her house key from her pocket and placed it in his hand. He hugged her again briefly before turning to walk away from her as she returned to the counter.

He smiled secretly to himself as he stepped out into the night, his fingers playing over the set of keys in his pocket. That had not been as hard as he had thought. It was worth swallowing his pride if it would help Buffy in the long run.

With a flame of determination in his eyes, he headed off toward Buffy’s house.

One more conversation, and his work for the evening would be done.

“I want ice cream,” Dawn pouted loudly, closing the freezer door more emphatically than she had to. “Buffy ate the last of the fudge ripple! I am so gonna kick her butt!”

“Well, go get some bloody ice cream then and quit whining about it,” Spike grumbled good-naturedly at her from the couch, as she entered the living room.

Dawn stuck her tongue out at him in feigned annoyance, but she was inwardly very pleased. They had spent the afternoon together, talking easily and watching television, and there had actually been several moments like this one, in which Spike almost seemed like his old self again.

A part of her knew that the moment someone else, someone even minutely more threatening than her utterly un-threatening self entered the room, his demeanor would likely revert back to the fearful, uncertain nature he had developed during his slavery.

But for the moment, it was just the two of them, and they could both pretend that they were back in better times, when their roles were reversed and he was like a protective older brother to her – back when *he* was the one who always made *her* feel safe and protected.

“Bloody ice cream,” Dawn repeated, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Yuck. Bad mental image.”

“Maybe for you,” he retorted, with a smile that was almost a smirk – not quite, though. He paused before saying, “Really, Bit, if you want some ice cream, you can go on down to the corner and get some.” He shrugged. “If you like.”

She hesitated. There was a little convenience store on the corner, just down the street from the house. She could walk there and back in twenty minutes. Still, she was reluctant to leave Spike alone, even for a few minutes.

Obviously, he knew that, and was uncomfortable with it. He didn’t want her to feel tied to this house – tied to him, as if he were an infant or invalid that could not be left alone even for a matter of minutes.

“I’ll be fine, Bit, it’s just a few minutes. Go ahead,” he insisted, trying to cover up his ever-present anxiety at the thought of being alone.

“Well,” she hesitated. “Okay, I guess. Do you want something?”

“No, thanks, Bit,” he shook his head.

Dawn frowned. That was another change she had noticed in her friend since his return. Before, he had always eaten as much regular human food as he had blood, as far as she could tell. She remembered being surprised at first at how much he enjoyed it, although it was of absolutely no value to him nutritionally speaking.

Since the rescue, she had not seen him eat a bite. She wondered if it was just habit; after all, she thought with disgusted anger, certainly Warren would have seen it as just a waste to indulge his slave’s taste for unnecessary human food.

At the very thought of Warren, she could feel her temper rising. Carefully she forced it down, not wanting Spike to notice anything. She had a feeling that in spite of the horrific cruelty he had suffered at Warren’s hands, he would still be against what she was planning to do; and she did not want anything standing in the way of her plan to avenge the terrible wrong that had been done to him.

Making sure he was comfortable on the couch, with the remote control and a cup of blood within easy reach, she set out quickly for the corner store, determined not to leave him any longer than necessary.

She had been gone for a matter of minutes when he felt the familiar panic starting to set in.

His enhanced vampire hearing picked up tiny sounds throughout the house, and every one startled him. His wild imagination began playing tricks on him, inventing sounds where there were none, and inventing sinister explanations for the imaginary sounds. Before ten minutes had passed, he found himself struggling to his feet, feeling too vulnerable sitting on the couch, from which it was so difficult for him to rise.

He moved in his slow, awkward pace toward the window, glancing anxiously down the sidewalk to see if she was on her way back yet. The calm, rational part of his brain reminded him that if there was an actual threat, Dawn would be of little help in dealing with it. It would actually be better if she was *not* there, to get hurt.

But most of his mind was still so consumed with insecurity and fear, and the tormenting thoughts that plagued him in every quiet moment, that he was simply desperate for her to return, and ease the terrifying, painful loneliness.

From where he stood at the window, he heard the front door slowly open, and turned toward it with relief, wondering even as he did how she had made it up the steps to the door without being spotted by his watchful eyes.

But it was not Dawn; it was Xander. He felt an oddly unsettled feeling at the sight of the young man, who spared him only a single derisive, hateful glance as he strode up the stairs, before Spike could let him know that neither Buffy nor Dawn was home.

He wasn’t sure he could have found the nerve to speak, anyway, under the withering glare Xander had sent his way. He felt a sickeningly familiar sensation at that look.

Different dark, bigger-than-him guy who despised him; same vicious expression that told him wordlessly of his own worthlessness and the bearer’s desire to punish him for his very existence.

He desperately wished for Dawn to get back quickly.

Moments later, Xander reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Where is everybody?” he asked, his mild tone not matching the terribly intimidating, unmistakable hatred in his eyes.

Not meeting Xander’s eyes, feeling unreasonably nervous and shaky, Spike replied in a voice barely over a whisper, “B-Buffy’s at work, and Dawn went down the street to the store.” Almost desperately, he added as an afterthought, “Buffy’s due in any minute now…if…if you want to wait…” hoping that the lie would put off any thoughts Xander might have had of taking advantage of the Slayer’s absence to vent his personal issues with him.

He tried to calm himself. After all, this was only Xander. One of the good guys. Buffy’s friend. Xander might not like him, but surely he wouldn’t actually hurt him…would he?

Xander smiled, not at all a reassuring smile, at the obvious ploy. “Actually…” he corrected quietly, his words loaded with hidden meaning, “Buffy’s not gonna be back for another hour or so.” As he spoke he stepped slowly closer to the increasingly frightened vampire, who without even thinking about it took a step backward, cursing himself for the display of weakness.

*You’ve displayed nothing else since you’ve been here, you pathetic ponce,* he reminded himself harshly. *Why should now be any different?*

“Hey, relax,” Xander went on, his voice still soft and even, and Spike wondered why that was always so much more frightening than out-of-control yelling and ranting. “I just wanna talk to you, Spike.”

“Okay,” he whispered miserably, helplessly, still looking at the floor, as the boy neared him, and he took another couple of steps backward. “W-what did you want to talk about?”

“You,” Xander answered immediately. “And just what exactly you think you’re playing at here.” His voice was harder now.

“I’m not,” Spike argued quietly, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to…”

“Please,” Xander scoffed with a soft laugh. “Like you’re ever without some ulterior motive when it comes to Buffy!” The disgusted accusation in his voice made Spike feel ashamed.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” he insisted, his voice low to disguise its trembling, his back to the wall by now. “I wouldn’t…”

“Don’t you dare say that,” Xander snapped coldly, fury and menace in his voice, and Spike flinched, both at the threat in his voice and the harsh reminder of his own guilt. “Don’t play games with me, you sick little freak! I know what you did, so don’t even say you’d never hurt her. We both know you have.”

Overcome with shame, Spike whispered brokenly, “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t undo it or I would. But she…she’s forgiven me, and I’ll never…”

“She’s forgiven you,” Xander repeated in a skeptically mocking voice, his clenched fists at his sides belying his calm voice. “Yeah, I wonder what choice she feels like she has?” His voice softened to a cruel tone as he added, “Kinda hard not to forgive someone this pathetic, don’t you think? Really convenient for you to suddenly be so helpless!”

A flash of anger joined the fear and shame in Spike’s heart at the unreasonable accusation. “You think I wanted this?” he asked in a bitter whisper, meeting Xander’s eyes for just a moment before the intensity of malice in them made him drop his gaze again.

“No. I think you’re using it,” Xander replied coldly. “I think you’re nothing but a user, Spike, and you saw your chance to use this to your advantage to get in good with Buffy again.”

“No,” he shook his head. “No, I didn’t…”

“All you’ve ever wanted to do was be with her, and she made the mistake of pitying you enough to give in. Then when she finally came to her senses, you couldn’t take it…”

Spike tried again, “It wasn’t like that…I…”

“I know what it was *like*, Spike, don’t try and give me your excuses for why you did it…” Xander cut him off again.

Spike knew what he had done was terribly wrong, and the guilt of it consumed him every day. Xander didn’t seem to understand that at all; he wanted to try to explain, although he knew there was no excuse for what he had done, but Xander was determined not to let him get a word in edgewise.

“If you’d just listen…” he said in a voice of quiet desperation.

“No, *I’m* doing the talking right now, you useless little waste of space,” Xander snarled, raising one of his fists between them and opening it, revealing something in his hand. “And I really think *you’d* better listen!”

Overwhelming panic flooded his every thought, in an almost physical terror, as he jerked back instinctively against the wall, and time seemed to stop for a moment as he took in the sight.

Xander held the control device for the chip in his hand.

“No…no,” he whispered, shaking his head, holding his hands up pleadingly in the small space between him and the larger boy. “Please…”

“Just shut up and listen to me,” Xander bit out the words sharply before going on in an even, measured voice. “Buffy’s got a very good heart, and she wouldn’t even be Buffy if she didn’t feel sorry for you because of what happened. But her emotions are involved now…and that makes her vulnerable.”

“If you even *think* about trying to use that to your advantage…to get to her…so help me I will make you pay for it, Spike. Do you understand me?”

Spike nodded, trembling uncontrollably, on the verge of breaking down, fighting it with everything in him, as his old thought patterns came instinctively to the forefront. *Do as he says…don’t make him any angrier…answer immediately…* “Y-yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I understand…please...”

“Good. I mean it, Spike. If you do anything to hurt her or…”

Suddenly, Xander’s words were cut off, and the oppressing nearness of his deliberately intimidating bulk was unexpectedly relieved.

Spike dared to look up just in time to see Dawn’s hand, which had pulled Xander away from him a moment before, dart out in a furious slap across the much larger boy’s face.

Xander took a step back, stunned not by the physical force of the blow itself so much as by the fact that it had been delivered, and by whom, dropping the device onto the floor in his surprise.

“How dare you, you…you *bastard*!” Dawn’s voice was low with rage, as she glared at the young man she had at one time adored, raining several more furious blows on his chest and stomach. “Get away from him!” There was pure menace in her voice, and Spike knew that if she had had a weapon in her hand, Xander would have been dead.

“Dawnie,” Xander began, his voice carefully calm in an attempt to appease her, reaching out his hands for her, to try to stop her furious, if futile, assault. “It’s not what it looks like. I wasn’t going to…”

“Shut up!” she interrupted him, her voice nearly a shriek of uncontrolled fury as she flailed at him with her fists. “Don’t touch me! You – you *monster*! How could you…”

“Dawnie,” he tried desperately.

At just that moment, the front door opened again, and all three of them froze, looking toward the door.

Buffy was home.


She was absolutely stunned upon walking through the front door by the sight that greeted her. No one moved or spoke for a moment as she took in the scene before her.
Xander, only mere remnants of the rage he had displayed minutes before still visible under the defensive demeanor he now held. Dawn, facing him in outraged fury, an accusing, hateful look on her face. Spike, his back to the wall, trembling and very badly shaken, barely daring even to look up at her as she entered.

The control device, lying on the floor a few feet from the tense stand-off between her sister and her friend.

Her eyes widened as terrible understanding slowly came upon her, and she raised her wide, horrified eyes from the device on the floor to the face of the man she had called her friend.

“Xander,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly in hurt disbelief.

“Buffy,” Xander quickly broke in, taking a few hesitant steps toward her. “I know what this looks like, and I promise I wasn’t going to hurt him! I swear! I just wanted to…”

“Get out.”

He stopped, stunned by the low, incredibly dangerous tone in which the words were spoken. The righteous rage he saw slowly building in Buffy’s eyes was an expression he had only seen there before in the moments right before she slew some vile, evil thing.

“Buffy,” he whispered pleadingly. “Buffy, please…”

“I said get out,” she repeated, in a voice of seething fury, barely restrained, forcing the trembling words out slowly, “I don’t even know who you are. You’re not welcome here, Xander.”

His eyes widened, stricken, as the impact of what was happening, what he had *caused* to happen, hit him. He wanted to plead with her, to try to explain, but knew that it would be useless at this point. Slowly, feeling a cold numbness starting to creep over him, he headed for the door without another word.

When he was gone, Buffy looked down at the device on the floor in a sort of shock for a moment, still not believing what had happened.

Then, suddenly, she went into action, going quickly to Spike and putting her arms around him without hesitation, pulling him close to her in a tight, protective embrace, one hand around his waist and the other cradling his head.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God, Baby, are you all right?”

He nodded, breaking down now in the safety of her arms, clinging to her with his own, giving way to desperate, gasping sobs. “H-he…he didn’t,” he began, trying to reassure her, though he was still nearly out of his mind with fear himself. She could feel his body trembling violently against hers, could feel the weakness overwhelming him from the terror and intense emotion of the incident, moments before his legs gave out under him.

Carefully, she went down to the floor with him, holding him in her arms, sobbing with him. “Oh, Baby, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry he did that to you!” she whispered. After a few moments, she remembered her sister, wondered how she was handling all of this, and looked up in concern.

Dawn stood still, staring in fury at the door where Xander had disappeared.

Gently Buffy took her hand, drawing her attention to where she was most truly needed at the moment. Dawn slowly drew near to them, going to her knees beside Spike on the side opposite Buffy, wrapping her arms around him, so that he was surrounded by the warm safety of their embrace.

When she felt the tremors begin to fade away, Buffy gently pulled back a little, searching his eyes anxiously, as she ran a gentle hand across his cheek, wiping away his tears.

“Buffy,” he whispered, relief and pain mingled in his voice as he met her eyes. “I thought…I thought he was going to…” He couldn’t finish, his breath stolen by the painful memories assailing him, brought back afresh by Xander’s thoughtlessly cruel actions.

“I know,” she whispered, “it’s ok…he’s gone. And he’s not coming back.”

Dawn glared down at the hated controller, on the floor a few feet from them. “The stupid chip,” she muttered. “I wish…” She stopped suddenly, shaking her head a little, and Buffy glanced at her, puzzled.

“What? What do you wish?”

“I don’t wish anything,” Dawn said firmly. “It’s just if it wasn’t for…” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head, staring at the device on the floor.

Cautiously, slowly, Buffy reached over and picked it up in her hand, looking at it solemnly. “I shouldn’t have kept it,” she said softly.

“You didn’t have a choice,” Dawn pointed out, frowning. “You’ve got to keep it. Otherwise someone might….” Again she stopped, realizing that what she was about to say could happen had indeed happened, that night.

Buffy shook her head. “No. I don’t have any business keeping it,” she said decisively. Her eyes rose from the device in her hand to Spike’s wide, startlingly blue eyes, raised in uncertainty to meet hers.

Holding his gaze, reaching with her other hand to take his and hold it out, she said softly but surely, “No one has any right to have this but you, Spike. No one but you should ever have that much control over your life,” and she placed the item in his hand, closing it carefully around it.

He stared down at it for a moment, stunned and uncomprehending. The very concept of the thing being in *his* possession, under his control, had never occurred to him. He had simply become so accustomed to having someone else dominating him, controlling him, that he had never thought of anyone but Buffy keeping the device, once he had come back here.

His eyes rose back to hers, full of so much powerful emotion that it took her breath away. *God, he’s beautiful!* she thought, her heartbeat quickening.

And in that moment, some small, indefinable something changed, as Buffy relinquished the life or death power she had unconsciously held over him, always preventing him from seeing himself as her equal. Dawn sensed it, and quietly rose, excusing herself to her room, leaving them in the moment that had suddenly became intensely intimate.

As his eyes held hers, for once without a thought of backing down, she read the many feelings there that he held for her. Intense gratitude for the incredible power she had just placed in his hands, relief and joy that she had even found him to begin with – and so much more than that.

“Buffy,” he whispered, and she knew what he was going to say before he went on. “I – I lo...” His voice faltered, hesitating over the words he had not dared to say since he had been back, though he had felt them every moment.

He had no right to say them, he was sure. Not after…

“I love you,” she whispered suddenly, earnestly, her hands on either side of his face drawing him closer to her, her lips inches from his, telling him more with the look in her eyes than with the words he had longed to hear for so long.

He shook his head, the greater part of him that still felt worthless and ashamed unwilling to accept it as truth, but her firm but gentle hands stopped him, as she went on, speaking the words that she knew to be true, “I always did. You were right, Spike. I loved you before. I was just too afraid to admit it. But I love you. I really love you, Spike. So much.”

“B-buffy,” he gasped out, in a tearful whisper, his hands cluching at her waist, leaning his head on her shoulder, unable to face her and speak the words at the same time. “Oh, I love you so much, Buffy!”

Her lips fell tenderly on his face again and again, in feather-light, gentle kisses, speaking of the love she had just admitted, and after a moment, reassured by her gently insistent affection, he tentatively raised his head to meet her kiss.

And for the first time, if only for a few moments, he really believed that he was going to be all right.

Dawn left her sister and her lover to their moment, striding purposefully toward the privacy of her bedroom, trying half-heartedly – and unsuccessfully – to control her raging temper. Losing it right now would not be good for anyone concerned; she had to focus on her plan. Spike was unhurt, just badly scared; she just needed to get past her fury over what Xander had done, before she made a foolish wish that could jeopardize her more important vengeance on Warren.

Screw that, she thought. Xander needed to pay.

When she threw open the door to her bedroom angrily, she jumped back with a little cry of surprise at the sight of Anya, sitting on her bed, looking up at her expectantly.

“Oh my God, Anya, you scared me!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“You called,” Anya shrugged. “You tell me. What happened?”

Seething, so furious that she was almost growling, Dawn asked, “Is there any kind of limitation on this vengeance stuff? Could I wish vengeance for Spike on *two* people?”

Anya raised her eyebrows speculatively, thinking about it for a moment before replying, “No reason why not, if both people have wronged him. There’s no limit, really. You wish it and its done. Why do you ask?”

“Xander,” Dawn spat out the name in disgust. “I came home to find him -- *terrorizing* Spike with the chip controller thing! After everything he’s been through, and he’s barely hanging on as it is, and Xander *knows* how hard this has been on him! I can’t believe he would do that to him!” Dawn sat down hard on the bed beside Anya, nearly in tears she was so upset.

Anya looked stunned herself. “*Xander* did that?” she asked in disbelief.

“Insensitive creep,” Dawn muttered, affirming it with a nod.

“I wouldn’t have thought Xander would do something like that. I mean…he’s always hated Spike, but…” Anya’s voice trailed off, and she shook her head. If Dawn had been looking at her, she would have noticed the stricken, almost hurt look on Anya’s face.

“Well, neither did I,” she countered. “but I guess we were both wrong. Xander may seem like Mr. Nice Guy, but that was just…just low and dirty and *wrong*!”

Anya did not respond. Her expression, which Dawn was utterly unaware of, was deeply troubled.

“I just don’t understand why he can’t show a little compassion for Spike,” Dawn went on, her voice still angry, but softer now, and a little sad. “I mean, he’s been through hell. But all Xander sees is the times he’s messed up. He thinks it’s all gotta be Spike’s fault, somehow.”

“I just wish that Xander could understand what Spike is feeling right now!”

The words had barely left Dawn’s lips when she realized exactly what she had said, and to whom. Her eyes widened, and before she could even turn around to face Anya, she heard a soft whisper, barely audible.

“Done.”

When she whirled around to face her – the vengeance demon was gone.


The kiss they had started seemed to take on a life of its own, continuing for several minutes, until Buffy had to pull back to take a breath. She smiled tenderly into his eyes as she whispered, “Maybe we’d better get up off the floor.”

Carefully she helped him to his feet, and still in each other’s arms, unwilling to relinquish even for a moment the bond they had just found, they made their way to the couch. Buffy sat down, pulling him down into her arms, and they stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other and talking quietly.

There were so many things she had never told him, that she knew she should have long ago. Generous acts of love he had bestowed on her which she had never thanked him for, never even acknowledged; moments in which some courageous or self-sacrificing act had moved her heart to praise for him, but it hadn’t found her lips, for fear of what others – or he – might think of her if it did.

All the many intimate moments they had shared that past fall, which she had allowed him – no, forced him – to believe meant nothing to her…while in truth each one had secured his place in heart just a little more firmly.

Now, finally, she found herself truly opening up to him. She told him how much his love meant to her, how much *he* meant to her, and had for so long now. He sat there, mostly in silence, a part of him afraid to believe, another part of him drinking it in with a desperate thirst, the words he had dreamed of, longed for, for so long.

Indeed, it *did* seem like a happy dream to him; surely at any moment he would wake up to find himself back in the grim reality of his existence. Though it felt like a world away and a lifetime ago, it had really only been a few days since he had been liberated from slavery, and the drastic change still had him in a sort of state of shock.

“What is it, Baby?” she asked him after a brief silence. “What’s wrong?” She felt a little foolish asking such a question, which had so many obvious answers. But she sensed that something specific was troubling him.

“I just keep thinking,” he said softly, snuggling back closer against her, as if in a subconscious effort both to hold her there, and to reassure himself that she was really there, “that this can’t all be real. It’s just a dream.”

She laughed softly, but it was a warm sound, not mocking, as she turned his face to meet her affectionate smile. “It’s real,” she assured him in a whisper, emphasizing her point with a slow, gentle kiss on his lips. She pulled away and went on, “You’re really here… with me, finally. And you’re safe. And I love you.”

Every single thing he had needed to hear. God, how he loved her!

He wanted to tell her, but the words didn’t seem to come as easily as they once had, not because he felt them any less strongly, but because he had no longer felt that he had a right to such feelings.

Until tonight.

Until he received the blessed revelation that those feelings were returned.

Tentatively, his eyes locked on hers, he leaned toward her to kiss her, and she moved to meet him halfway. Hesitantly, his tongue slipped past the yielding non-barrier of her parted lips.

She welcomed his kiss with a thrill of delight. Oh, he was still unsure and hesitant, but the fact that he had initiated the kiss at all showed her that progress was being made, and slowly but surely he was regaining his confidence, finding his way back to himself.

And if she had to help him along the path a little here and there, she thought with a smile, well, that was a challenge she was definitely up to accepting.

Her soft little moan of pleased approval at the welcome gentle invasion of her mouth was encouraging to him, and he dared to deepen the kiss, turning and slipping his arms around her in a light, barely there touch, then pulling back just slightly, as if he hardly dared to touch her.

Her hands caught his, as she continued to return his kiss, and pulled them gently back around her, placing them firmly on her body before releasing them to their own devices and returning his embrace. Her powerful arms wrapped around him with caution, remembering his injuries. Slowly, she slid her body down the couch under him, without even really realizing what she was doing, pulling him down so that he was lying on top of her.

He drew back a little in surprise and alarm, his eyes wide and questioning.

She slowly nodded her assent, a promise in her shining eyes and sultry smile.

“But – Dawnie,” he protested in a whisper. “If she…”

“She’s a very smart girl,” Buffy murmured, smiling up at him as she nodded emphatically. “Why do you think she went upstairs?”

He glanced anxiously toward the stairs, but she put her hand behind his head and gently but insistently pulled him down into another kiss. For a moment, he was tense against her, still a little uneasy, but then she felt him relax into the kiss, returning it with ever-deepening fervency.

*She’s so perfect!” he thought, worshipful. *Beautiful…amazing…incredible...better than I deserve…too good for me…don’t deserve her…* Even as he kissed her, held her, unable to believe the incredible good fortune that had finally befallen him, his thoughts began to take a darker turn.

*Couldn’t ever deserve her…dirty, disgusting, evil thing…not worthy…* Unbidden, a cruel mental image, a memory of a devastating violation, flew into his mind, as the harsh voice continued, *Dirty…used… damaged…* He felt a sudden sick feeling come over him with the undeniable certainty that he could never again be worthy of her…not after what he had done…what had been done to him.

She felt the difference in his touch, felt his body tense up against her, felt him draw back from the kiss, even as she instinctively tried to draw him closer. He pulled back, turning his head away a little.

“Baby,” she murmured, her arms around him pressing him closer, her concerned eyes seeking his, “what is it? What is it, Sweetheart?”

He didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want her to see it in his eyes, so when she turned his face with her hand, he lowered his head onto her shoulder, gasping to hold back the sobs.

“What, Baby? What?” she urged him gently, her hand at the back of his neck gently running through his hair. “What’s the matter?”

He couldn’t find the words for a long time, and finally settled on a statement that was not too telling. “I don’t deserve you, love,” he whispered, his voice low and heavy. “How can you even stand to touch me? I’m not…I’m not…” His words broke off, but not before she heard the pain, the lost sound in the words. Then, when he reluctantly raised his eyes to meet hers, the intensity of those emotions that she saw there nearly took her breath.

Misunderstanding, thinking she knew what he was talking about, she felt a wave of pain wash over her, heartbroken that despite her genuine forgiveness, he still could not forgive himself.

“Spike…Baby,” she murmured, leaning down to place a tender kiss on his cheek, holding his gaze. “I forgave you already. It’s in the past. Don’t even think about it, Sweetheart.”

And then, his expression changed, and time seemed to freeze for Buffy, the single moment dragging on in what felt like hours of painful revelation, as so many different emotions played across his impossibly expressive eyes.

First surprise, confusion, that told her that she had somehow missed the mark, misunderstood the source of his distress. Then, understanding, as he realized her mistake. Followed by an unmistakable look of deep, agonizing shame, as he remembered that she had no idea of the true cause of that shame. And finally, panic at the thought that perhaps he had given it away, desperately hoping that his reaction had not let her figure out his secret.

But she had. *Oh, God…oh, no…no…* An overwhelming pain and sorrow for what that single, multi-faceted expression told her froze her where she was. She couldn’t breathe; she felt her heart skip a beat; it was almost as if it had been done to her, the intensity of feeling she had for this broken man that she loved, as she realized the extent of the abuse that had been unleashed upon him.

All this happened in the briefest instant of time, though it felt like an eternity to both of them. And in the next instant, though she could feel the blind, reckless rage rising up in her for his abuser, she knew exactly what she had to do in this moment.

Fighting it back with all her strength, she looked into his panicked eyes, painfully vulnerable with the exposure of his secret, and brought a tender, reassuring smile to her lips. There would be plenty of time later to find a way to punish the one who had violated him so cruelly.

Right now, the man she loved needed her to focus on him.

“I love you,” she whispered slowly, emphatically, kissing him again, slowly and thoroughly. “I will always love you. No matter what.” Still holding his gaze, she shook her head a little and said softly, “Nothing that’s happened matters to me, Spike. Not that way. We can’t change anything that’s happened. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you, and it never will. I love you,” she repeated finally, and when she saw the tears welling in his eyes, she pulled his head down on her shoulder again.

“Buffy…oh God, Buffy…” he gasped. “I didn’t…I…couldn’t stop him…he…” He gave up, unable to find words for the agony of the memory, for the devastation it had left of his heart.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she murmured in his ear, pulling him closer, running her hand slowly up and down his back in a comforting motion. “There was nothing you could have done, Baby. It’s all right. It’s okay.”

And for a long while, she just held him in her arms while he poured out the pain, the shameful burden of the secret kept for so long. And to his surprise, he found that a measure of freedom came in revealing that secret to someone who loved him in spite of it, who would not use it against him.

Physically, he was free from the place where he had been held in bondage. The control device that had enslaved him was now under his power. The last remaining stronghold of Warren’s power over his life was the shame of the secret he had forced upon him, forced him to keep.

And now, that was broken as well.

Buffy held him, as his sobs began to diminish, whispering comfortingly to him, reassuring him that she loved him, that he was not to blame for the things that had been done to him, that he was brave and worthy and beautiful to her, and nothing that had been revealed to her tonight, nothing *ever*, would change the way she felt about him. And as she spoke, quietly and clearly, he felt the burden slowly lifting from his shoulders, and for the first time in months, longer possibly, he felt a sense of peace envelope him.

His ordeal was over. He was safe. And he was loved.


Xander sighed wearily, heavily, as he turned the key in the door to his darkened apartment. He honestly could not think of a way in which this evening could have gone any worse.

He really had had no intention of actually hurting Spike. He just wanted to give him a good scare, remind him that while Buffy and Dawn might be blind to his deceptions, someone was on to him, and was not going to let him get away with it. He had planned to be finished with his little shake-down by the time anyone else got home.

And then Dawn had showed up sooner than he had expected.

And Buffy had come home early.

He felt a chill of painful fear at the thought of Buffy’s face. He could not believe the rage, the near-hatred he had seen in her eyes when she had looked at him, those cold green eyes accusing him of what the evidence before her had revealed. And though he tried to tell himself that she would cool down, he would be able to apologize and make things right between them, in his heart he knew the devastating truth.

He had destroyed their friendship. Beyond repair.

With a heavy heart, he opened the door and entered his darkened living room, intent on getting to his refrigerator and the six pack he had bought the other night, his only hope of making it through the long night of brooding that lay ahead of him.

He turned on the light just inside the doorway…and jumped and screamed like a little girl.

In front of his ex-fiancee who now despised him.

And he had thought the night could not get any worse.

“Anya. What are you doing here?” he sighed, going to the refrigerator. No reason why her presence should change his plans. His life still sucked. Suddenly he frowned, confused. “How did you get in here?”

“Teleported,” she admitted matter-of-factly. When his eyes widened with surprise and the beginnings of an accusation, she rolled her eyes and sighed, “Yes, I’m a vengeance demon again, Xander.” She looked at him for a moment, her expression defying him to say anything about it.

A different tone in his voice now, sounding slightly alarmed, he asked her again, “What are you doing here?”

“I *am* here on business,” she admitted, with a little shrug, then quickly spoke to reassure him when he stepped back away from her in alarm. “But don’t worry, Xander. We have too much history, and in spite of the fact that you betrayed me and devastated me and shattered my heart and my self-esteem into a million pieces when you left me at the altar…I somehow can’t bring myself to eviscerate you.”

She sounded disappointed in herself. Rolling her eyes again with a frustrated sigh when he seemed no less terrified, she said, “I’m not even going to hurt you, Xander. That’s not what this is about. The wish…”

“Whose wish? Spike? Are you doing this for Spike?” he demanded, his voice full of fear.

“No. Not Spike. He doesn’t even have the self-esteem or confidence left to wish vengeance on *Warren*, let alone you, Xander.” She paused, before reassuring him again, “Don’t worry, Xander. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Then why *are* you here?” he asked after a pause, sounding considerably calmer when he realized that she meant it.

“I want to show you something.”

“Okay,” Dawn said slowly aloud to no one but herself, glancing cautiously around her bedroom. “I am officially freaked out. Anya? Anya, are you still here?”

There was no response, no movement, nothing to indicate that she was anything but alone in the room.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, sitting down on the side of the bed. What had she done?

It was not like she didn’t think that Xander deserved whatever happened to him…because she really felt that he did. She still felt furious when she thought of the way she had found him threatening Spike, how terrified her friend had been of Xander, how sick it had made her to see the person she had once idolized, looked up to, and at one point crushed on majorly, acting like nothing more than a cruel bully to the person who…well, the person who currently held those same positions in her life.

No, she certainly felt that Xander had it coming…whatever “it” was. She just knew from personal experience that vengeance wishes could be very dangerous things, and it was no easy matter to undo them if necessary. That was why even in the vengeance she planned to exact upon Warren, Anya’s part was as small as possible. Dawn was only going to wish into existence the parts of her plan that she couldn’t possibly carry out herself.

She tried to remember the exact words of her wish, so she could try to figure out what the possible consequences might be.

She had wished…for Xander to understand what Spike was feeling. Her eyes widened as she considered the possibilities. Would Anya make Xander go through the same things Spike had been through? As angry as she was at Xander, that thought *did* make her feel a little sick, knowing what she did about the details of Spike’s ordeal.

After all, Xander had been like a big brother to her for most of her life, and no matter how angry she was with him, she didn’t like to think of anyone she cared about having to go through that, ever again.

And would this vengeance wish have any effect when it came to the other vengeance wish? The important one, the one she was preparing for? She hoped that Anya’s fulfillment of vengeance on Xander would not involve anything that would effect her ability to carry out her vengeance wish on Warren. If it did, and it couldn’t be undone…

Oh, it was just such a mess and so confusing! Why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut until Anya had left?

But it was too late now. Anya was probably carrying out the wish as she spoke. She would just have to wait and see what happened…and hope the consequences for her hasty words were not too great.


When Anya stretched out her hand toward Xander, moving forward to touch him, the sense of security he had felt at her assurance not to hurt him fled in an instant.

“What are you doing?” he demanded anxiously, backing away with his hands in front of him. A tiny part of his mind, the part that had begun to feel a little twinge of guilt the moment he had left Buffy’s house – the part he had tried hard to make shut up – reminded him of the irony, as only a matter of an hour or so ago, he had had Spike reacting in much the same way to him as he was now reacting to Anya.

“Would you relax, Xander?” she snapped irritably. “I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? You know, there are a lot more painful, permanent ways I could have chosen to fulfill this particular wish, but I said I’m not gonna hurt you, and I’m not,” she assured him, and he stopped moving as she approached him. She shrugged slightly and amended, “Not really, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked with a slight tremble in his voice, backing away again. But the couch was directly behind him now, and he stumbled backward, falling down onto it. As Anya drew nearer to him, and he realized he had nowhere to go, he felt panic closing in. Helpless. He was helpless to stop whatever she was going to do to him.

“The wish was for you to understand what Spike is feeling,” Anya explained softly, her green eyes full of compassion, and Xander wasn’t sure if the emotion was for him, or for Spike, or both. “And I’m going to show you.”

His eyes widened in a partial understanding, as an idea of what she might have in mind began to form in his head, but before he could move away, she reached out her hand and touched his head. Suddenly the world was spinning around him, the couch, the apartment, everything familiar and normal flying away into a whirling vortex of color and light.

He was light-headed and dizzy, and felt the darkness surrounding him, as if he was about to pass out. And then, he thought he did. He felt nothing, knew nothing, for a brief time – he wasn’t sure exactly how long.

Slowly, he began to return to consciousness. He felt cold, hard concrete beneath his back, and opened his eyes. His dimly lit surroundings were completely unfamiliar to him, as he carefully rose to his feet, trying to get his bearings. As his eyes began to focus again, he recognized it as the lower level of Spike’s crypt – his bedroom. He had been here only once before, when Buffy had been invisible and he had gone to see if Spike had seen her and…

Ugh. That was not a memory he wanted to relive, now that he understood what had really gone on that day.

“How do you feel?” Anya’s voice very near behind him and to his right startled him, and he jumped, whirling around to face her.

“C-can’t you wear a bell or something?” he snapped in an irritation born of fear. “Do you have to always go sneaking up on people like that?”

“Are you sick? Dizzy?” she asked, ignoring his jibes, seeming genuinely concerned about his well-being. “Cause you know, jumping around in time and space can make you feel a little nauseous.”

He paused, taking in the surprising fact of her concern for a moment before replying grudgingly, “A little on the dizzy side. It’s passing, though. So what is this? Why are we here?”

“So you can see things through Spike’s eyes,” she answered quietly. “And see where you’ve gone wrong in judging him so harshly.”

“I’m not wrong,” he insisted. “Anya, if you knew what he did to Buffy…”

“I don’t need you to tell me,” she interrupted him, her voice low and serious. “I heard her cries for vengeance, too. Back when it happened.”

“What?” Xander was stunned. He could not understand how Anya could know what Spike had done, and still help him…still take his side in this. After a moment, he asked, “So, why isn’t Spike turned into something even *more* disgusting, or missing his most important parts, or some equally horrible and grotesque punishment?”

“Because she didn’t really want it. Vengeance. It wasn’t really…*about* him needing to be punished for what he did.”

“How can you say that?” Xander demanded, furious. “Of course he deserved to be punished!”

“Xander,” she said in a tired voice, shaking her head sadly. “By that point they’d both hurt each other so much and in so many different ways that it was pretty hard to say who was ahead at that point. I don’t think anyone – including them – was keeping score anymore.”

Xander was still unconvinced, but was unsure what to say to that. He looked down toward his feet…and his eyes widened in surprise as he took in his clothing. Black boots, jeans, t-shirt…and a very distinctive, unmistakable long black leather coat.

Spike’s clothes.

“Um…Anya…” he began questioningly, with a slow downward gesture toward the outfit, an odd feeling of dread starting in the pit of his stomach.

“Think of this as a dramatic recreation of the past,” she explained expressionlessly. “And you’ve been cast in the role of Spike. Only…it’s not going to feel like a recreation, Xander. It’s going to feel very real to you. It’s going to *be* real to you. And it’s not going to be easy.”

“Oh, yeah,” he scoffed. “It’s going to be terrible, I know. It must be really hard being a vicious killer and rapist with absolutely no sense of morality.”

Anya said nothing. Soon enough, she knew, she wouldn’t have to, and her words weren’t having the effect that what Xander was about to experience would, anyway.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize something, and turned to her, frowning, “So…not that I’m complaining, cause I mean, I understand that the whole ‘Warren’s slave’ deal was no picnic…but if this whole deal is so I can feel Spike’s pain or whatever…why are we *here*, and not in Warren’s house?”

“Spike’s pain didn’t start at Warren’s house,” she answered immediately, and he actually felt an odd chill at the quiet certainty in her voice.

“So…is this gonna take a while, cause I had a full night of moping over my total loss of *everything* planned,” Xander asked, trying to cover his growing apprehension with a weak joke – as usual.

Before she could answer, they heard a loud crashing noise from upstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps across the floor toward the ladder to the lower level.

“Who?” Xander asked, but Anya cut him off, staring at the ladder with a somber look on her face.

“You might not want to talk to me while other people are around. You can see and hear me…but no one else can.”

When she did not seem inclined to answer his question, he did not say another word, just glanced back toward the ladder…where Buffy had just appeared, a slow, seductive smile forming on her perfect lips, as she approached him with the measured graced of a predator.

*Oh, yeah,* he thought sarcastically, as the realization began to hit him of just what was about to happen. *This is gonna be really hard!* And that was the last thought he had before the Slayer grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and slammed him forcefully down onto the bed.


“Ok, Buffy, everything’s ready,” Tara’s soft voice announced in a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation, as she walked from the living room into the kitchen, where Buffy and Spike were waiting for her to get everything ready to perform the healing spell.

“Ok,” Buffy said brightly, smiling her encouragement at Spike. “We’re ready.” She was very much aware that he was not comfortable with the whole affair, and was doing everything in her power to keep him from backing out of it.

“Right, then,” Spike said, drawing a deep, shaky breath. “Ready.” He was obviously trying not to look as nervous as he felt as he followed Tara toward the living room.

He had always been very uneasy about the use of magic, and was not terribly thrilled with the idea of being the focus of a spell, even if it was a simple healing spell, and even if it was the gentle, very non-threatening Tara that was performing it. Magic always had consequences, he had told the others, after they had brought Buffy back, and hadn’t that proven to be terribly true?

Buffy followed behind him toward the living room, but was stopped short when he suddenly came to a halt and whirled around directly in front of her, anxious blue eyes pleading with her.

“Buffy…*I’m* not ready,” he admitted apologetically. He paused before going on, “I don’t want to do this, love.” He sounded so miserable that she just couldn’t continue to push him, no matter how badly she wanted him to go through with it, no matter that it was for his own good.

“Well…then let’s not do it,” she replied, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. It was his call, after all. But she failed miserably in the attempt.

He sighed, knowing he had lost this argument already when he saw the hurt look in her eyes, those deep green eyes that had such a mesmerizing effect on him. “No – no, I – I *need* to do it,” he conceded reluctantly. “You’re right, pet. It has to be done.”

Buffy immediately felt guilty, knowing he was only giving in and agreeing to it for her sake. “Really, Spike,” she assured him, meeting his eyes firmly. “If you don’t want to do this – you don’t have to. Do you *want* to do this, Spike?”

The choice itself meant so much to him. He felt a sense of warmth and security flowing through him at the realization that if he asked her to, she really would tell Tara to go home and forget the whole thing.

*She really loves me,* the thought came to him as a new revelation, as the fact he had really already known hit him again. It was as if his subconscious kept reminding him, just in case he should forget, or think it was all in his head.

“What do *you* want, Spike?” Buffy urged him gently, holding his gaze, and he was drawn from his reverie.

*You…to love you…to please you…to make you happy…* “I…I want to be able to walk -- *really* walk -- again, Buffy,” he said softly.

She nodded slowly. “Okay, then. Let’s do this. You’re perfectly safe. I’m gonna be right there the whole time, and Tara’s done this a million times before. Right, Tara?” She smiled expectantly at the witch, who was giving her an odd look.

“Well…sure,” she said hesitantly. “Lots of times. Only…well, only on humans,” she admitted. “But the general idea is the same. It should work exactly the same.”

“*Should*?” Spike echoed dubiously, glancing uncertainly back at Buffy.

“Spike, this magic is perfectly harmless,” Tara assured him, stepping forward, her voice soft and even as she met his eyes earnestly. “There’s nothing dangerous in this spell. The worst case scenario is that it won’t work at all. Okay?”

He found the reassurance he sought in the honesty of her expression. “Okay,” he agreed with a sigh. “I’m putting a lot of faith in you here, Tara.”

She smiled reassuringly and said in a warm voice, “I won’t let you down.”

He really tried hard to relax and not be afraid, but as Buffy and Tara helped him to lie down on the living room floor in the center of the circle of herbs Tara had made there, Buffy could feel the tension in his body, feel his arm trembling slightly under her hands.

Apparently, Tara could sense it as well, because as soon as he was lying down, she said softly, “I’m going to do a little pre-spell spell, to help you relax, okay? It’s kind of like a…a magical sedative…okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded his consent, and Buffy realized that he must be pretty freaked out to accept the use of a “magical sedative”. Even she thought that sounded a little suspicious.

Tara dipped her fingers in a paste she had made of some crushed herbs and water and touched her fingertips to his forehead, then to his chest, right over his still heart, murmuring in Latin as she did.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so nervous or shaky. A warm, hazy sort of feeling began at his chest and radiated out, a soothing, comforting heat. He was no longer really aware of his surroundings, which slowly dimmed around him. A sense of tranquil well-being, like drifting away, came over him, and his fears slowly faded away.

And then he sensed nothing at all, as a comforting warm darkness enveloped him, and all he felt was peace.

He didn’t know how it had happened. One moment everything had seemed fine – more than fine, really. Buffy was in his arms, she wanted him, she was responding to his touch, his body. It was all he had ever dreamed of, and it was coming true. How could this possibly be designed to show him Spike’s *pain*?

*If this is pain, bring it on,* he thought blissfully.

He had had a moment’s pause at the start, remembering that, as sickening as the very thought was to him, Buffy was only doing this because she thought that he was Spike. Didn’t that make all of this terribly wrong? Wasn’t he taking advantage of her in a way? But he reminded himself that this was all in his head anyway – a “recreation”, Anya had said; and the guilt had faded away in his desire to experience the fulfillment of his nearly life-long dream of being with Buffy.

Suddenly another disturbing thought occurred to him. Anya! He glanced over Buffy’s shoulder around the room for the vengeance demon, but she was nowhere in sight. No, he would not have imagined that it would have been any more comfortable for her to see this than for him to have her see it. She must have left.

He had tried to put all the disturbing implications out of his mind and focus on Buffy – and it had not been difficult. It had felt like a perfect dream, brought to reality.

Right up until the end, when he had softly declared his feelings for her – feelings that he realized suddenly had never been this intense before. Where before there had always been a worshipful adoration for this girl who was like no one else he had ever know, now, there was an intensely powerful love and devotion.

Not that he had not always truly loved Buffy – he really had. But everything felt stronger, more intense. He realized with a shock – what he was feeling was *Spike’s* feelings for Buffy, not his own.

It was as if there were two of him, in his body – the part of him that was experiencing and feeling what Spike had experienced and felt, and the part of him that was watching it take place – but the two were so closely intermingled that it was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended. All the emotions and experiences melted into his own, though he knew in a part of him that they were not truly all his.

“I love you,” he had whispered tenderly, and then was surprised by the sick sense of fear that came over him. Not so much a fear for his physical safety, as an uncertainty and insecurity, an emotional bracing for some expected verbal blow.

The thought sprang to his mind, *Now you’ve done it, idiot. Here she goes.*

And that was when Buffy had frozen against him, glaring down at him in fury, and the odd sense of fear intensified. Why should he be afraid? he wondered. This was *Buffy*.

“I told you not to say that to me,” she had snapped coldly, pulling out of his arms abruptly and getting up off the bed, looking around for her pants, then pulling them quickly on, her tightly drawn lips, her every sharp motion speaking up her barely controlled fury.

“But – but Buffy,” he stammered, getting up to follow her, terribly hurt and confused. Xander couldn’t understand what was happening; he had thought for sure that she was feeling the same thing he was. After all, how could she do all those things with him, and then leave in a fury when he committed the “offense” of daring to tell her that he loved her?

As she pulled her shirt down over her head and started toward the ladder, he caught her arm, gently trying to turn her around. “Buffy – please talk to me,” he began, a desperate pleading note in his voice.

Without warning, without hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she turned on him and backhanded him hard, knocking him backwards to the ground. “Don’t touch me!” she hissed in revulsion, giving him a derisive up-and-down look. “You disgust me,” she snarled, before heading up the ladder without another word or a backward glance.

When the Slayer had disappeared completely from view, he pulled himself up off the floor and dropped down on the edge of the bed, hard, staring at the wall in shock. What had just happened here?

The pain in his bruised jaw was nothing compared to the devastating hurt, the confusion of her rejection, after the time they had just spent. It had meant so much to him, been so much more than simply physical attraction…but Buffy…

He felt a lump forming in his throat, felt the tears spring to his eyes.

“Hurts to be used, doesn’t it?” Anya’s soft voice spoke from the foot of the bed.

This time she didn’t startle him. As the tears slipped down his cheeks, he turned his head to look at her. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why did she do that? How could she just…just act like it meant nothing to her…? I *love* her!”

Anya flinched, though she knew that he was speaking of Spike’s feelings, not truly his own. This whole thing was going to be difficult and painful for Xander, but it was not going to be easy on her either. She had known that from the start. Seeing Xander desperately longing for someone else, not to mention the pain she knew he was yet to experience, was going to be terribly painful for her.

But when it was over, hopefully, Xander would understand.

“That’s why it hurt him so bad, Xander,” she explained softly. “He really did love her. *Does* love her, in spite of everything. And this didn’t happen just one time. It happened over and over. The whole time they were together. From the very start.”

“But…she *has* to love me…doesn’t she? I mean, if she keeps coming back…if she wants me that bad…” Xander had never felt such desperation, such heartache, and again he knew that this was exactly how Spike had felt.

Anya just looked at him sadly, and did not reply.

Xander was still processing the painful emotions of the scene he had just experienced, when she stepped slowly toward him, her hand outstretched. He looked up at her, wide-eyed, and a little frightened.

“There’s more?” he whispered. This little incident alone had been more than he had expected.

She nodded slowly, her green eyes serious when they met his, as she spoke in a voice just above a whisper, “We’ve only just begun.”


The first thing Spike was aware of upon coming back to consciousness was a small, soft, warm hand holding his, and another gently brushing his hair back from his forehead. He tried to open his eyes, but the light seemed terribly bright after many hours of sleep, and he shut them tight again.

“B-buffy?” he said groggily, trying again to open his eyes, able only to make out a dim, hazy shape seated at his side, as his eyes started to slowly adjust to the light.

“No, it’s me,” Dawn’s voice spoke, as her features slowly came into focus. She was smiling down at him from where she sat in the chair beside the bed. “Buffy went downstairs to get some coffee.” She paused, before she added, “It’s the first time she’s left this room since you guys did the spell.” Her little smile was sort of sad, ironic. “She wanted to be here when you woke up.”

“How long have I been out, Bit?” he asked her, his voice hoarse with sleep, as he raised his head a little and smiled up at her through tired, heavy-lidded eyes. He glanced around at his surroundings, feeling a bit disoriented.

He was in Willow’s room; the tightly drawn curtains showed tiny glimpses of daylight through the small cracks between them. The light that had seemed so impossibly bright upon waking from his long sleep was in reality just a small bedside lamp, not really very bright at all.

“Quite a while…all afternoon yesterday, and all night…it’s morning,” she replied, considering her answer for a moment before speaking.

He laid his head back against the pillow again, feeling utterly exhausted despite the extended rest he had seemingly gotten. This must have been what Tara had meant about the draining effect of the spell; he felt like he could sleep for a week longer without waking. Every movment seemed to take an extreme effort.

Suddenly in a flash of mingled fear and expectancy, the very purpose of the spell came back to his memory. Had it worked? he wondered nervously.

He raised his head again, anxious, hopeful eyes meeting Dawn’s in an unspoken question.

Her huge smile answered it before she spoke. “Let me help you sit up a little. You need to see this,” she said, her voice bubbly with excitement as she reached an arm behind him and helped him to sit up, bracing his back against the pillows. With an air of gleeful anticipation, she drew back the blanket that covered his legs, her shining eyes never leaving his face, wanting to see his reaction to her revelation.

He was absolutely, completely stunned. Through the soft, slightly clingy sleep pants that covered his legs, their new shape was clearly visible. No longer crooked and weak, they were laid out in front of him, as perfectly straight as ever, completely restored.

In appearance.

Cautiously he made the first attempt to lift them a little, first one, then the other, and though the effort cost him in strength, he found that the ever-present pain he had come to accept as simply a part of his existence was completely gone. He looked up at Dawn in stunned excitement, his eyes wide in disbelief.

Laughing, Dawn hugged him tight, barely able to contain her excitement, and he returned it, laughing too, and crying a little at the same time, though for the first time since he could remember, they were tears of joy, not pain.

Then, a soft shadow fell over them from the doorway, and they both glanced up to see Buffy standing there, smiling softly at them in delight, her emerald eyes gleaming with her own happy tears.

Spike reached out his hand to her, and she crossed the room in a moment, sitting down on the edge of the bed and putting one arm around him across his shoulders, kissing him deeply, tenderly, though she kept it brief for the sake of her sister’s comfort. She drew back from the kiss, her smile radiant as she gazed wonderingly into his eyes, scarcely able to believe herself the evidence she had just seen of their success.

“It worked, Baby,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “It really worked!”

“I know,” he whispered back, nodding.

“How do you feel?” she asked, a frown of concern that somehow co-existed with her joyous smile creasing her brow just slightly.

“Great,” he replied. “My legs don’t hurt. They’re really well.” Then he leaned his head back against the pillow again and admitted with an apologetic smile, “Bloody exhausted, though, love. Can’t say I don’t feel awfully weak.”

“It’s a side effect of the spell,” she assured him. “Tara said it would happen. You’ll be okay. She said it might kind of slow down the healing process on your other injuries a little…you know…she sort of focused all your energy on that one big, dramatic thing,” she grimaced slightly. “And kind of…used it up.”

He nodded in understanding. “Worth it,” he whispered with a slight nod, and his eyes were already drooping closed again.

“We should let you rest,” she said, trailing her hand down from his shoulder to his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let you get your strength back up.”

Dawn took her cue, and leaned in close to him, smiling, to give him a quick kiss on the cheek and another hug before leaving the room.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Buffy asked him, searching his eyes for the truth, since she knew instinctively he would answer with what he thought she wanted, rather than what he really wanted.

“You need to get your rest, love,” he said firmly. “Bit told me you’d been up here all night. Can’t have you wearing yourself out; got to keep up *your* strength, too, pet.”

“Dawn,” Buffy muttered, her lips turning down in a pout. “That girl is so grounded,” she grumbled good-naturedly, glancing toward the door. Then she looked back at him, and the soft, affectionate smile on her face nearly took his breath. “I can get my rest right here. If you want me to,” she suggested.

He smiled slowly back at her, realizing her meaning, and carefully moved over a bit on the bed to make room for her. He was weaker than he thought, he realized. Just that simple bit of exertion made him feel like he was about to pass out again.

Carefully she laid down beside him, wrapping her arms around him and nestling in close to him, letting out a contented little hum as she pulled him gently tighter against her. She stifled a yawn that would have sent a cloud of coffee-breath into his face, which was very, very near to hers.

She really was wiped out; she had anxiously waited by his bedside, all afternoon and all night, for him to awaken, worrying about whether or not the spell had gone right, how well it had worked, how long it was going to take him to recover from it. Now that her questions were mostly answered, and she could feel safe in the knowledge that he was really going to be okay, she allowed her exhaustion to catch up with her at last.

Spike had struggled to stay awake, knowing that she had been waiting all night to see him, not wanting to fall asleep on her. However, his own weariness was overwhelming by this point. But when he heard her breathing gradually slowing down, becoming deeper and more even, he knew that she was falling asleep herself, and it was okay for him to give in to the intense need for rest he was feeling. For the first time since his return, without even a thought of questioning his safety, he snuggled in closer to her and closed his eyes, letting his exhaustion carry him away.

In the security and protection of each other’s arms, they drifted off together into a peaceful sleep.

Xander slowly, painfully struggled to his feet in the dimly lit alley behind the police station, a part of him unable to believe the brutality he had just witnessed -- *received* -- at the hands of his best friend. But another part of him, the Spike-part of him, was accepting of it, berating himself for his stupidity in speaking to her with such familiarity, such affection, when he knew how she hated it.

He had brought it on himself, through his unwanted love for her. He simply cared too much for his own good.

He had only been trying to help her, only wanted to keep her from throwing her life away over something that was at the very worst a tragic accident. The way time had been shifting and spinning around them during the whole incident, could they really even be sure *what* had happened? That it was even Buffy’s fault at all?

So when he had seen her heading toward the police station, knew what she was planning to do, he had been determined to stop her. The entire time, he had used no more physical force than was absolutely necessary to keep her from getting past him to the police station entrance.

That was why it caught him off guard, a painful shock, when she unleashed her fury upon him, knocking him to the ground and beating him viciously with her fists until he was dizzy and fighting for consciousness and barely able to move. Then, she had stepped over him like so much garbage in her way, going on into the police station without a second glance.

He had seen her leave a few minutes later, knew that she had not turned herself in, and the part of him that was conscious that none of this was really real was stunned at the relief born of Spike’s genuine love for Buffy, the relief that she had not, in fact, thrown her life away.

Xander knew that as much as he loved Buffy, his affection for her would probably not have survived such savage abuse. He would have said, “Forget it, do what you like. I’m done,” and left her to her own devices.

Actually, if he was truly honest with himself, he would have done that long before the alley.

Nearly an hour later, when he could find the strength to rise, he stood there, overwhelmed with sorrow and pain at her cruelty. He loved her so much, he tried his best to help her, but she had proven clearly that his very life meant nothing to her. Even when she had left the police station, she had made no move to check the damage she had caused, to see how he was at all.

She really, truly didn’t care.

And that hurt a thousand times more than the beating.

“How’re you holding up?” Anya asked him, reaching out an arm to steady him as he lurched forward, still dizzy from too many blows to the head.

“Anya,” he gasped, barely able to see her through the spots of color that danced before his eyes. “I had no idea…*Buffy* did *this*?”

Anya nodded slowly, sympathetically. “There was a lot you didn’t see, Xander. A lot that went before that night in the bathroom.”

“Buffy told me there was,” he admitted, swallowing hard, choking back the tears that rose in his throat at the emotional, rather than the physical, agony of the incident. “But I didn’t think she could possibly have done anything like…like *this*.”

“Neither did Spike. Until she did,” Anya pointed out.

“But…I….*he*…still loved her. Even now…I just want to go to her and make sure she’s all right…I’m worrying about whether or not she’s going to change her mind and go back in there…whether or not she’s going to be okay.” Xander wondered at Spike’s continued love for Buffy, in spite of the incident, in spite of every lesser one that had preceded it, as Anya had shown him.

“There was only one moment when Spike didn’t put Buffy first,” Anya said softly. “And he regrets it to this day.”

For once, Xander didn’t have a snide or derogatory comment to make. Oh, he still found Spike’s behavior in the bathroom that night completely wrong and without excuse. But…in light of so many things he had seen tonight…perhaps not unforgiveable.

“And that’s where we’re headed next,” Anya continued quietly, reaching out to touch him again.


Buffy sat once again by Spike’s bedside, frowning with concern at his still-sleeping form, the cordless telephone in her hand. They had gone to sleep early that morning, and she had woken up in the early afternoon. All the rest of that day, Spike had not awakened for more than a few minutes at a time, always sinking back into sleep within a very short time of waking. Thinking that perhaps he just needed more rest, she had gone to bed that night without too much concern.

But when the following morning came and went, and most of the afternoon, and still he went on in the same manner, she began to grow concerned. Tara had said that he would be drained, but this seemed a little extreme. That was when she decided to call her. If anyone would know what was happening, it was Tara.

She anxiously waited for an answer. One ring. Two. Thr…

“Hello?”

“Tara,” she said without introduction. “I think something’s wrong. Can you come over here?”

“Um, sure, Buffy,” Tara sounded a little worried. “What’s going on?”

“He’s still sleeping. He’s only been awake for like ten minutes since we did the spell. That can’t be normal…can it?” she asked, her rising fear evident in her voice.

There was a short pause, before Tara spoke again, sounding more worried than before. “No, I don’t think it is, Buffy. I’m gonna look through our books over here, check for any potential side effects I might have missed, and head on over there, okay?”

“Okay. Please hurry. Just bring your books, we can look here,” Buffy suggested, her voice trembling a little. She had really hoped that Tara would tell her that it was what she had expected, nothing to worry about. The fact that the gentle, soft-spoken witch seemed scared just sent Buffy closer to the edge of panic.

A part of her couldn’t believe that she was actually offering to help with a research task. But she knew that she would rather be actively looking for an answer than sitting here in the bedroom doing nothing, waiting for Tara to find one.

Tara seemed to understand that, because she was at Buffy’s house in less than fifteen minutes, and the two girls sat on the floor in the bedroom, going through Tara’s spell books, looking for anything that might help.

After a little while, Tara sighed and looked up at Buffy with sad, apologetic eyes. “I think I might have made a mistake, Buffy,” she said softly.

“You did the spell *wrong*?” Buffy said in a low voice of angry disbelief.

“No, no!” Tara was quick to correct her misunderstanding, the defensive anger in Buffy’s eyes making her even more nervous than usual. “I did the spell right. The thing is…the spell’s written to be used on someone who’s…well…a lot healthier than Spike is right now.”

“It’s a *healing* spell,” Buffy pointed out, each word slow and pronounced “How can it be written to be used only on *healthy* people?”

“Not healthy, Buffy.” Tara’s voice was quiet, gentle. “Healthier than *Spike*.” She paused, allowing that to sink in. “I guess he’s just a lot worse off than we’d thought. His…his *emotional* health is more important than his physical health for something like this. The kind off pain he’s been through…and then suddenly being pulled out of it…dramatic changes like that, even for the good, can sap your psyche of its energy,” she explained. “So…while someone else might recover quickly and be up to normal strength in a couple of days…it took a lot more than that out of Spike.”

“So how long is it gonna take?” Buffy asked, more impatiently than she meant to.

It really wasn’t Tara’s fault, though her instinct reaction was to blame her. She knew deep down that Tara could not have known just how terribly Spike’s ordeal had weakened him. With seething fury rising slowly inside her, she reminded herself that the one truly to blame was not Tara, but Warren.

“I don’t know,” Tara admitted timidly. “The thing is…it took a lot of energy out of him to perform the spell. In a normal person, it would have taken most of their energy. If this is working the way I think it is…it must have taken…well, just about *all* of Spike’s…to heal his legs completely.”

“What are you saying?” Buffy asked, her voice trembling with an anger born of fear. “Are you saying he might not have enough left to get better at all?”

Tara did not answer for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

Buffy drew in a deep, painful breath, burying her face in her hands.

“Unless,” Tara began hesitantly, then stopped.

“Unless what?”

“Well…did you talk to Spike? About what we talked about? Slayer’s blood?” Tara asked her, sounding a bit uncomfortable, as if she felt that the question was really too personal to be asking.

Buffy sighed. “I did. And he said he didn’t want to take my blood.”

“Well…if he knows it’s his only chance,” Tara shrugged uncertainly, her voice small and sad. She obviously was blaming herself for this.

Buffy wasn’t quite ready to let her off the hook for it yet, herself.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, though she really didn’t think Spike would want to do it, even now. A part of her rebelled against the difficult decision she had made before, to leave the matter in Spike’s hands, regardless of what was best for him. At the moment, she didn’t care what he wanted; she just wanted him to get well.

But she remembered his heartfelt plea the night she had first suggested it, and knew in her heart that she couldn’t go against his wishes. All he had asked her for since he’d been back was the power to make this one decision for himself; she couldn’t possibly bring herself to take that back from him, even now.

“Maybe if I talk to him…next time he wakes up,” she said quietly. “I can get him to see that it’s the only way.”

“It might be, Buffy,” Tara pointed out, her voice soft and cautious. “The only way.”


There was nothing to be done – no words of apology or remorse to make this right. There was no absolution, no forgiveness to be found, ever, for the terrible thing he had done. Panicked, Xander fled the bathroom, simply unable to face her stricken, tear-soaked face, both the accusation and the evidence of his crime.

Up until the very last moment, the moment she had found the strength to kick him away from her into the wall, he had been firmly convinced in a part of his mind that deep down, she really did want him. Many times before, times Anya had shown him, she had said no to begin with, and then changed her mind, given in to her true feelings, in the end. He had been certain that this time would prove to be no different.

But it *was* different. She had told him to stop. Asked him, *begged* him to stop – and he had been deaf to her cries. And she *had* meant it. She had said no and truly meant it, and he had ignored her until she forced him to hear.

And now *everything* was different.

*Oh, God! Oh, God, what have I done?* he thought, consumed with a mind-numbing, paralyzing sense of panic. He had really only meant to talk to her, to apologize, when he had gone to her house. Then, he had tried to make her get past her determination to shut him out, to bury her true feelings and turn him away.

But he had been so wrong about her “true feelings”. And he had made the worst mistake of his life.

He ran back to the crypt, distraught, desperate, nearly out of his mind with guilt and fear. This no longer felt like a recreation at all. This felt horribly, painfully real.

“Xander.” Anya spoke softly, urgently from the place where she stood, just inside the crypt, waiting for him as he entered. She was looking at him in concern, obviously troubled by his emotional state.

“Oh, God, Anya,” he sobbed. “I didn’t want it to happen like that! I didn’t mean to do it!” He held out his hands to her, pleading for her understanding, for forgiveness that was not hers to offer.

“I know,” she whispered. In spite of herself, in spite of the fact that Xander was *supposed* to be suffering, she went to him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. She just couldn’t bear to see him in so much pain, and the fact that she was responsible for it smote her heart.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he sobbed, falling to his knees in front of her on the concrete floor. “I never wanted to hurt her! I love her so much!”

“I know.”

Suddenly he looked up at her, his eyes wide, and full of a clarity that told her that at least the pain he was going through was worth something. At least it was accomplishing its purpose. “He really loved her – even then – didn’t he?” he gasped through the tears.

She nodded slowly, blinking back her own tears. It was just such a painful, complicated situation. This was quite possibly the only way that Xander would ever have been able to understand Spike’s perspective – to actually feel it for himself.

“It – it all just got to be – so much – he just sort of – broke,” he whispered, the realization slowly coming to him though the pain he felt as his own, though he knew it really wasn’t.

“He never…*intended* to hurt her,” he went on in genuine surprise. It was the opposite of what he had always assumed to be true. He had always believed that Spike didn’t really care about Buffy beyond wanting her physically, and had only intended to use her and hurt her all along.

He had been so very wrong.

“Anya,” he sobbed, as she knelt in front of him, putting her arms around him though she knew it was sort of bending the vengeance rules. After all, Spike had had no one to hold him in the midst of his pain. “I get it now, Anya. I understand! Oh, God, I was so wrong!”

Anya said nothing, afraid if she tried she would break down in tears herself. His words were only making what she knew she had to do next that much harder. Because although she had chosen to carry out Dawn’s wish in a way that would teach Xander a lesson, help him to possibly find some redemption for his cruelty, while avoiding causing him any permanent harm; the point was not the lesson he would learn. Anya was bound to carry out the vengeance – the true purpose of the wish.

And Xander *didn’t* really understand, though he truly believed that he did. Not completely. Not yet.

But he would. Soon.

“You still have one more place to go, Xander,” she told him softly, sorrowfully. “And it’s the worst yet.”

He didn’t say anything, just sobbed in her arms, clinging to her desperately. The idea that she was the only thing making this even remotely bearable for him, giving him the strength to manage it, made things that much more difficult for her.

“And,” she went on, reluctant to tell him. “I can’t go with you.”

He looked up at her with an expression of startled fear. “But…Anya…”

“You can’t truly understand what Spike went through if I go with you, Xander,” she explained quietly, her green eyes almost mournful as they met his. “Spike had no one there for him when he was suffering. He was completely alone. And so you must be.”

Xander just stared up at her, in a sort of state of shock, as she reached one of her hands from around him and touched it to his temple.

And then everything went swirling away into darkness.

Anya watched as Xander vanished from her sight – then sank to her knees on the cold concrete of the crypt and broke down in tears. She had had no idea how badly it would hurt her to see him in this much suffering. She almost couldn’t bear it. She desperately wanted to call the whole thing off, but it simply wasn’t an option.

The vengeance wish had to be fulfilled.

She dreaded having to see what he was going to have to go through next. For indeed, she would see it. The true torment was in *believing* himself to be completely alone in his ordeal; therefore Xander had to believe that she had left him. But in reality, she was going to be there, only veiled to his sight.

She planned on keeping a close eye on what went on, and not letting it go too far, not letting him get to his actual breaking point. There were certain things that Spike had experienced that she would not allow Xander to go through. Even if she could have stood the thought of letting the worst of the abuse Spike had endured happen to Xander – which she simply couldn’t – she would not have done it, out of respect for Spike.

She had promised him that she would not reveal his secret, and it would be simply wrong to break that trust, no matter for what purpose it was broken. Xander could not return from this journey knowing things about Spike’s painful past that she had promised not to reveal.

But there were many other horrible torments that Spike had been subjected to, of a much less personal nature, and those, Xander would have to see, feel, for himself. Anya took a deep breath and shakily rose to her feet, preparing herself to join Xander. Though he would not know she was there, she would be, ready and waiting to end the punishment the moment the wish had truly been fulfilled.


Buffy lay on the bed beside Spike, idly stroking her fingers down his still, peaceful face, staring at him through wide, solemn eyes. He had not awakened, even for a few moments, since she and Tara had discovered the problem with the healing spell. She was terribly afraid for him, wondering if he was going to wake up at all, if he even had the will left to go on.

She had really thought that he was getting better, physically and emotionally. He had seemed to be growing stronger, becoming a little more like his old self.

Had it all been just an act, another attempt just to please her, to give her what she wanted to see? Was this really what he wanted – to just fade away into peaceful oblivion?

She was startled when he suddenly stirred under her hand, leaning slightly into her touch, then turned his head toward her and opened sleepy eyes, blinking as he tried to focus on her.

“Buffy,” he murmured, seeming as if he was about to drift back into sleep.

“Spike! Spike, wait, Baby, stay awake for a minute, okay?” she said urgently. “I need to talk to you.”

Groggily he shook his head a little, looking back up at her, trying to force himself to focus. “What is it, love?” he whispered, frowning a little. “What’s wrong?”

“Spike, something went wrong with the spell,” she told him gently, running her fingerly lightly down his face again, meeting his eyes with a desperate urgency in her own. She had to be honest with him about this. He had to know just how serious the problem was.

Alarm flashed in those deep blue eyes, as he replied softly, “W-what is it? What happened?”

“It took all your strength to fix your legs. So now, the rest of you’s not getting better at all,” she said simply. “You don’t even have enough energy left to function, Baby, and its not gonna get better on its own.”

He looked at her for a moment, trying to take in and comprehend her words through the haze of sleep that still beckoned to him. Finally it seemed to click, and he leaned his head back on the pillow again, closing his eyes, with an ironic sort of half-smile. He was silent for a moment, and she almost thought he had fallen back asleep.

But then he spoke quietly, no resentment in his tone, just simple honesty, “Knew it was too good to be true, love.”

“No, Spike,” she argued firmly. “You’re gonna get better. There *is* a way.”

He opened his eyes again, looking at her expectantly, not saying a word.

Buffy reached into the pocket of her jeans and took out a small pocketknife. He frowned in confusion, not understanding what she was doing, until she made a neat slice across her arm and held it out to him, a fiery determination in her eyes as they boldly met his.

His eyes widened in an almost panicked dismay, and he shook his head. “No, Buffy…no…” He started to protest again, just as the heady, rich scent of her blood filled his nostrils, taking his words. He closed his eyes, pulling back away from her, shaking his head emphatically.

“I w-won’t do this to you, Buffy!” he protested weakly, and she could hear his determination faltering under what would have before been an irresistible temptation to him.

“You’re not doing anything *to* me, Spike. I’m giving this to you. Because I want you to have it,” she said softly, reaching her other hand to turn his face back toward her, holding her wounded arm closer to him, as the blood ran in a thin trickle down her arm, staining the sheets beneath it.

Neither of them cared.

He looked startled by her words, as if something in him still couldn’t believe that she could find him worthy of such a gift, such an act of trust. His wide eyes, full of pain and uncertainty, spoke the volumes for which he couldn’t find the words.

“Spike…you’re not going to hurt me. I trust you,” she assured him, her words slow and sure. “I want you to do this. For me.” Her voice lowered, fighting off the tremors of tears, as she added, “Because if I lost you…I don’t know what I’d do. And if you don’t do this…” She shook her head slowly, the tears falling from her eyes and slipping down her face to mingle with the blood dripping from her arm. “I’m gonna lose you,” she whispered, as if the very words were physically painful to her.

“Please,” she whispered desperately, and the heartrending plea in her voice and in her eyes smote his heart with an agony of indecision.

“Please, Spike…please do this for me.”


When Xander came to this time, the first thing he was aware of was a vicious, searing pain of an intensity like nothing he had ever felt before, tearing through his body without mercy.

*Oh, God!* he thought with a shock of guilty understanding. Was *this* the pain the chip caused Spike? This intense agony beyond description? This was what he had chosen to use to intimidate the already-broken, devastated vampire?

He had never felt so low and ashamed in his life.

Gradually it lessened to the point that he was able to glance around at his surroundings. He was in a dark, cold basement room, set up as an elaborate make-shift lab of sorts. He was on the floor, slumped awkwardly against the leg of some kind of table. He looked up – an operating table.

He suddenly realized with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach exactly where he was – and what was surely about to happen. He wanted to get up, to prepare himself for whatever horrors were coming, to take better stock of his surroundings, but was terribly weak from the pain, and unable to do so.

“Oh, good, you’re finally awake,” a mockingly pleasant voice spoke, and the sense of overwhelming terror that assailed him at the sound of that voice was stunning, even before the voice hardened in menace to add, “It’s about time, you lazy pathetic little loser! Get up!”

*Get up! Get up! Now!* his mind screamed, desperate, knowing somehow that he had to obey, or the consequences would be brutal.

He tried to, he really did, but only managed to pull himself a little ways up before falling back down to the floor, still too weakened by the pain that had not yet left his body. The terror turned to absolute, uncontrollable panic, as Warren advanced on him, a sadistic smile on his face that said he really wasn’t all that upset by his slave’s disobedience.

It gave him an excuse to punish him.

Before he could move at all, the boy had gripped his hair cruelly and yanked him effortlessly to his feet. He was unable to stand of his own strength; Warren’s grip was the only thing holding him up, and it was terribly painful.

“I said get up,” he hissed in his ear, jerking his head back mercilessly. Xander’s natural reaction was to pull away, smack the snot out of the little creep. But Spike’s natural reaction that he felt even more strongly was something very different.

*Don’t fight…do as he says…don’t move…* The thoughts circled around in his head, desperately and hopelessly seeking any means not of escaping, but of calming, his savage tormentor.

Not escaping. By this point, Xander realized, Spike had lost all hope of escape.

The intense, agonizing emotions nearly took Xander’s breath away. Pain, not only of the physical variety, overwhelming fear, helplessness…

The sense of total helplessness was the worst. It was as if he knew, beyond all doubt or hope of any rescue, ever, that Warren held complete power over him, and always would. The only way to even attempt to survive the situation was to submit, and do whatever it took to appease him.

But there was also a feeling of dark despair, because he knew, somehow, that submission would not be enough. This cruel, sadistic boy was determined to find some reason, some justification, for heaping more and more suffering on his prisoner.

Through the pain and terror that nearly consumed him, Xander had a moment of realization. It was this effort of Warren’s to justify what he was doing to Spike, to find *reasons* for the “punishments” he meted out, that had resulted in Spike’s blaming himself for the things he had suffered.

Warren would tell him he was being punished because he was too slow, or because he had spoken out of turn, or forgotten some insignificant detail, or looked at him in a way he found disrespectful…and slowly but surely, Spike had come to connect every hurt, every punishment, with some real or imagined fault or wrong he had committed.

In his mind, it all became his fault.

Through the intense emotions he was feeling that Spike had experienced, Xander also felt a wave of shame come over him as he thought of the calloused and insensitive way he had behaved toward the traumatized vampire – all the small and not-so-small ways he had reinforced the unhealthy, untrue ideas that had become rooted in his mind. That it was his fault. That he was evil, deserving of what had happened to him. That he didn’t deserve forgiveness, or even rescue…certainly not love.

His moment of self-realization was interrupted as Warren took something from the pocket of the black leather coat he was wearing – a cigarette lighter.

Xander realized with a shock -- *Spike’s* coat, Spike’s lighter.

Warren flicked the lighter, holding the flame terrifyingly near his face, and he flinched. Xander could tell from the dread, the despairing expectation he felt, that Warren would make good on his cruel, wordless threat – that he had countless times before.

“You think you don’t have to what I tell you to? Is that it?” Warren asked in a soft, dangerous tone.

“N-no! No!” he gasped in a pleading tone, his eyes unable to leave the flickering flame, so close to his sensitive flesh. “Please,” he whispered, the word almost a sob. “Please, don’t!”

“Did I tell you to talk?” Warren demanded, yanking hard on his hair, pulling him closer to the flame. “Did I?”

He shook his head, desperately, tears forming in his eyes. Oh God, the shame, the agony of self-hatred that was brought on by this helplessness – making him feel so ashamed, so pathetic and worthless – Xander had never felt so alone, so lost and desolate.

He was at the mercy of someone who enjoyed his fear, his pain, sought every opportunity to dole out more of both, without mercy or the slightest bit of compassion.

And he was utterly, completely alone. No one who even knew what he was going through, or would have cared to help him if they did know – of that he was certain – at least through Spike’s eyes.

The next hour passed in a haze of pain and terror, as Warren sated his twisted desire for power, and Xander got a fair sampling of the many ways he had used to torture Spike. By the time it was over, he could find no words for the anguish of body and spirit that he was feeling – that he now knew that Spike had felt, day after day for Five. Freaking. Months.

Once Warren left the room that served as his torture chamber, leaving him in a pitiful, decimated heap on the floor, he gave vent to the sobs that had risen in his throat long ago, that he had fought back, uselessly. It wasn’t as if he could in any way really hide the effect that Warren had on him.

Xander had sneered at the thought of *Warren* wielding that sort of power over Spike, the former “Big Bad”. He had taken every opportunity to insinuate just how pathetic he thought Spike was for being so “easily” broken by the “pathetic little nerd”.

God, how wrong he had been! About everything!

He sat there, sobbing brokenly, not sure how much longer he would have to stay in this place, a part of him not caring. All he could really think about was how cruelly he had played into the heartless mind games that Warren had played with Spike – how his words and deeds had served to reinforce the pain and shame, rather than to promote his healing in any way.

“Everything looks different now…doesn’t it?”

He did not respond to the gentle, familiar voice at first. Just kept crying, like a child, like the helpless, pathetic creature that he had become over the past few hours.

“You understand now. Don’t you?” Anya prodded gently, coming to kneel down in front of him, her sorrowful green eyes searching his through her own tears which filled them.

He nodded, still unable to speak for a few moments. “Oh, Anya,” he finally sobbed. “What have I done? How could I…after…I had no idea…”

The words made sense in his head, but he couldn’t seem to make them come out right. That was okay. Anya understood what he was trying to say. And she knew that the wish had finally had its intended effect. Xander would return to his normal life, but he would never be the same. He would really and truly understand Spike’s suffering, and it would change his behavior, his thinking, for the better and for good.

She nodded slowly, seeing the genuine change in his stricken eyes when he finally looked up at her. “It’s time to go home now,” she told him softly. “You’ve seen all you need to.”

Gently, with a sense of relief in her heart that both of their ordeals were finally over, she stretched out her hand toward him.

Unexpectedly, he reached up and blocked her touch, catching her hand in his. Her eyes met his, startled by his reaction, and she saw in them a sudden firm resolve.

He looked at her for a moment, swallowed hard, thinking for a moment, as if trying to make a decision. Then he finally spoke, his voice quiet but certain.

“There’s one more thing I want to see.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean really, *really* want to do this, Xander?” Anya asked him, her troubled eyes showing how deeply concerned she was by his decision. “I mean – you’re talking about watching something that – well, it’s gonna be very disturbing, for you especially, and…and well, just *weird*. And that’s putting it mildly.”

“I have to know, Anya. I have to see for myself,” he insisted. “I have to – I have to face up to this.” He paused before going on, softer, “And then – try to find a way to make it right again. With Spike – and with Buffy.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment; Anya had as many doubts as he did about the likelihood of finding Buffy’s forgiveness. She would probably have a very difficult time accepting that his change of heart was genuine – especially considering that his extreme betrayal of her trust had immediately followed his last such heart-felt apology.

Still, no matter what followed it, even if he could never convince Buffy or Spike to forgive him, Xander had to see for himself exactly what he had done. If he was truly going to take responsibility for his poor attitudes and behavior before, he had to face up to his own guilt. As far as he was concerned, there was no other way.

Reluctantly, unsure of the effect that this particular recreation would have on the man she loved, but seeing that his mind was firmly set, Anya stretched out her hand and sent Xander back to the moment he had requested to see through Spike’s eyes.

The moment of his own cruel attack.

He found himself suddenly standing in Buffy’s living room, near the window, staring anxiously out into the street. He felt nervous and uncertain as he waited for Dawn to return.

In Spike’s emotions, Xander could feel the terrible fear, the raw vulnerability of his insecurity, that he had carried with him when they had brought him here. Even in Buffy’s house, far from the huge house of horrors in the country and Warren’s brutal clutches, Spike had not felt safe.

It was as if a part of him expected it to all turn out to be some kind of trick – a trap – expected to at any moment be “caught” and punished for daring to enjoy such luxuries as rest and freedom.

Now, he stood in the empty room, felt Spike’s terror to be alone and desperate desire for the safety of the companionship of the only person in all of this that he had fully trusted at that time. He was counting the moments until she returned, bringing with her the measure of security she had taken with her when she had left.

The door opened, and he felt a sense of relief. *Good, she’s back!*

But the relief was gone a moment later when he saw…*himself*…walk through the door.

*Anya was right,* Xander realized, feeling a little sick. *Too weird for words.*

He cringed at the vicious look he had given Spike, and the sick little stomach-turning twist of fear that went through him at that look. Memories assaulted his mind of the same look on another face, always mere moments before vicious, merciless pain.

Xander wanted to crawl through the floor, to disappear, with the shame of the horrifying realization that in that moment, he had brought the image of Warren and his abuse to Spike’s mind…that the menace on his face had matched that of the sadistic, evil torturer he had seen mere hours before.

While he waited for the other him to come back downstairs, he felt a churning tumult of uneasiness and fear, not having any idea what the boy intended, if he even intended *anything*, only knowing that Xander hated him, and he was alone in this house with him, physically weak and incapable of defending himself, and with no friend in sight to defend him.

Then he watched as Xander came back down the stairs, an odd sort of self-satisfied smile on his face – again, a painfully familiar expression. And as he advanced on him, mercilessly doing his best to intimidate and frighten him, driving him without pity into a corner and throwing every vicious word and menacing gesture he could into the mix, Xander felt more ashamed than he ever had in his life.

And even worse than the physical threat, the intimidating stance he had taken over Spike, reminding him in every way of how helpless he was, how Xander could hurt him badly any time he wanted to – was the things he had said.

The cruel accusations, telling over again how unforgivable his crime was, how undeserving he was of Buffy’s mercy and forgiveness – when Spike had already believed those things to be true, deep down, before Xander ever said a word.

But now he understood that the forgiveness had to go both ways. Spike had been hurt by Buffy at least as badly as he had ever hurt her. How could he have done this to someone already so broken and wounded? How could he have ever thought that Spike, in this condition, posed any threat whatsoever to Buffy?

*You weren’t worried about the threat he posed to Buffy,* he suddenly told himself, in yet another moment of clarity. *You were worried about the threat he posed to you.*

It was the truth, though he was ashamed to admit it. Now that all the barriers of his illusions had been stripped away, the facts seemed so much clearer, and he could see the painful truth.

The reason that he had been so intent on stealing Buffy’s good graces from Spike, on destroying the last remaining vestiges of his courage and self-confidence, was not truly motivated by a desire to protect Buffy, though he had honestly believed that it was at the time.

He knew, if he really thought about it, that Buffy was perfectly capable of defending herself against Spike at his full strength, let alone the pitifully weakened version of the vampire that had returned to them.

His true motivation had nothing to do with protecting Buffy, and everything to do with protecting his own elevated but fragile status with her. Just when he had started to get so much closer to her, just when he had begun to feel that maybe, just maybe, she was starting to see him as more than a friend…Spike had come back.

Oh, badly damaged and a shadow of his former self, but still able to steal all of Buffy’s attention away from him – the attention he subconsciously had come to view as his right. After all, who had been there for her, when she was struggling with the pain and confusion following the incident in the bathroom? Who had held her while she cried for hours at a time?

Now, he understood that there had been more behind those tears than the pain of being victimized.

There had also been the guilt of an abuser. Very much like the guilt he was feeling now.

All of these thoughts were intermingled with the desperate panic that Spike had felt as Xander had gotten right in his face, leaving him no room to move away, closing him in so that he could feel nothing but threatened, cornered and helpless. Then, the fear intensified in an explosion of terror when the control device came into view.

The overwhelming, uncontrollable panic that came over him at the sight of it left Xander breathless. A feeling of familiar dread, as if he knew exactly what was coming, had known that it was only a matter of time before the false sense of safety vanished and the familiar pattern of suffering came back into play.

Xander’s heart froze in him with the realization that in that moment, Spike had completely and totally believed, beyond all doubt, that Xander was going to activate the chip – that he was going to use the dreadful device against him.

Though he honestly had never intended to actually push the button or cause Spike any real physical pain, Xander now knew that the anticipation was at least as painful for Spike as the shock itself would have been – and probably more emotionally devastating.

*God, how could I be such a monster?* he wondered, his heart breaking under the weight of truly understanding his own guilt.

If he could only make it right again, somehow, he thought desperately. But now, he realized with a building sense of despair, he might never be allowed to.

The next moment, the world began to swirl and fade around him, just before everything went dark.


“Please,” Buffy whispered, her tears streaking her sorrowful face as she searched his eyes, desperately hoping that he would see the necessity of it and give in to her pleas.

“Buffy,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly, hurting to see her so distraught, but terrified of the line it would be crossing to do as she asked – especially after the one he had so violently crossed last fall. “I just…I just can’t!”

The taking of blood was the only thing he had ever experienced that was more personal than sex, more intimate and requiring of more trust. Being human, Buffy couldn’t possibly understand it in the way that he could. He just couldn’t bring himself to take something like that from her, after the violation of her trust he had already committed.

“Spike,” Buffy argued, and there was a hint of anger in her trembling voice as she went on. “If you *don’t* do this…you’re not going to get better. You’re going to just…fade away. And I can’t….” She paused, her voice breaking with the tears she was struggling to control. She had to keep enough composure to get her point across to him. “I don’t want to live without you, Spike. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Buffy,” he said in a voice of quiet desperation, wide blue eyes pleading with hers, willing her to see what he was trying to tell her without words. “That’s why I can’t do this…I can’t hurt you, Buffy…I can’t take that from you…not after…” He couldn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

“Oh, Spike,” she whispered, her soft voice revealing her heartache at the guilt he still felt for a crime he had never truly committed, and which she had long since forgiven. She knew now that she had forgiven it long before she had found him in Warren’s house.

She reached a gentle hand to tenderly touch his face, as she went on in a quiet, firm voice that left no room for doubt. “Baby, it’s *nothing* like that! You’re not taking anything from me. You’re not taking it because you *can’t* take it – because I’m *giving* it to you. Spike – I love you so much…I’m yours, Baby. My heart…my blood…everything that’s *me*… already belongs to you.” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper as she leaned in closer, holding his eyes with an intense gaze. “You can’t take what’s already yours.”

The unnecessary breath that he always drew anyway, a remnant of his humanity that he had never been able to shake, was stolen away in that moment, as the depth of her love, of her willingness to sacrifice for him, was revealed to him in the simple words, in the undeniable evidence of the bleeding flesh she slowly raised before his lips. His damaged heart, so afraid to believe that such love could actually be his, slowly processed the meaning of what it was exactly that she was giving him.

The bittersweet irony of it all sang to the poet still within him. He had been a slave, Buffy’s willingly, and then Warren’s by force, his life and his desires meaningless, subservient to the whims of whichever master he had served. Possession of his very self had not been his own.

And once, in a bitter moment of misguided passion, he had sought to take possession of *her*…to make her his own, whether she wanted to be or not. Now, Buffy was relinquishing her heart, her love, her very self to him, in the supreme sacrifice of love. She would be his…not by force, not by fear…but by choice, and love.

And in the offering and receiving of that powerful gift, some part of him, long buried, but struggling weakly back to the surface, knew that they would both find a measure of healing.

“Oh, Buffy…my love,” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers, as he slowly lowered his lips to her arm she held before him. Gently, he lapped the tiny stream of blood that flowed from the cut, back to its source, and the tender touch of his lips, his tongue, to her flesh was a caress, not an intrusion.

She was stunned by the pleasurable sensation of his cool mouth against her skin, the sense of power and connection that came from the force of her life flowing out of her and into him, strengthening and rebuilding him. Without realizing she was doing it she arched her neck back, closing her eyes, releasing a soft little moan.

Suddenly, she made a decision. If she was going to give him her love, her trust, her blood, she was not going to do it only partly. She was going to give herself fully to him.

Her free hand tangled tenderly in his loose blonde curls, and she murmured softly, “Stop. Close it.”

He glanced up at her uncertainly, pulling back a little immediately at her word, though she could feel his instinctive reluctance to relinquish the rich, intoxicating pleasure of her gift. He knew what she meant; knew that she knew that his saliva would close the wound as soon as she was ready to stop. But he had not expected it to be so soon.

Still, obediently, not wanting to take advantage of her gift, he did as she asked, and in moments the bleeding gash was closed and already beginning to heal up. He looked up at her in expectation and a little apprehension. Had she misjudged her own readiness for this step? Had he gone too far, frightened her?

To his surprise, instead of moving away, she leaned slowly down over him, and he lay back beneath her, unafraid, just instinctively retreating as she moved forward. A slow, soft, reassuring smile began on her lips as she wrapped one arm around behind his neck, the other hand lightly running through his soft blonde hair.

“I want you to take me, Spike,” she whispered. She glanced up at the now barely visible spot on her arm where the cut had been and shook her head a little as she looked back at him and clarified, “Not like that.”

She met his eyes for a long moment, wanting to be sure he understood her meaning, before she slowly tilted her head back, exposing her throat to him in a gesture of extreme vulnerability – and trust. “Like this,” she whispered, her hand behind his neck lightly tugging him forward, encouraging him to accept her offer.

His eyes widened in surprised understanding, but there was none of the horrified revulsion that would have come upon him a few minutes before – before he had tasted of her blood, and tasted in it the power of the love and trust she held for him.

He knew that she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

It had been a very long time since he had allowed his true vampire’s face to show. In the house of his slavery, it would have been an unforgivable offense, a sign of much more confidence and challenge than his master would ever have allowed.

And then there was the memory of the way Buffy had always seen that part of his nature, before. Evil, disgusting, the symbol of everything she hated, everything she stood against. He hesitated to do it, turning uncertain eyes up to hers in an unspoken question.

She knew what was holding him back, and nodded her assent, urging him on to release his true nature, meeting his eyes with no fear – only love. When he managed to shake off the human façade and truly reveal himself to her, he glanced back at her, flinching already on the inside from the revulsion he was certain to see on her face.

But it was not there.

She smiled tenderly into his now gleaming golden eyes, before leaning in to kiss him, slowly and thoroughly. When she pulled back from the kiss, she whispered softly, “I love you, Spike. All of you. Everything that you are. I love you.” She kissed him again before adding in an intense whisper, “Take me, Spike! Do it!” and tugging his head down closer to her throat.

Her tender words and actions were all the more encouragement he needed. Without any further hesitation, he slid his fangs into her throat. Her body arched instantly in a jolt of pain and pleasure so mingled that it was impossible to tell them apart; he felt her pleasure, and it only intensified his own as he both fiercely and tenderly accepted the gift she had given him.

Within moments, both were lost in the ecstasy of the moment, surrounded so completely by the love, the presence of each other, that all the rest of the world faded away into oblivion, and all that existed was the powerful connection of the love that bound them.

Spike awakened the next morning, suddenly and complete – alert in a way that he had not been in several days, ever since the healing spell had been done. The last few days were nothing but a blur to him; he had slept so much of them away that he had only a handful of fleeting memories of that time, the rest running together in a tangle of dreams and reality that he couldn’t tell apart.

But the memory of the night before was perfectly clear.

He had not really taken that much of Buffy’s blood, in the end; they had both sensed that it would be wiser to show some restraint, to not allow it to go so far that Buffy was seriously weakened by the loss of blood.

Spike’s motivation had simply been her well-being; he would die before he would willingly hurt her. Buffy on the other hand, was thinking ahead, planning in her mind at least a few more sessions like this one, as many as it took until Spike was back to his full strength.

The last thing she wanted was to become weakened enough to worry him this first time. She knew him well enough by now to know that if he thought for a second that he had hurt her, he would be too badly shaken by the experience to ever consent to do it again – and she knew it would take much more than one time to bring him back to health.

Also, they had both been very much aware of how important it was that the gift they were sharing be respected – cherished as something precious shared only between them. Neither wished to mar its memory by allowing it to end badly.

Buffy had been amazed by how perfectly attuned to each other they had turned out to be. At just the moment that she had felt herself beginning to get a little light-headed, and the thought had crossed her mind, *I’d better stop him,* he had drawn back of his own accord. He had tenderly caressed the wounds he had made at her throat with his tongue, healing them – but they both knew the marks would remain.

A permanent sign for all to see, that she was his, at long last.

No outward sign was needed of his devotion to her. For as long as he had loved her, it had been clear for all to see that his heart belonged to her alone.

He was amazed by how much better he felt. He felt strong, clear-headed, not groggy and disoriented as he had felt immediately following the spell. The pain from his injuries which had just barely begun to heal before last night was greatly reduced. His legs felt genuinely strong again, finally; a part of him couldn’t wait to get up and try to use them, just to prove what he already knew.

The greater part of him was perfectly content to stay right where he was.

Buffy lay exactly where she had fallen asleep, once they had finished and both practically collapsed into slumber the night before. She was lying half on top of him, her head resting on his chest, her silky blond hair falling against his bare torso in a delightfully delicate caress. Instinctively he reached a hand down to run through the golden locks, scarcely able to believe that she was really his, after all the years he had spent dreaming of just that. She stirred in her sleep, and nestled closer against him with a low, contented sort of murmuring sound in her throat.

She *was* his. She really was.

In that moment, it hit him full force, and he believed it with a certainty -- it was real, all of it. Buffy loved him, in spite of everything. She trusted him, enough to place her life in his hands, which proved that she had truly forgiven him. Perhaps it was only the euphoria he still felt from the night before, but for once he felt like he was truly safe, and loved, and for the first time, he felt that things might actually stay that way.

After a few moments, Buffy lifted her head sleepily, glancing around through heavy-lidded eyes under a tousled mess of blonde hair. She seemed a bit confused at first, waking up in Willow’s bedroom and not remembering how she had gotten there. But then her eyes fell on him. A slow, contented smile crept across her lips, and her arms slipped lightly around him.

“Morning, Baby,” she whispered in a husky voice.

“Morning, love,” he replied, returning the smile.

“Do you feel better?” she asked him, concern in her eyes, still sparkling from the events of the night before.

“Oh, yeah, love. It’s bloody unbelievable!” he exclaimed with a little laugh. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this good.”

“Uh-huh,” she smirked in a teasingly self-satisfied tone. “I’ve got some pretty amazing blood, huh? Pretty powerful stuff?”

“You know it,” he laughed, pulling her closer to him without even thinking about it. “You know,” he added after a brief pause, tilting his head to the side a bit as he met her eyes. “I think I feel like a little walk, love. How about you?”

Her smile widened with anticipation. “Sounds good to me,” she replied, pulling back up off of him and backing off of the bed to allow him to rise. She seemed as eager as he was to see the results of the healing spell that had caused so much trouble – but inadvertently so much progress as well.

Slowly he sat up, turning and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, resting his feet on the floor for a moment without rising. He glanced up at her, a bit anxiously.

She nodded encouragingly, if a bit impatiently. She was not very good at waiting.

He rose slowly to his feet and walked toward her at a measured, even pace – his stride straight and sure. His smile widened until it was beaming by the time he reached her, and they embraced, laughing through tears of joy and relief.

There was a knock on the door, and Buffy called out laughingly, “Come in,” her arms still around Spike, holding him close to her, unwilling to let him go, even for a moment.

Dawn walked into the room, and did a little double take at the sight. “You’re up!” she gasped, her relief evident in her eyes.

She had been every bit as worried as Buffy over Spike’s odd reaction to the healing spell, though Buffy hadn’t said a word to her about what Tara had discovered, or her plan to help him get well.

All Dawn knew was that the night before, her friend had been getting steadily sicker with no explanation, and her sister unwilling to discuss it with her – and now here he stood, laughing and seeming in better health than he had since his return. Suddenly, her eyes fell on the two tiny marks on her sister’s throat, and widened in understanding.

Spike felt his stomach do an odd little turn at the look on her face, afraid of how she would take it. His eyes softened with affection for the girl, and a desperate desire for her to understand, as he held out an arm to her.

She didn’t need to be asked twice; she crossed the room in a moment to join the embrace. “I was so worried about you,” she said quietly into his ear as she hugged him tight. “Don’t ever do that to me again, okay?”

“Do my best not to, Bit,” he assured her dryly, swallowing back the lump that rose in his throat with the warm feeling that swept over him at her easy acceptance.

Just at that moment, they heard the doorbell ring. Dawn took one look at Spike, wearing only his sleep-pants, and Buffy, rumpled and with a full-on case of bedhead, and sighed wearily, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as she turned and flounced toward the stairs to go answer the door. “I’ll get it,” she called over her shoulder with exaggerated irritation.

“I guess I’d better go get dressed again,” Buffy said, then frowned down at the outfit she was still wearing from the night before.

“You know a lot of people find it helpful to get *undressed* between times getting dressed, love,” he teased her, and she glanced up at him to see his old trademark suggestive smirk turning up the corner of his mouth as he gazed at her boldly, unashamed. She was suddenly aware that they were still in each other’s arms.

“You think I should try that?” Buffy teased right back, running her fingers lightly through his hair at the back of his neck. “The getting undressed thing? I’ve heard some people really like it.” Secretly she was thrilled at the flirtation; up to this point Spike had not dared to say anything the slightest bit suggestive to her, probably because he was still dealing with the guilt he had been carrying around for so long.

Apparently, to her delight, the night before he had finally begun to accept that he was truly forgiven – that it was okay to touch her, to flirt with her, to treat her as what she had never allowed him to treat her as before – “his girl”. And, she thought with a smile, she would take great pleasure in reinforcing that particular lesson.

“Maybe,” he smiled back at her easily, and she was pleased to see not the slightest discomfort in his expression at the flirtatious way she was behaving with him. “you ought to wait and see who’s at the door first, love. Then decide whether it’s better to be dressed or undressed.” He frowned slightly before amending, “But until you know for sure – dressed is probably a better option, love.”

Just then, the sound of furious shouting from downstairs drew Buffy’s attention away from the playful exchange.

“What now?” she muttered, heading toward the stairs, with Spike right behind her, worry in his eyes.

She stopped short at the bottom of the stairs, at the sight of Xander standing on the front porch – being thoroughly berated by her little sister.

“How dare you come here, you creep?” Dawn demanded, her voice trembling with rage. She was standing in the doorway, refusing to move and allow him entrance. “Buffy told you you’re not welcome here, and even if she had a sudden attack of insanity and decided to let you in, I’d kick you right back out. Because this is my house too, and you are *not* welcome in it!”

“Dawnie,” Xander spoke quietly when she paused for breath, his eyes downcast, his voice shaking a little. “I’m sorry. I just want to apologize…”

That brought Buffy’s temper to the forefront, remembering his last “apology”. She stepped forward, joining her sister in the doorway.

“Like the last time you apologized, Xander?” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest angrily. “You wanna come in here and tell us how much you’re going to respect my right to make my own decisions about what goes on in my house, just so you can get *into* my house and terrorize my boyfriend? Is that it?”

Xander flinched at the words, the reminder of his terrible deception, but did not say a word. There was no excuse, no explanation for what he had done, and no way to make her believe that he was not going to do it again.

Buffy misunderstood his reaction. “That’s right,” she went on defiantly. “I said my boyfriend, Xander! Spike is in my life, like it or not, and if you can’t deal with that, then there’s no place for you in it.”

“That’s just it, Buffy,” he pleaded, daring to look up for a moment to meet her eyes. “I know I was wrong…”

“You know, we’ve been here before, Xander,” she interrupted him, her voice softer now, but cold and unyielding. “A couple of times. It kinda goes like, ‘I’m gonna tell you I was wrong and I’m sorry just so you’ll get off my back and I can do whatever I want anyway.’ Isn’t that about it?”

“No, Buffy,” he insisted quietly, miserably. “Not this time. Please, just hear me out.”

“I did. Last time. And you tricked me out of my house key, went into my room and went through my things, and took advantage of my trust to do a very sick, twisted, cruel thing, Xander. And I’m not letting you do it again.” Buffy was certain, absolutely determined.

“I’m sorry,” Xander repeated uselessly, knowing it was useless. He glanced up, and his eyes fell just beyond Buffy, on Spike, where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. The look of pain and shame in his eyes was stunning to the vampire, who had really just expected him to be putting on a show, like the last time.

“You got that right,” Dawn muttered, stalking away with a disgusted sneer, as if she simply couldn’t bear the sight of him for another moment.

“Please,” Xander whispered in desperation, and now his plea was directed at Spike. “I am so, so sorry!”

Not sure how to respond, unaccustomed to being apologized to for anything, Spike looked away from Xander uncomfortably.

Buffy glanced back toward him, noticed his discomfort – and grew angrier as she turned back toward Xander. “Don’t you *even* talk to him, Xander!” she snapped, a warning in her fiery green eyes. “How can you…”

“Buffy, I’m not trying to…” he attempted to defend himself, though by this point he knew it was a lost cause.

“Just go, Xander,” Buffy interrupted, her voice quiet now, with a hint of her sadness creeping into it to join the anger. “We have enough to deal with around here without you adding to it. Please. Just go.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the porch, his jaw working, struggling to hold back something, words or tears, it was impossible to tell. Then he slowly turned and walked away.

Buffy shut the door firmly, but did not slam it. She took no pleasure in turning away someone who had been her best friend for years. She just couldn’t trust him anymore, and she couldn’t take that chance with Spike’s fragile psyche, still in the delicate stages of healing.

Spike stood at the bottom of the stairs. He hadn’t moved since he had seen Xander on the porch. He had felt a momentary stab of fear at the sight of the boy, recalling the last time he had seen him. Then reason had taken over, and he had reminded himself that the control device was in his own possession now, and there was nothing Xander could do to him with Buffy and Dawn right here.

Then, watching the pitiful attempt at an apology, shut down at every turn, he had been struck by the genuine note of sorrow in Xander’s voice. He had recognized something in his face, his tone, that was painfully familiar. He remembered feeling like that, not so very long ago at all. Feeling desperate to somehow achieve forgiveness for a terrible wrong, yet knowing in his heart that it was utterly unattainable – he knew exactly what that felt like.

Buffy didn’t seem to believe Xander, but Spike was suddenly very sure that he was sincere.

And very sure that Buffy needed to forgive him.

“I can’t believe the nerve of him!” Dawn fumed, pacing furiously through the living room, her arms folded across her chest in front of her, too angry to stop moving. “Who does he think he is? Like he’s just gonna waltz in here after what he did and we’re gonna be like, ‘Oh, okay, Xander, it’s all good! Never mind that the last time we saw you, you acted like a total psychotic freak’!” She paused in her rant to look up at her sister and her friend, to gauge their level of agreement with her rant.

Spike was just standing there, quietly, looking at Buffy. It was nearly impossible to read the troubled expression in his stormy blue eyes. He didn’t really seem angry; in fact, as usual, most of his attention seemed to be focused on Buffy, and how *she* was reacting to the little scene.

Buffy didn’t say anything, either. Her eyes were full of tears, and a deep sorrow, reflecting the sense of loss she felt over the whole affair. Xander’s friendship had meant so much to her for so long. It was terribly painful to think of it ending now. Still, she felt she had no choice but to stand her ground. Xander had made his choice when he had lied to her, tricked her in order to hurt someone she loved. You couldn’t just come back from that with no more than an “I’m sorry”.

Without a word she walked into the kitchen, understanding her sister’s need to vent, but still finding that hearing it only upset her more. She could find no satisfaction in denying Xander the forgiveness he sought. But at this point, she had to think of Spike’s needs first, and she was certain that receiving Xander back with open arms would be terribly foolish.

First of all, she felt that it would give Spike the impression that she felt like what Xander had done was no big deal, and that could serve to reinforce the ideas he was struggling with that abuse and mistreatment was his due, what he should expect.

Secondly, as much as she wanted to believe that Xander had had a true change of heart, she knew from experience that opinions as strong as Xander’s had been did not change overnight – not without some major event to trigger such a change. Even if Xander never again tried to physically harm Spike, she was fairly certain that it would only be to stay on her good side.

Xander’s obviously intense hatred for Spike alone was enough to have a negative impact on his recovery, even if Xander attempted to veil it for her benefit. Spike was too perceptive to miss it, no matter how good Xander’s deception. And she simply could not allow anything more to add to Spike’s insecurity and self-doubt. Right now he needed nothing but love and support.

“Well, that was…awkward, wasn’t it, love?” his soft voice spoke behind her as he entered the kitchen, full of concern, and a little trepidation. He was testing the waters, cautious and unsure of her mood after her confrontation with Xander.

She did not turn from where she stood at the counter, bracing herself against it with her hands. “That’s putting it lightly,” she nodded wearily as she responded in a dark tone.

He moved closer to her, slowly, not wanting to overstep his bounds, and a bit unsure as to where exactly those bounds were. He had begun to feel much safer and more comfortable with her, especially after last night, but he still had a tendency to feel nervous when faced with anyone in a volatile sort of mood.

“Buffy,” he began quietly, placing a gentle hand on her arm, and she turned to face him, the hard angry set of her jaw and glint in her eyes softening at the apprehensive look on his face. She forced a little smile in an attempt to put him at ease, though she knew he could see right through it, and just looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on.

“I think – I think he meant it, love,” he said softly, looking at the floor as he spoke, but then hesitantly looking up to meet her eyes, to see her reaction to his words.

Buffy’s eyes widened in surprise. That Spike, of all people -- the *victim* in the whole scenario, was coming to Xander’s defense – was amazing to her. She somehow thought that it should have made her feel more forgiving toward Xander – if Spike could forgive him when he was the one who had been wronged, how could she hold it against him?

But it didn’t. Instead, it just made her resent Xander’s behavior even more, to see Spike’s kindness toward him, in contrast to the cruelty Xander had displayed.

“Yeah, so did I. The first time,” she sighed. “Right before he…” She stopped, shaking her head angrily before bursting out, “My God, every time I think about what he did, I just want to…to…” She shook her head again, at a loss for words.

Spike shuddered at the memory. In the moment of the incident, Xander had terrified him. He had been certain that the boy was going to inflict brutal suffering on him with the chip controller; he could clearly remember the image of Xander’s furious, hate-filled eyes focused on him as he spouted out insults and threats.

The boy who had been at the door a few minutes before – well, he was hardly the same person.

“I know, Buffy,” he replied quietly, knowing that Buffy’s anger, much greater than his own at this point, would not allow her to see the truth that was clear to him – not just yet. “But…if he really wants to make it right…”

Buffy shook her head again, emphatic. “I’m not…I’m not ready to forgive him, Spike,” she admitted. “I think – I think I need to just be angry a little while longer.”

He was quiet for a moment, taking in her words. Then he added with a soft surety, “That’s what you *want*, pet. What you *need* just might be something else entirely.”

She looked up at him, a little surprised by the direct accuracy of the comment. A slow smile spread across her lips as she looked into his eyes. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she realized. Spike had always seen right through the mind games she played with herself – long before she had, most times.

“Well…you know how I am about getting what I want,” she shrugged, her tone flippant, aiming for casual. She knew he was right; she didn’t want to admit it outright just yet, though; because that might mean she would have to act on it.

He laughed softly. “Got a point, love,” he conceded, not pushing any further at the moment. It might take a little more time than he had spent to get her to do what he knew she needed to do.

She laughed with him, moving away from the counter and slowly forward into his arms, leaning her head against his chest, relishing the strong support of his body that she had missed so badly. Her laughter died out and she let out a weary sigh, leaning against him almost unconsciously, needing his support so badly at the moment.

So many times over the past few months she had been faced with one difficult situation or another, and in weariness or confusion longed for him to be there, just to hold her and make her feel safe. Even over the past couple of weeks, as glad as she was to have him back and as willing as she was to do whatever he needed to help him recover, she had still missed the Spike who had been her tower of strength, whether she wanted to admit she needed him at the time or not.

Now, he wrapped his arms around her gently, pulling her close to him, as always sensing her need and responding to it. In a clear contrast to most of the events since his return, he moved one hand up to cup the back of her head, his fingers slowly moving in a comforting motion through her hair, as he murmured into her hair, “It’s all right, love. It’s gonna be all right.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “Xander’s been my friend for so long. We’ve literally been through hell together.” She looked up into his eyes suddenly, her gaze deep and searching, as she went on passionately, “But you mean everything to me, Spike. There’s no one in the world more important to me than you…except maybe Dawn,” she conceded with a little tilt of her head. “And even that’s a little hard to say at the moment.”

She allowed herself a small, sheepish smile before going on, her expression becoming serious again, “To think that he did that …that he deliberately put you through that…whether he meant to actually *do* anything or not…I just can’t get past it.”

He said nothing, just continued to hold her, looking down and just past her with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I know it’s hard, love,” he allowed softly. “But I think that until you do…it’s going to keep on eating you up inside until you can’t stand it.”

“Probably so,” Buffy sighed sadly. Her lips formed a depressed pout as she looked away from him, frowning, and added, “Guess I’m doomed.”

“Far from it, pet,” he chuckled softly, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

She looked back up at him, the starry-eyed expression of having just rediscovered a great love in her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss him.

The almost awestruck look in his eyes was his response, as at the moment he seemed too amazed at the good fortune that had befallen him to even formulate a response.

“Well,” he finally said, clearing his throat and looking away a little with a slightly uncomfortable laugh; the moment had gotten a bit intense. “I suppose I’d better look in on the Niblet…see if she’s out of murderous-rampage mode yet.”

“I highly doubt it,” Buffy muttered darkly, thinking that her sister’s rage toward Xander had made hers seem like mere annoyance. Buffy honestly believed that if it was in Dawn’s power to do Xander serious physical harm, she probably would.

Spike slowly disentangled himself from her arms and headed toward the doorway to the living room, as Buffy began idly, listlessly straightening up the kitchen. At the door, Spike stopped for a moment with a little half-turn toward her.

She glanced up and saw him standing there, waiting, trying to compose his words, and paused, looking up at him with expectancy.

“There was a time, I’m sure, love,” he pointed out quietly, “when you thought you’d never forgive *me*, either.” If he was feeling the usual shame at the thought of his past actions, his voice did not betray it. It was calm and even, and his words were brief but poignant. The simple truth in them smote her heart.

She had been able to finally forgive Spike…when she had come to understand how much she truly cared for him – how much her relationship with him really meant to her.

How much did her relationship with Xander mean to her?

She froze; she couldn’t find the breath to speak, as he went on slowly toward the stairs.


When Spike followed Buffy into the kitchen, Dawn just sat there on the couch fuming for a few moments, allowing her rage at her former friend to run rampant through her thoughts. How dare he even show his face here after what he’d done? And to ask them – to ask *Spike* -- to forgive him! He didn’t deserve forgiveness! He deserved…

Her thoughts had suddenly taken a different turn, as she remembered what she had not when she had seen Xander at the door.

Her vengeance wish.

Her eyes widened. She had distinctly heard Anya speak the word, “Done.” right after she had made the wish. She knew that the vengeance demon had to have carried it out. Quickly she rose from the couch and went upstairs to the quiet privacy of her room.

As soon as she had closed the door behind her, she sat on her bed and began to focus on Anya, trying to get her to show up. Anya had told her just to call…but Dawn realized ruefully that she wasn’t sure exactly how.

Apparently it was rather simple, because within moments Anya materialized in front of her.

“What’s up, Dawnie?” she asked immediately. “Ready for your second vengeance wish?”

“Not quite. Almost,” Dawn answered impatiently. “First I wanna know about the first one.”

Anya suddenly looked very uncomfortable, looking away, not meeting Dawn’s eyes. “Not much to tell. You wished for Xander to understand what Spike went through. He does now. That’s about it.”

“It can’t be that simple,” Dawn shook her head, crossing her arms and standing up to face Anya. “*How* could he possibly understand?”

The anger in her trembling voice made Anya wonder. “What brought this sudden curiosity on?” she asked her. “That was days ago. And you’re just now asking me how it went?”

“Well,” Dawn felt defensive for no good reason. “a lot’s been going on. They did the healing spell for Spike, and he got really sick, and he just started feeling better today…” She paused before admitting, “And Xander showed up here today. Wanting to *apologize*!” She practically spat out the last word in contempt. “And…” she shrugged self-consciously. “I guess…it just made me wonder.”

Anya didn’t respond for a moment. Finally she answered, her voice quiet and expressionless with her effort to hold back the emotions the memories of the last few days brought out in her.

“I made him go through it. What Spike went through. I made him see it…as if he was really there…as if it happened to *him*.”

Dawn was struck speechless for a moment. “You can *do* that?” she finally replied in amazement.

Anya nodded. “It was very…real…for him. And I think…I think he really understands now,” she struggled to get the words out in a trembling voice, the knowledge of what the man she loved had gone through, and at her hands, still painful for her.

“He couldn’t,” Dawn denied it, shaking her head, unwilling to release her anger. “There’s no way…” Suddenly, her eyes widened as a terrible thought occurred to her and she looked up at Anya in accusation. “Did you show him…?” she stopped, unable to even bring herself to speak the shameful words.

Anya knew immediately what she was talking about and quickly responded with an emphatic shake of her head. “No. I promised Spike I wouldn’t tell anyone. You only know because you overheard us. I wouldn’t do that to him.” She paused, looking down, her voice softer when she continued, “I wouldn’t do that to *Xander*.”

After a moment’s silence, she went on with certainty, “But everything else. The torture…everything…he went through it, Dawn. It wasn’t *like* he was really there…he *was* there.”

Dawn had no words as she considered what Anya had told her. If that was true…if Xander had *really* experienced what Spike had experienced, as if it were really happening to him…then maybe his apology had been sincere after all. Maybe he was truly sorry this time.

She could feel herself automatically hardening, resisting the impulse toward compassion for the person who had hurt her best friend so badly. Did it matter if he was truly sorry? Did his suffering mean that he deserved forgiveness?

“Thanks, Anya,” she said automatically, suddenly wanting to be alone…to think all this through. “I just…wanted to know.”

Anya didn’t say anything for a moment. When she finally spoke, she changed the subject. “How much longer do you think it’s gonna take?” she asked, a note of impatience in her voice. “I mean…whatever you want to do…let’s get it done…so I can stop worrying about what way Buffy is going to kill me when she finds out I’ve put you in danger.”

“Not much longer, Anya,” Dawn assured her. “I’ve got everything planned out, exactly how I want it to go. There’s just a couple more things I have to do first. Then I’ll be ready.” She stopped, but Anya kept looking at her in anticipation, as if she expected more of an answer than that.

“Another couple days...at the most,” Dawn sighed, impatient herself. She was finding that she did not have the connections or worldly knowledge that her sister had. Setting up something like what she had in mind was more difficult than she had thought, and it was taking longer.

But now, she was sure that she was almost ready to carry out her vengeance on Warren.

Very soon, he would pay for the devastation he had wrought on the closest friend she had ever had. The single kick in the face she had managed to deliver the day they had rescued Spike would seem like a love tap to the little psychopath once she got done with him.

They heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and with a little nod, Anya vanished from sight. A moment later, there was a quiet knock on her door.

“Come in,” she called, and Spike opened the door.

He entered with a tentative smile at her, and she felt her angry mood softening at the sight of him. But just because the feeling of anger faded a bit on the surface did not mean it was not still smoldering away deep inside her.

Spike seemed to be doing so much better, just since this morning, she noticed, pleased. He was beginning to regain his confidence, his security, and seem more like his old self.

But there was still that quiet solemnness, that hesitancy that was so unlike him. The scars Warren had left on him went far beyond the physical ones – though those were many as well. Dawn thought bitterly that it would take a lot longer than a week or two for Spike to find complete healing, to feel truly safe.

Well, she was going to help along the process. When she was done, Warren would no longer pose even the slightest threat to Spike or anyone else, and he would know it beyond all doubt.

She returned his smile warmly, thinking to herself as she beckoned him on into her room.

*Soon, Spike…I’ll make that little creep wish he’d never touched you…soon.*

“Are you over your desire for random bloodshed yet, or should I come back later?” Spike asked Dawn in a teasing voice, peeking his head around the door, waiting for her answer before he went all the way into the room.

She almost laughed aloud, in spite of herself, though she really wanted to hold onto her mad, was trying very hard to do so. “Not quite over it,” she replied with a shrug. “But you can join in on the bloodlust. You’ve got more experience with it than I do, anyway.”

“Maybe you should give the Whelp a break,” he suggested with a smile, as he came to it on the bed beside her. His stance was casual, non-confrontational; he didn’t want her to think he was trying to lecture her. “He looked bloody miserable out there.”

“He *should* be bloody miserable!” Dawn countered, echoing his wording without even thinking about it. Then, she *did* think about it, and smiled. “Emphasis on the blood.”

“Oh, come on, now, Bit,” he laughed softly, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Everyone makes mistakes. I should know.” He paused, looking off into space for a moment and frowning thoughtfully as he added in an ironic sort of tone, “Round here, mostly for the love of Buffy.” He looked back at her as he explained, “He thought he was protecting her – and you too, most likely, Bit.”

“*Protecting* me? From you?” Dawn was incredulous. “First of all – you’d never hurt me. Stupid Xander! He’s the one who’s scary! And secondly…” She looked him up and down in an exaggeratedly appraising expression as she smirked, “I could *so* kick your butt right now!”

“Could not!” he argued in a slightly offended sort of voice, but he was not really. The words had not been spoken in a mean-spirited way; Dawn was simply joking around with her friend. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, Bit, but I’m feeling right better, you know. Not back up to top form just yet – but you better be careful, cause I can still take you on anytime!”

“Sure,” she scoffed, not unkindly, glancing sideways at him from her spot beside him on the bed, not moving a bit – suspiciously still, Spike thought suddenly – as the corner of her mouth began to twitch upward with her effort to suppress a secret smile. Then, suddenly, her fingers shot out, aiming for his ribcage.

He yelped out a helpless laugh, clumsily pushing her back as he tried to avoid her hands. “Hey, now! That’s not allowed, Niblet! No, cut that out, that doesn’t count!”

After a brief, chaotic struggle, they found themselves in a stand-off of sorts. She was reaching toward him to try to tickle him again, but he had caught her arms and was holding her back firmly, so that neither was actually moving at all, as their eyes met in a shared expression of laughter and challenge.

Dawn tried to pull away from him, but found herself unable to break the grip he had on her wrists. Blue eyes sparkling as he realized that he had gained the upper hand, Spike lowered his head in a mock-threatening way, his trademark smirk in place, a low playful growl rising in his throat.

Her eyes widened in surprise and she squealed in delighted childish panic, anticipating his return attack. “No! Don’t!” she laughed, meaning it and not meaning it both at the same time.

Though he was nowhere near his full strength yet, he *was* stronger than she was, and he slowly, dragging out the anticipation, brought her wrists together and held them in one hand, reaching with the other to tickle her mercilessly.

She screamed and twisted and fought to get away, laughing wildly, but his grip was too strong. Only when she was gasping for breath, tears streaming from her eyes, and her sides aching with laughter, did he finally release her, leaving her lying across the bed, breathing hard, still laughing as she tried to recover.

“Butthead,” she muttered through her laughter, once she was able to speak again, slapping at him weakly.

“Told you,” he replied with a smug note in his voice to match the triumphant smile on his face.

“You tricked me,” she accused him good-naturedly, then mimicked him sarcastically, “ ‘Oh, I’m weak and helpless and injured, go easy on me…oh, just kidding! Now that I’ve got you fooled I’m gonna *totally* kick your butt!”

He laughed. “Wasn’t a trick, pet,” he admitted quietly, smiling down at her. “Blame your big sis.”

She was confused for a moment, still finding complete rational thoughts difficult to form, before she realized his meaning and let out a little snort of teasing laughter. “Nice little side benefit you’ve got there,” she remarked with a smile. “Awesome supportive relationship, great sex, with a side of super-strength to go, please.”

He let out a little laugh in response to her joke…just before all of her words sank in and he did a little double-take, giving her a shocked look.

“What?” she demanded, sitting up and raising her hands in a questioning, defensive gesture. She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “I’m not twelve, Spike,” she pointed out, giving him a look. “Please! Like you and Buffy don’t…” her words suddenly trailed off, as she shook her head slightly in surprise, her eyes widening at the expression on his face. “You mean you don’t…”

“No, I *don’t*!” he stated emphatically, standing up and taking a backward step away from her, shaking his head, holding his hands in front of him in an I-don’t-want-any-bloody-part-of-this sort of gesture. “I *don’t* plan on having this bloody conversation with you!” He stared down at her, still a little stunned, amazed by the girl’s nerve.

He wasn’t really angry, just shocked. But there was no way in the world he was going to discuss his and Buffy’s sexual relationship – or current lack thereof – with Buffy’s little sister, no matter how close he was to her.

The intimacy he had shared with Buffy in the giving and receiving of her blood was really the only intimacy they had experienced since he had come back. Oh, there had been plenty of slow, sensual kissing, whenever they could sneak it in actually, without making things *too* uncomfortable for Dawn or whoever else happened to be around.

But since that first time when they had seemed to be headed in that direction, right after Xander pulled the stunt that was the last straw for Buffy, and his shameful secret had come out, neither had initiated taking things any further than kissing again.

He knew why he hadn’t. He simply hadn’t been able to find the nerve. At first, he had simply not felt it appropriate considering what he had done to Buffy. Then, as he began to accept the fact that she genuinely was not holding it against him anymore, that became less and less of an issue.

The issue was his behavior that first night, when she had initiated it. He was terribly ashamed of himself when he remembered it, breaking down in tears like a child, ruining what could have been a passionate moment between them with his pathetic “issues”. A part of him was afraid of having a similar emotional reaction next time, and all of him was embarrassed at the thought of reminding Buffy of the last time – all of it adding up to his simply not feeling brave enough to make the first move with her anymore.

He could only guess at why Buffy hadn’t tried to start anything since then, either. Maybe she was also trying to avoid another such embarrassing little scene. Maybe, he thought with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, she was no longer attracted to him in that way after witnessing his pitiful display of weakness.

Or maybe, she was just trying not to push him before he was ready, restraining her own impulses toward pleasure and intimacy for his benefit. Of course, that option didn’t actually occur to Spike. He was fairly certain that whatever her reason was, it had something to do with his own failure to be what she needed.

Seeing her friend’s darkening expression, as all this flashed through his mind in a matter of moments, Dawn shrugged, keeping her expression and tone light. “Betcha didn’t plan on this either,” she announced, rising slowly from the bed and then suddenly lunging at him, hands outstretched to begin her counter-offensive.

And in a matter of moments, his mind was no longer contemplating the depths of his failure, but rather how he could gain the upper hand again in the delightful little battle with his infuriating, wonderful, wise-beyond-her-years friend, who always seemed to know just when to *make* him talk about it, and when to just distract him so thoroughly that he couldn’t think about his troubles anymore.


Buffy entered Dawn’s bedroom a few minutes later and stopped short in surprise at the sight before her. Spike lay sprawled across the bed, gasping for breath he didn’t need, one hand holding his stomach, aching from laughter. Dawn was slumped down in the wicker chair in the corner of her room, still fighting off giggles, gasping for breath she *did* need, as they tried to recover from their latest round.

Buffy’s eyebrows raised, and she smiled, asking mildly, “Do I even *want* to know?”

“Tickle fight,” Dawn explained simply.

“Oh,” Buffy nodded, accepting the explanation as perfectly natural and normal.

In this house, it was about as normal as it got.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said, smiling through warm, excited eyes at them both. “I don’t know about you guys, but I could really, *really* do with a night out.”

Dawn sat up a little straighter, interest in her eyes. “Keep going, I’m listening,” she remarked, grinning broadly.

Spike sat up on the bed again, looking at her with a guarded expression, not showing any reaction, good or bad, to her half-finished suggestion.

“I know you must be tired of just being inside all the time,” Buffy said to him with a little sideways shrug and a grimace of sympathy. “So I was thinking…how about we hit the Bronze? Just us three?”

“Yea!” Dawn squealed, getting up out of the chair. “I need to find something slutty to wear,” she breezed, heading for her closet.

“Yeah, and then you need to pick out something with stripes for the prison sentence that will follow,” Buffy shot back, eyebrows raised again, this time not so pleasantly.

At the exact same time, Spike said, “Over my cold pile of ashes, Niblet!”

Their eyes met and they both laughed. God, they were starting to feel like a real family, Buffy realized with a warmth spreading through her at the thought. It felt so nice.

“Ok. Nothing that screams ‘hooker’,” Dawn conceded with a sigh, browsing through the clothes in her closet.

“Let’s be ready to go in half an hour, okay?” Buffy told her, beckoning with her hand for Spike to follow her to her bedroom as she walked out the door.

He complied, but the moment they were out of Dawn’s room, his smile faded into a troubled, uneasy expression. Buffy caught it, but said nothing until they were in her room and she had firmly shut the door.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him, going to him immediately and wrapping her arms around his neck, looking up into his eyes with affection and concern.

“Oh it’s nothing, love,” he replied, not meeting her eyes, swallowing hard as he tried to keep his voice casual. “It’s just…’m not so sure I’m…up to this yet…you know?”

She nodded, holding his gaze solemnly. She did know what he meant. And she also knew that that was the very reason she needed to get him out of this house…soon. She knew that he had spent five long, brutal months inside Warren’s house, never leaving even for a moment, trapped. Then, even since they had rescued him two weeks ago, he had not left *her* house once. He had to know in his mind that he was not a prisoner, that he could leave anytime he wanted.

But she wasn’t so sure about his heart. Over the course of his ordeal, Spike had developed the attitude of a prisoner. Doing as he was told, when he was told, keeping his mouth shut…and staying put….all marks of his slavery, that he had maintained for the most part, even here.

Buffy just knew that getting him back out into the world, helping him to break through the fear that he had to have of it, now, after so long in isolation, would be key to his recovery – reminding him of all the things he’d missed out on for so long – all the things that could now be his again.

“I know,” she said softly. “But the thing is,” she kissed him softly, tempering her words with affection as she went on, “I think…if you don’t just make yourself get out there … you never *will* feel up to it, Spike.”

He sighed; deep down, he knew she was right. And he really couldn’t understand the reasons behind the sick, anxious feeling that had come over him when she had mentioned her idea. Why should he be afraid to go outside? There was nothing to be afraid of anymore!

There wasn’t. There *wasn’t*.

Why couldn’t he just feel sure? he wondered in painful frustration. The person he had been before wouldn’t have been afraid at the thought of a night at the Bronze. In fact, the Bronze would have seemed a bit tame for his taste.

She was right, he decided suddenly. He had to just force himself to get out there again. Once he did, he would see for himself that it was all right, it was safe, it was okay for him to *live* again.

“You’re right, love. Maybe a good time is just the thing.” he said, a note of resolve in his voice as he looked at her with determination. “Let’s go.”

Buffy decided that it would be best if they took her mom’s old SUV to the Bronze instead of walking at they usually did. Spike was on the verge of freaking out as it was over the simple idea of even going out at all; she didn’t think he needed the added freak-out factor that an after-dark walk on the Hellmouth always seemed to turn out to be. She didn’t want to cause him any unnecessary emotional turmoil, or to place him in a dangerous situation while he was clearly still unable – at least psychologically – to defend himself.

Dawn rushed on ahead of them out to the car. Maybe she was unaware of the great impact that this whole thing was having on her friend. Or maybe she simply recognized that Buffy was the one he needed to help him deal with this particular challenge.

Without thinking about it, though very much aware of his rising tension, the panic that was slowly threatening to consume him, she took his hand as they neared the front door, wanting to be as supportive as she could in every way that she could.

Her unspoken acknowledgement of the anxiety he was feeling made him feel the freedom to show it. He drew a deep, shaky breath, only physically unnecessary, before giving her a look of pleading uncertainty.

“Buffy,” he whispered. “I – I can’t…”

She stopped, turning toward him, and taking his other hand in hers, looking him in the eyes with her own full of a gentle concern. “Spike,” she replied in a quiet, firm voice, “You’re gonna be fine.” She paused, searching his fearful blue eyes to see if her words were having any effect.

“You aren’t a prisoner anymore,” Buffy reminded him, slowly and clearly, her voice soft with compassion and affection. “You have every right to go out there and – and *live*, Baby. Okay?”

Looking down, unable to meet her eyes through his overwhelming insecurity and shame, yet wanting desperately to be able to trust her reassurances, he nodded, swallowing hard, but couldn’t say a word.

She reached a hand up to tenderly touch his cheek, drawing his eyes back up to hers, and she could see in them that he was simply sick with fear at the very thought of facing the world from which he had been isolated for so long.

He saw the understanding of what he was feeling in her eyes, and all it did was make him feel more ashamed of his pathetic weakness, his fear over something so ordinary, that he wouldn’t have given a second thought six months ago. “I – I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling utterly inadequate and unworthy of the love of a powerful, self-assured woman like her.

Somehow, his gaze found the floor again.

And somehow, her lips found his, kissing him slowly, thoroughly, taking her time to show him that his fears were unfounded, that she still found him extremely desirable. After a few moments, she felt his tentative response to her kiss, and knew that she was getting through to him.

When they finally parted, he said softly, “I know it’s ridiculous, love – that it’s stupid for me to be such a bloody ponce about all this…”

Buffy shook her head firmly as she interrupted, “No. No, it’s totally normal after everything you’ve been through, Spike. You haven’t been outside in five months, Honey. It’s gonna feel a little weird.” She paused, then amended with a little grimace, “A *lot* weird, actually. But don’t try and blame yourself for this, like everything else. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Logically speaking, her words made sense; he knew she was right. He was just having a lot of trouble making his heart see it that way. His fragile, traitorous heart still felt that he had everything to be ashamed of.

When he didn’t respond, Buffy went on in a softer voice, “I know this isn’t easy. But I’m here for you…to help you through it. I want you to know that I’m going to make sure that you’re perfectly safe tonight. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

He let out a quiet little huff of self-derision, shaking his head with a little self-directed sneer. “You’re the one who ought to have your bloody life back, pet,” he pointed out apologetically. “You’ve been cooped up in this house for the past two weeks, doing nothing but looking after *me*. You shouldn’t have to feel like you’ve got to be attached to my bloody hip all night, love, on your first night out in so long.”

He hated to think that her evening would be spoiled because she felt that she had to spend all her attention on protecting him.

Buffy smiled slowly, leaning up to kiss him again. “That’s okay,” she murmured into his ear as she ended the kiss. “More than okay. Since I was pretty much planning on the hip-joiny thing, either way, whether we went out or not.”

She kissed him again before meeting his eyes and going on in a passionate voice, the depth of emotion in her eyes nearly taking his breath away. “I have every intention of spending *every moment* of this night with you. Not because I have to; because there’s no one else I’d rather spend it with.”

Her honest affection, her obvious desire for him, warmed him and soothed the raging self-hatred and disgust he was still battling, battled every day of his life. Pulling away to face the door, still holding her hand, though much more tightly than he realized he was doing, he stepped deliberately out the door onto the porch.

With the first breath of the crisp night air, the taste and smell of it, the familiar yet oddly foreign surroundings of Buffy’s neighborhood, a wealth of memories came flooding back to him. Many, many evenings he had spent outside her house, watching for any glimpse of her…and also watching over her. Back then, he had felt an intense desire to protect her from any harm. He had been prepared…no, *eager*…to take on any threat that attempted to hurt her.

What had happened to that reckless, itching-for-a-fight person that he had been? As he stood there for a moment, still, just taking it all in, breathing in the clean, sweet smell of the air around him, he thought that maybe…just maybe…he was still there, deep down.

And little by little, he was regaining the courage to come out of the dark, quiet refuge into which he had been driven.

Buffy’s hand squeezing his gently drew him back to the moment, and he smiled bravely at her.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she murmured, her intense green eyes dancing with delight as she watched the small victory take place right before them. The simple words held a depth of meaning beyond the surface. She looked so happy, and he realized she was right. Though it seemed so pitifully small, this was actually an important step for him.

He felt his heart surge with pride and happiness when he realized how very pleased she was with the progress he had made. Looking into her eyes, seeing how she was trembling with thrilled excitement, he was once again breathless, wanting nothing more than to hold her in his arms.

He moved forward to put his hands on her arms in a subtlely possessive way that he wouldn’t have dared weeks ago, meeting her gaze and matching its intensity as he replied in a low, husky voice, “Yes, love. Beautiful.”

Now it was Buffy’s turn to be breathless as she realized the double meaning of his words, and saw the obvious yearning in his expression. Without even realizing she was doing it, she leaned in closer, her eyes never leaving his.

Just then, the back seat passenger window rolled down and Dawn’s face appeared, with an exagerratedly bored expression, resting her chin in her hand.

“Come on, you guys. The single teenage girl with no life needs a little excitement of her own. You guys can make out at the Bronze; no one’ll notice. Let’s go!” she urged them, but she was smiling.

Buffy and Spike exchanged a look, both of them remembering many times when they had done just that; she was right, no one had noticed, even when things had gone much further than “making out”. The spell broken, but not uncomfortably, they got into the van, Buffy in the driver’s seat, and headed off for an evening of fun.


Dawn found her excitement, all right, much to Spike’s dismay. They had been at the Bronze for about an hour, and after a couple of drinks and time to see that there was no obvious danger, he could feel himself starting to relax. He watched the people around him, laughing and talking and dancing, and remembered when he had felt that easy and comfortable and carefree.

And he was surprised to find that instead of feeling depressed at the contrast with his current state, he began to think that it really didn’t look so difficult.

Perhaps he could find that place again.

Buffy returned from getting them drinks, placing them on the table and sitting down. She leaned back against him, relaxing as she watched the band, and he automatically put his arm around her, feeling the familiar warmth and comfortable snugness of the way her body fit so well against his.

Perhaps he had found that place already…he just needed to get used to it…figure out how to live there again.

And suddenly, his mind had been drawn from his introspection when he noticed Dawn, finding the excitement she had craved out on the dance floor. She had found some boy she knew, a surly teenager, probably from her school, who radiated attitude and that particular danger that came with irresponsible teenage male hormones.

“Who is that?” he frowned as he asked Buffy, his voice a little sharp.

She looked up at him in surprise, her mouth turning up in a teasing smile. “I think his name is Ryan. She goes to school with him.” She paused before she added, “Overprotective much?”

“Not a bit, love,” he muttered. “I know what that little prat’s got on his bloody mind, and I know what’s helpin’ to put it there. Where in the bleedin’ hell did she learn to dance like that?”

Buffy laughed, amused by his protective anger. “Probably the same place I did when I was her age,” she guessed with a little shrug, turning back to look at her sister. As she watched her, Dawn moved her body in a way that seemed to come instinctively at a certain point during adolescence, a slow smirk forming on her lips as she looked the boy she was dancing with, aware of the effect she was having on him.

Suddenly, Buffy wasn’t so sure that Spike was being so overprotective after all. “Okay, maybe that’s enough dancing,” she said slowly, frowning.

“Told you,” Spike muttered, his own smirk beginning at her admission of his right-ness, in spite of his concern for Dawn.

He allowed his searing gaze to focus on Dawn until he finally caught her eye across the crowded room. She immediately saw the look in his eyes, and he watched in irritation as she rolled her eyes, her smile widening in amusement.

However, after a few moments, she excused herself easily from her dance partner and made her way with grace and confidence across the room toward her sister and her boyfriend, well aware of the effect she had on the many boys who turned their heads to look at her as she passed them.

Spike wanted to personally drain every last one of them.

She reached them and joined them at the table, smiling and waving at the boy she had just left on the dance floor, who was still looking across the room and trying to catch her attention.

“We so should do this more often,” she declared, a gleeful note in her voice.

“We so should not,” Buffy argued emphatically, her eyebrows raised. “I have to live in this town and see a lot of these people all the time. I have a reputation to maintain.” There was a teasing, sarcastic note in her voice, but her eyes showed that not all of her disapproval was a joke.

Dawn turned to look at her, pretending to be surprised by the severe expression on her sister’s face. “What?” she demanded, her hands raised in a gesture of mock innocence. “I was just dancing!”

“Is that what you call that, pet?” Spike snorted. “I call it shaggin’ upright’s what I call it. Not rightly appropriate for a public place, Bit.” He frowned, realizing what he’d just said, and added quickly and emphatically, “Or in your case, *ever*!”

Buffy glanced at him without meaning to, and their eyes met in a moment of memory. Buffy blushed bright red and looked away, and he coughed suddenly, unable to look at Dawn for a moment, as if she would somehow see there the secret recollection he and Buffy were sharing at the moment – the recollection of the “vertical shagging” they had quite literally done in this very place.

Dawn rolled her eyes, completely unaware. “I’m gonna go get a drink,” she announced, shaking her head, dismissing their concern with a wave of her hand as she walked away.

At this point they were both too distracted by their memories to say another word to her.

*Don’t think about that. That was dirty and wrong,* Buffy reminded herself, not looking at either of them for a moment. *Not because it was Spike…just because it was wrong.*

That had happened at a very bad time in both of their lives, she thought. They shouldn’t have done it. It had been cheap and disrespectful to each other and irresponsible and….

So. Incredibly. Hot.

True, it had been wrong, and she would never consider doing something so tacky and obscene now. Especially not now. But that didn’t mean that it hadn’t felt good…the memory of Spike’s hands…holding her…touching her…his need for her obvious in every slow, enticing motion…

*Oh, God, I want him so bad!* she realized desperately.

He chanced a glance at her through uncertain eyes, wondering what she was thinking. He had seen in her eyes that she was remembering exactly what he was. He wondered how it made her feel now, to think about it, to think of the way they had hurt each other…the way he had hurt her, tried to make her see herself as the same dark, wicked thing as he had been.

And he wondered if she could see in his eyes how the memory made him desire her. He hoped she couldn’t. It would surely sicken and disgust her to think that anything about that terrible time in their lives, when they had spent so much time using and degrading each other, could awaken in him such a need.

But it had not all been dark and ugly. He remembered the times when her touch had been soft, gentle…yearning and desperate for him, admitting it in her body though she never would have in her words.

And now she told him with her words…but had yet to tell him with her body.

Suddenly, she was standing in front of him, taking him by the hands and pulling him to his feet. He looked up from the floor where his attention had been focused as his thoughts had circled around, to see once again her dazzling emerald eyes, dark with need and sparkling with anticipation.

Her mouth turned up at the corner in the beginnings of an enticing smile as she spoke, her voice low and sultry.

“Wanna dance?”

The moment seemed to freeze for them, as each was aware of nothing but the swirling tumult of emotions in the other’s eyes. Her small, soft, hot hands tugged on his as she backed gracefully toward the dance floor, just as the strains of a sweet and haunting ballad began to play.

They reached the center of the dance floor, unhindered by the other couples that began to slowly fill in the spaces around them. Buffy leaned in closer to him, one hand resting just at the waistband of his jeans, the other reaching up his back toward his shoulders, softly stroking her fingers across the space between them.

Automatically, naturally, without a hint of the awkwardness that had become second nature to him, Spike’s arms slipped around her, one hand cupping at the small of her back, pressing her closer to him, as the other came slowly around to meet it, encircling her in a subtlely possessive way.

His “second nature” of shame meant nothing at the moment. What they were both acting on was *first* nature – pure instinct. Each knew in a subconscious, intuitive way that the other belonged to them only.

Buffy just couldn’t seem to get close enough to him, as the music intensified, and with it her rising desire. Almost of their own accord, her hands began to move slowly up and down his back in a slow, sensuously possessive way that drove both of them mad with need.

Her eyes shone up into his for a moment, before she leaned her cheek against his chest, whispering against him, knowing that he could still hear her, “I love dancing with you. I could never do anything else and be totally happy.”

“We never *have* done anything else, love,” he reminded her in a low, throaty voice, his hands at her waist tightening, edging lower, pulling her even closer against him. The simple motion made it clear that his desire matched hers, promising a different sort of dance to come later, in privacy.

And suddenly, Buffy wasn’t sure if she would last through the end of this dance.


From the bar where she waited for the virgin strawberry daiquiri she had ordered, Dawn watched Buffy and Spike on the dance floor, smiling with pride and elation at the admiring looks cast their way by the other dancing couples surrounding the two stunning blondes. Each of them noticeably attractive on their own, they were even more impressive together, and in a perfect harmony of rhythmic motion.

It was clear even from here that they were completely unaware of the attention they were drawing, absolutely absorbed in each other. Dawn felt a warm glow come over her; she was just so thrilled at the way everything was working out.

Spike was doing so much better; he and Buffy seemed to be falling deeper into love every moment; and her plan for vengeance against Warren was coming along nicely. She just had a little errand to do tomorrow, while Buffy was at work at the Doublemeat Palace, and hopefully everything would be ready to go after that.

Idly she scanned the crowd, thinking what an awesome idea it had been to come here tonight. A little fun was good for all of them, after the extreme stress of the past few weeks – for some of them longer – even if things were already beginning to look up.

Suddenly, her eyes fell on a familiar figure, standing near the stairs to the upper level, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the couple in the center of the dance floor – as nearly everyone else in the room was doing. But his familiarity was not the warm, friendly, comfortable type.

It was the type of familiarity that made Dawn want to commit first degree murder in front of a couple hundred witnesses.

Warren.

Her heart did a sick little flip of fear, mingling with the force of her rising fury to make her feel suddenly violently ill. She glanced quickly, anxiously toward the dance floor, wondering if Buffy or Spike had noticed him yet. She hoped that Spike wouldn’t; that was the last thing he needed after everything he had been through, just now when he was only beginning to defeat the fear that had consumed his life.

She wondered angrily how the boy had managed to get out of jail. She had seen on the local news how he had been arrested for the bank robberies, but hadn’t kept up with developments since. So why had he been released, why was he free to roam the streets, to come in here and threaten the fledgling courage that Spike was just beginning to develop? Why was he free at all, when Spike was still imprisoned by the memories of the torture he had endured at his hands?

Satisfied that Buffy and Spike were far too distracted by each other to even be aware that there was *anyone* else in the Bronze besides them, Dawn turned her eyes back to Warren, staring at him with a vicious hatred. He was watching Buffy and Spike intently, with just the hint of a smirk on his face, an expression of mingled mockery and menace.

Even from across the room she could see that it was only the fear of Buffy that kept him from crossing the room to the blissfully unaware couple.

She felt her fury rising up, so strong that it nearly physically smothered her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. All she wanted to do was to march up to him and choke the life out of him, beat him with her fists, just *hurt* him until there wasn’t enough left of him to ever hurt her friend again.

*The plan,* she reminded herself. *Think of the plan. In a couple days you’ll be able to do a lot more damage than you could possibly do now.*

She glanced back toward Buffy and Spike, who were by now giving her an excellent example of the “upright shagging” Spike had warned her against a few minutes before – they weren’t paying a bit of attention to what she was doing.

She made her decision in a moment, and left her untouched daiquiri on the bar, striding purposefully toward the stairs and the object of her wrath.


Buffy’s eyes were closed as she leaned her head against Spike’s chest, her arms holding him tightly to her, just enjoying the feeling of being so close to him. She slowly breathed in the unique fragrance that was distinctly his – old leather and cigarette smoke and a hint of alcohol – all scents that alone she was not particularly fond of – but mingled together as they were, they brought back a wealth of memories.

Spike was right. It had not been all bad. Some of it had been beautiful and bittersweet, and there were memories of that time in their lives that she cherished, times when they had held each other like this…

No, she realized with a pang, as she swayed gently with him, burying her face in the worn leather with a sense of shame. She had never held him like this. Not back then. Oh, he had held her *just* like this, as if she was the only thing in the world that mattered to him – because she had been. Still was. He held her as he always had, as if he was determined even if it killed him, never to let her go.

At times it almost had.

But she had never held him like this before. In fact, whenever she had become aware of the depth of emotion behind his embrace, she had pushed him away, knocked him down, if not physically, then with a well-chosen verbal attack that was more devastating than a blow.

Her arms around him tightened more, yet remaining soft, as she tried with her embrace to convey her regret for the times she had hurt him.

She had so much to make up for.

She raised her head to look up at him, and he saw the tears shining in those brilliant eyes.

“What is it, love?” he whispered, hushed in the moment, which seemed too precious and beautiful to spoil by speaking any louder. “What?”

She shook her head, smiling through the tears to ease the worry she saw beginning in his eyes. She knew that they were well past the words of apology. There was nothing to do now but *show* him.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” she whispered back, gazing with adoration into the blue depths, staring back at her in surprise.

It was not that he was unsure of her love; at this point that was no longer an issue. He had just not expected her to say it right then, and it still caught him by surprise at times. How had he ever managed to win the love of this incredible creature before him?

“I love you, too, pet,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, before he pressed softly, “But why the tears?”

She pulled him down for a lingering, languorous kiss, their bodies never ceasing the slow even motion of the dance. When they separated, she gazed up at him with intense, desire-darkened eyes to whisper, “I just can’t believe you’re really mine.”

Once again, his breath was stolen. It was his thoughts exactly, his heart’s song every moment since he had realized that she finally, really loved him. He had to remind himself constantly that it was really and truly real; she was really his.

To see the same thrilled wonder and disbelief in her eyes, the force of her intense desire for him that she allowed to come through in her expression, as if he were some precious treasure that she could barely believe she had found – it was almost beyond belief to him.

“I am, love,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her again, finding it easier and easier to initiate their affectionate exchanges. “I’m yours.”


Dawn walked straight up to Warren, standing directly in front of him. She was nearly as tall as he was, and completely blocked his view of his quarry.

He frowned for a moment at the irritating interruption, before he realized who she was, and a smirk of derision came across his face.

“Well, hey,” he said lightly, “if it isn’t the Slayer’s kid sis. What are you doing out on a school night? Aren’t you a little young to be out this late?”

She ignored his jibes, recognizing that his intent was only to shake her up, to make her lose her cool to anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” she demanded without responding to him at all.

His smile faded at the accusing, almost authoritative note in her voice. He was not particularly fond of being ordered around or disrespected by women, and the hatred and disgust she held for him was evident in her voice.

“It’s a free country,” he shrugged, his voice and eyes hardening, and she could see in them that he wanted to hurt her, that he was only restrained by the crowd of people surrounding them. “I can go out and have a drink at the local club if I feel like it, Babe.”

In spite of herself she felt a chill run through her, and she remembered that as pathetic as he may have seemed, Warren truly was very dangerous.

“How did you get out of jail?” she demanded, resentment clear in her voice.

His smirk turned into a triumphant smile. “It’s called a good lawyer and daddy’s money, Sweetheart. Works miracles.” He looked her up and down in a way that felt like a violation before meeting her eyes again with a cold pleasure, enjoying the expression on her face as he went on, “And it’s not through working them yet.”

She felt her blood run cold as she realized his meaning, and that he was very likely right. She could tell by the surety in his smug expression that he was not just bluffing. He probably would end up getting away with the robberies.

But he would never get away with what he had done to Spike, she reminded herself. She was going to see to that.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she insisted, her eyes narrowing in rage and menace. “My sister told you what would happen if she ever saw you again, and don’t think I feel any less strongly about it than she does, because I don’t! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here, now!”

“Don’t feel like it,” he shrugged again, glancing past her back toward the dance floor, and she could see the anger and menace in his eyes, and the obvious irritation at the sight of his “slave”, free and enjoying the presence of his lover with him on the dance floor too much to even notice that Warren was there.

Dawn saw the threat beginning in Warren’s eyes, knew that he wanted to do something terrible to Spike, and could barely contain her fury.

“I mean it!” she snapped, blocking his view again and shoving him backward a little bit, glaring at him with hatred. “I might not be able to,” *yet* she added in her mind, “but Buffy meant it when she said she would kill you if she saw you again. And she means it even more now then she did then, trust me.”

Even through her wrath, she knew in her mind that at this moment, the important thing was to get Warren out of the Bronze before Spike saw him and lost all the progress he had made over the past two weeks. In a couple of days, Warren would pay for what he had done. Revenge was not her goal in this moment.

Protecting Spike was.

Suddenly, she saw the explosion in Warren’s eyes, before it became obvious. He was furious that she had dared to shove him like that. Angrily he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back against the banister, glaring at her threateningly.

“Don’t mess with me, little girl,” he snarled.

She tried to break his grip on her arms, and felt a chill of fear when she couldn’t. Warren might not have his super-strength anymore, but just his normal human strength was greater than hers.

In dismay she realized that no one had even noticed the little altercation beginning. A fast song had started, and the music was too loud, and everyone was talking, too involved in their own lives to notice anything amiss about the boy and the girl standing close and apparently fighting in the corner.

“Let go of me!” she demanded, furious and frightened. “My sister will kill you for touching me!”

“Yeah,” he laughed quietly. “But that would mean calling her over here, wouldn’t it? Getting her attention?” He glanced back toward Spike and Buffy, laughing and dancing, completely unaware of what was happening in this little corner. Dawn noticed the carefree happiness on Spike’s face – a rare thing.

Warren smiled when he saw that she had noticed exactly what he had wanted her to. “You might not want to get her attention at the moment, huh?” he gloated, but his voice softened with a cruel, nasty note.

He was right. If she didn’t want to devastate her friend, to deal him a blow so severe that it might be months before he found the courage to leave the house again – she would have to keep her mouth shut.

Warren looked back at them for a moment before he smirked back at her. “They look a little distracted, don’t they? Looks like they’re having too much fun to even notice little old us. Don’t you think?” He looked her up and down again, his smile lecherous and dirty, and Dawn felt violated by the look alone.

“Get your hands off me!” she cried, raising her voice, but not loud enough for Buffy to hear, pulling against him, hoping someone else nearby would notice and help her. She somehow managed to yank one arm free and dealt Warren a hard slap across his face, knocking him backward a couple of steps.

A couple of people standing nearby who still thought it was just a lover’s spat snickered quietly, and the mockery was not lost on Warren. He glared back at her, shame and fury mingled in his murderous eyes.

Her eyes widened in more shock than fear as she realized he was going to hit her. No man had ever hit her. She didn’t even think to move, she was so surprised, as he raised his fist, before the people nearby could register the change in the mood enough to do anything.

Although she could see the shocked dismay on the faces around her as they realized what he was going to do, no one was going to be able to help her in time. She could tell the blow was going to be powerful, as he drew back his fist to smash it across her face.

As he lowered his fist, she finally moved, flinching back a little, not able to move much because of the way he had her pinned against the banister. After a moment she realized that the moment when the blow would have fallen had passed – and he had not hit her.

She looked up to see that someone had indeed come to her rescue. Another young man stood, gripping Warren’s wrist in mid-strike where he had caught it, holding him back from striking her. A look of anger and determination shone in the deep brown eyes of her defender.

Xander.

“I don’t think you wanna do that, Warren,” he said mildly, turning the shorter boy around to face him. “In fact – I really don’t think you wanna be here at all.” His tone was mild, not exactly threatening, but it was clear that he meant business.

Warren jerked free of his hand, furious at his power once again being wrested from him, at what he perceived as humiliation in front of all these people, most of whom actually hadn’t even given him a second thought.

“You know,” he snarled, “I don’t think you need to be telling me what I want. I think you need to back off before *somebody* gets hurt.” He took a backward step away from Xander – toward the dance floor, with a little smirk tossed over his shoulder before he met Xander’s eyes meaningfully.

“I don’t care what you think,” Xander cut in suddenly, sounding a little angrier now as he advanced on the boy, who unthinkingly took another step back, surprised by the aggression. “I just *know* that you’d be a lot better off in another place – a place *not* *here*.” He bit off the words menacingly, stepping closer to Warren again.

Warren could see the violent anger rising in the larger boy, and suddenly realized that in this particular setting, unarmed and in a public place like this, he was at a bit of a disadvantage. Muttering curses under his breath, he shoved past Xander toward the door.

Xander caught his arm and slung him back against the banister forcefully, in an echo of what he had just done to Dawn.

“What are you gonna do, you reject?” Warren sputtered with bravado, though his eyes were beginning to show his fear. “Hit me? I don’t think you’ve got…”

Xander interrupted quickly, his voice quiet and calm, as he shoved him back against the banister again, cutting him off, “And one more thing, Warren. I might seem like Mister Nice Guy to you. But ask Dawnie here,” he said with a disarming smile and nod toward her, “I can be a real creep sometimes.” He looked to Dawn for verification.

She nodded seriously, as she agreed, “He can. He can be downright nasty.”

Xander nodded triumphantly as he smiled back at Warren and went on, “If you ever even *think* of touching Dawn again,” he started to go on, then paused, holding up a finger in his face as if just remembering something, “or Spike,” he added. “or Buffy…you’re gonna find out what I’m like when I’m nasty.”

He frowned for a moment with a little grimace of distaste to match Dawn’s as the alternate meaning of his words hit them both. Then he shrugged and looked back at Warren, releasing him roughly with a shove.

“Don’t you think you’d better get moving?” he asked with a smile, raising his eyebrows.

Faced with the larger, stronger boy, with no recourse but retreat, Warren’s helpless rage seemed about to consume him. Still, there was nothing he could do but leave.

Xander watched his retreating form with a satisfied smile for a moment, before turning to Dawn. The triumph of his moment faded a little at the sight of her impassive, expressionless face, staring back at him above her unyielding figure, standing facing him with her arms crossed over her chest.

His heart sank. He had not protected her to win back her favor. He had protected her because he could do nothing else. Still, it hurt to see that she was so angry with him that even this did absolutely nothing to penetrate the wall she had built to shut him out.

She didn’t move, just stood there staring at him.

Then, her expression began to slowly fade into a soft smile.

“I – I’m so sorry, Dawnie,” Xander began, his voice soft and hesitant, though he was beginning to feel a little encouraged by the smile on her face.

“I know,” she answered immediately, her voice not really giving anything away. Then, after a moment’s pause, she admitted with a little shrug, “Anya talked to me. About what happened.”

A sudden realization came on him as he looked at her, his eyes widening in understanding. “*You* made the wish!” he said in a voice of quiet surprise.

There was no accusation in his tone; he felt that he deserved what had happened, and in the end it had been for the best. Still Dawn felt a little guilty, and looked away. “Yeah,” she admitted. “You deserved it. I wasn’t lying to Warren. You *can* be a total creep sometimes, and what you did to Spike was probably the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

He started to interrupt to point out a couple of other things he was thinking of that were potentially worse, realizing even as he did how pathetic his case was if bringing up worse actions from his past was the only defense he had.

Dawn saw where he was going before he even spoke, however, and went on quickly, firmly, “No spell you were under. No hyena possession. Just you, Xander. Being an ass.” She paused for a moment, and he glanced at the floor, acknowledging the truth of her words, before meeting her eyes again. “You needed to understand,” she finished softly.

Xander looked down, remembering again the shame and horror of his experiences in Spike’s recent past. “I – I had no idea,” he went on, his voice quiet. “I didn’t know – what it was like for him. But – but your wish was a good thing, Dawn. I understand now. I hate that I did what I did to him. If I could go back and undo it…”

“Xander,” she interrupted, and he stopped immediately, looking up at her in a mixture of dread and hope. He held no blame for her for the vengeance wish she had made. He was the one in need of forgiveness here. And this was the moment in which she would extend mercy, or dash his hopes to the ground.

“I know,” she repeated. “I know you really mean it this time.” She paused, before adding, a little reluctantly, “That was pretty cool…what you just did.”

That brought a smile to his lips in spite of his mood of the moment. He shrugged modestly. “Yeah, well…if anyone deserves to see evil-nasty-creep me, it would most definitely be Warren.”

Dawn laughed. “I wish he could have seen more of it.” She was still smiling, but there was a hard note in her voice as she glanced past Xander toward the door where Warren had disappeared. “He needs to pay for what he did.”

“He will,” Xander reminded her, frowning a little again as he studied her face. It was not that he did not agree with her; he had seen first-hand the things that Warren was guilty of, and knew that he was deserving of punishment for what he had done to Spike. What troubled him was the bitter fury he saw in Dawn’s young eyes. “He’s going to go to prison,” he assured her, watching her response closely.

“Maybe,” Dawn pointed out with a shrug. “Maybe not. He’s got good lawyers. He has to have. They don’t just let you out on bond for armed robbery, Xander. Not usually.”

She had a point. He felt a little sick feeling rising up in his stomach at the thought of Warren being free to come and go as he pleased, after the horrible things he had done.

“Well, even if he doesn’t,” he said, his distaste at the very thought evident in his tone. “He’s not gonna hurt Spike again. Between you, me, and Buffy, I don’t think he’d dare come near him.”

“He did tonight,” Dawn reminded him. There was a steely look in her glittering green eyes that sent a little chill through Xander. It was clear that Dawn still saw Warren as a threat to Spike’s safety and well-being…and that she did not intend to let that threat remain.

“Dawnie,” he began cautiously, well aware that he was only just barely beginning to step out of the realm of those deserving of the wrath of Dawn.

She interrupted him suddenly, taking her gaze from the doorway and looking him in the eye. “We can’t let them know he was here. Spike would have a major freak-out if he knew. And he’s just starting to be okay again.”

Xander nodded slowly, knowing that she was right. “Okay. But don’t you think that Buffy should know?”

“I’ll tell her,” Dawn assured him after a moment’s consideration. “Later. When Spike’s not around.”

“When Spike’s not around,” he echoed, glancing across the room to where Spike and Buffy were just leaving the dance floor, laughing and holding onto each other still as they made their way back to their table. “And do you actually think that’s going to be *happening* anytime soon?”

Dawn’s smile widened knowingly as she watched them. “No,” she admitted. “At least not tonight.”


The dance had had an intense effect on the two lovers, still in that giddy, exciting stage of just rediscovering each other. The music had stopped, and the dance was over, but even as they made their way back to their table, they just couldn’t seem to stop touching each other.

Spike fell down into the seat, laughing, knocked off balance by Buffy’s slight weight as she tried to pull him closer to her for a kiss. In the end, he managed to maintain his seat without falling to the floor, and she ended up half-leaning between his legs in front of him, half-sitting on his lap, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and softly claimed the kiss she had sought.

She pulled away slowly, meeting his eyes with her own full of warmth and affection – and a depth of passion that was stunning to him.

Much to his surprise – and joy – she whispered, never taking her intense gaze from his, “God, I want you!”

He swallowed hard, his eyes widening in amazement at the blatant desire in her voice, her eyes. Last fall during their tumultuous, painful time together, Buffy could scarcely bring herself to admit tolerating him, much less to openly confess that she wanted him.

And as he looked at her, in awe of the fact that she was here and she loved him and wanted him, he was reminded of just how desperately he wanted her, too.

“Buffy,” he whispered, his voice low and husky as he pulled her toward him for another long, lingering kiss. He was simply unable to form any other words but the one that echoes through his every thought.

They didn’t part until they were both breathless. Gasping as she pulled back, a wild, almost feral look in her wide eyes, Buffy looked him in the eye and said quickly, breathing harder, “I’m ready to leave. You wanna leave?”

He nodded hurriedly, gasping for breath he didn’t need. “Let’s leave,” he agreed.

“Dawn!” Buffy called suddenly, and a little too loudly, turning around to look for her sister – who was suddenly standing right behind her.

She jumped in surprise, glancing up at the person accompanying her. She felt an unreasonable embarrassment, as if Dawn could somehow see the naughty thoughts that were filling her head, in the moment before she realized who was standing there with Dawn, and her embarrassment was replaced with anger.

Xander.

“Hey, Buffy,” he mumbled, unable to meet her eyes. She had to admit, though she didn’t want to notice it, the sight of him tore at her heartstrings. He looked so uncertain and vulnerable, his deep hopeful eyes glancing up at her hesitantly. And beyond all that, there was the simple fact that he was just so…familiar. Familiar and dear to her heart.

Or rather, he had been, she reminded herself.

“Hey,” she responded, her voice cool, not wanting to betray any emotion, positive or negative, to Xander, before turning her full attention to her sister. “Are you ready to go? Because I think Spike and I are about ready to go home.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Dawn smirked with a knowing nod of assent, trying to lighten the mood a little. “I wanna stay a little while longer, though. Xander will bring me home later, okay?”

Buffy glanced back at Xander, feeing guilty for the hesitancy she felt to allow it, knowing that it was not out of any concern for her sister’s safety. She knew, no matter what else had happened between them, that Xander would defend Dawn with his life if necessary. No, the thing that made her want to tell Dawn to come home with them was pure spiteful unforgiveness.

But despite the fact that she was not quite ready to forgive her friend, she recognized that it was of the good that Dawn could, and didn’t want to push her grudge back onto her sister’s shoulders.

It was also of the good for the house to be Dawn-free for a few more hours tonight..

She forced a smile to her lips and replied, “Sure, Dawnie. Don’t be too late, though.”

She did not say a word to Xander, didn’t even spare him a glance, as she took Spike’s hand and pulled him up out of the chair, leading him toward the door.


The ride home was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Neither of them had any desire to get into a car accident, so they somehow managed to refrain from any major touching for the duration of the short drive. Her hand tightly clasped in his, driving with the other, Buffy had a few moments to think.

She knew that Spike had suffered through unspeakable abuses, and that some of it had been sexual. That first night when she had initiated the first real physical contact between them, and he had broken down in her arms, he had confessed to her about the first time Warren had forced himself on him, the terrible shame and pain of that sickening violation.

He had also confessed to her that it *was* the first time – of many times. He had tearfully, haltingly told her how the violence and degradation had escalated, intensifying with each incident, as Warren had used his helpless prisoner to work out his own need to feel sexually powerful – every time leaving Spike a little more devastated, physically and emotionally, in the aftermath.

And, she was sure, also with some very warped, painful ideas about sex.

They both knew how this night was going to end. She knew by the looks he had been giving her all night, by the soft urgency of need in the way he had touched her, that he wanted her. Badly. There was no question in her mind of whether or not he wanted it.

What worried Buffy wsa the possibility that he might think it didn’t *matter* if he wanted it or not.

The last thing she wanted was for him to feel, once again, like nothing more than an object in her hand, to be used for her gratification and tossed aside when she was finished. She began to remember again with regret the preceding autumn, and how she had used him so cruelly.

She remembered the times she had barged into his home, not caring what he wanted, throwing him around like nothing more than a toy – and a poorly cared for toy at that. And she remembered other times, when he would come to her tentatively, wanting nothing more than to simply lavish his love on her, and she would shove him away, or worse.

She had sent him a consistent, brutal message for months – that his needs, his desires, meant nothing. He was there only to serve *her* needs.

How could she make him see that it was not going to be like that, never again?

She glanced over at him for a moment, and saw that he was staring pensively out the window, lost in thoughts of his own.

There was no doubt in his mind that she wanted him; she had made it very clear tonight. And as to wanting her – well, he almost couldn’t stand to keep his hands off her long enough for her to get them home.

But there was a nagging fear in the back of his mind, struggling to the forefront in the stillness of the ride home. He was desperately insecure and afraid of failing her again as he had done the last time, breaking down, freaking out because of past wounds and fears, and spoiling the evening for her, after it had gone so very well so far.

In the past, when they had been together, he had never been what she wanted. Not really. Could he be now?

They reached the house, and walked inside, still in silence. Buffy closed and locked the door, and turned to him with a soft, encouraging smile, as she gently wrapped her arms around him again. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long,” she murmured and as she leaned in to enjoy a long, deep kiss, he knew she was not only talking about the ride home.

He felt some of his fears begin to melt away in the fervent heat of the embrace, as she began to move slowly backward toward the stairs, tugging him along with her. She reluctantly broke the kiss at the bottom of the staircase, glancing up the stairs with a sheepish little laugh.

She nodded toward them and pointed out with a little grimace, “That could be awkward. Let’s take a little break.”

He nodded with a slightly nervous laugh, and followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom.

Immediately they resumed the kiss, and his arms slid around her instinctively. She realized after only a few moments that he had not forgotten the little touches, the specific places and moves that she had always loved. She could feel her arousal heightening as his hands expertly moved over her body, touching her in all the right places as they backed toward the bed. He always had known just how to please her…

She realized with a little start the deeper meaning behind that thought, and pulled back a little from the kiss.

He still felt that his part in all of this was nothing more than to give *her* pleasure.

She pulled slowly back from the kiss, felt his hands urgently pulling her back to him for just a moment before he remembered himself and released her, looking with anxiously searching eyes into hers.

“What is it, love?” he whispered. “Did I…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she whispered back, smiling as she kissed him softly again, her hands against his chest pushing him gently back onto the bed. When she pulled back from him, her eyes were shining with love and a gentleness he had never seen in her in this sort of a moment before.

She knew now just what to do.

“You *can’t* do anything wrong,” she went on in a low whisper, shaking her head slowly, holding his gaze as her hands moved to unbutton his shirt. “Not tonight. Because tonight…is all…about…you.” And she leaned down to kiss him again, slowly, thoroughly, focusing on his responses to her kiss and moving with them, doing her best to feel out just what exactly *he* needed.

When the kiss ended, he looked up at her, eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and amazement. “What…what are you…?” he couldn’t even finish the question, breathless with the power of the moment building between them.

But she knew what he was going to say…and she knew exactly what she was doing.

What she should have done all along.

Leaning down close, so close that their lips were almost touching again, she met his gaze with intense emotion in her own and responded in a whisper that was barely more than a breath.

“Loving you.”

Amazed, utterly dumbfounded, Spike stared up at her, wide-eyed, uncomprehending, as she pushed his shirt slowly back off his shoulders and leaned down to kiss him again, trailing sweet, hot kisses from his lips down to his throat, her fingers brushing lightly over his chest, his arms, down to the waistband of his jeans.

“Buffy,” he gasped, feeling his desire for her heightening with every feather-soft touch, as he put his arms instinctively around her and pulled her closer to him, without even realizing he was doing it, pushing her shirt up a little to brush his hands across her stomach, longing to feel no barrier of any kind between them. “I – I don’t understand…”

A part of him still felt that this glorious thing was above him, undeserved – simply too good to actually be happening to him.

Buffy sat up a little and pulled the offending garment off over her head, then turned a slow, sultry smile on him as she slowly leaned down over him again, looking him in the eye, earnestly, willing him to see what she wanted to do for him, what she wanted this night to be for them.

“I love you,” she told him again, slowly and clearly, wanting to leave no room for doubt in his still uncertain mind. “And tonight I’m going to show you.” She lowered herself gently down on top of him, tracing her fingertips down again toward his jeans, as she went on softly, a little sadly, still holding his gaze.

“I loved you before, too. And I was so wrong not to tell you. To let you think I didn’t. I was willing to do anything but that,” she admitted, tears shining in her sorrowful eyes as she gazed down at his solemn, wide-eyed gaze, focusing intently on her as he listened to her words. “We’ve done nearly everything there is to do just about, Spike – me and you. Except for one thing.”

She raised one hand to stroke down his uncertain face, gazing up at her in wonder and confusion, that same adoration he had always held for her still clear in the brilliant blue depths. She knew that it was her own fault that he found this so difficult to comprehend – that it seemed simply beyond his belief that she could actually love him.

But she was going to make up for that now.

Her fingertips brushed lightly across his lips, trembling with mingled desire and an uncertainty of anticipation, as she whispered, “I want to make love to you, Spike.”

He was struck speechless by her words. Never had he thought to actually hear her say those words to him. He had longed for just that for as long as he had loved her, but had never dreamed that it would actually happen. To have her touching him with such tender care, almost with reverence – as if he were some precious thing to be treasured and cherished – it was almost beyond his power to comprehend.

She looked deep into his eyes and asked him softly, earnestly, searching for a genuine answer there, “Is that what you want, Spike? Do you want to do this?”

She knew the answer already. The point was not the answer, but his power to make the choice. She wanted it to be perfectly clear to him that he *had* a choice in the matter, that tonight they would only do what he wanted to do – that if he *did* choose to say no, she would let the matter go without hesitation.

He just kept staring at her for a moment, deep blue eyes searching hers, trying to take in the magnitude of what she was saying and doing. “Yes!” he finally whispered in an intense whisper, pulling her closer to him. “Yes, I want you, Buffy!” There was an urgent need, a desperation in the whispered reply. “You know I do.”

“I’m yours,” she answered simply, leaning down to shower his neck, his chest, with soft, tender kisses as, with his full permission, her hands began to work the button on his jeans.

“You’ve always been so good to me,” she went on in a soft affectionate murmur as she pushed the thick fabric aside and took him in her hand, smiling a little at the soft cry of pleasure that rose in his throat at the contact. “You make me feel so good, Spike. I’ve always loved the way it feels when you touch me. No one makes me as happy as you do, Spike...”

Spike was not the only one who remembered the right moves. The adoring words in combination with her tender, expert touch on his body was enough to bring him to the edge in a matter of moments, as she softly told him with her words and her hands, in every way she knew how, just how much she loved and wanted him.

With spoken affirmation, she was beginning to deliberately rebuild the shattered confidence that had been torn down by cruel words, lies that told him he was useless, nothing to anyone, incapable of any good – and undeserving of pleasure or love in his own right.

She leaned in very close to whisper, so close that her lips brushed his ear, as she just slightly tightened her hand on him, “I want to make *you* happy, Spike. I’m gonna make you happy.”

He moaned in pleasure, more at the genuine devotion in her voice than at her touch, just as she slowly pulled back, removing her hand and standing up. He nearly whimpered at the loss of contact, looking up at her, wondering why she had moved away. Once again, he began to mentally review his own actions, searching for the reason for her retreat. Had he done something…?

But she was smiling at him, that softly seductive smile that promised that she was not going anywhere, there was much more to come, as she slid her skirt down over her hips and allowed it to slide to the floor, never breaking eye contact with him as she did.

She continued to slowly disrobe, taking her time about it, drawing out the process for his pleasure – or torment, by this point he wasn’t sure which it was – as she said softly, “I’m all yours, Spike. Completely and totally yours.” She started slowly back toward him, climbing onto the bed, hovering over him and giving him a very nice view of everything she had just declared to be his.

“And tonight,” she whispered, reaching for his pants again to pull them down, “we’re going to do anything…you…want…”

Automatically, he lifted his hips off the bed, in an attempt to help her slide the pants off, as he did brushing against her exposed and by this point very sensitive skin, quite accidentally, but in a way that made her gasp sharply, and her hands trembled as she hurriedly finished removing the last scrap of covering that separated them.

No more looking away. No more façades to hide behind. She wanted to know him completely, and make him see that she loved him for everything that he was – and she wanted to finally let him see *her* as well – in all her beauty and power and frailty and imperfections.

As her hands began their slow roving over his body again, and her lips once again found his face, his throat, moving slowly downward, he closed his eyes, leaning his head back in surrender to her touch as he whispered, “Buffy…oh, God, Buffy…I need you…I…Buffy…”

Coherent thought was abandoning them both as his urgent, seeking hands became bolder, began to draw her nearer, down on top of him, running down her arms, her sides, in light, cautious touches that were grower stronger with every moment, though he still seemed to be trying to maintain a measure of control.

She was determined to make him throw the caution to the wind.

“I love you, Spike,” she told him again, between kisses. “I want you so bad…you have no idea what you do to me…feels so good…”

She went on and on, lavishing her affection and desire on him, leaving no room for doubt in his mind of the intensity of feeling she held for him, as she continued her still-gentle but intensifying ministrations, taking care to notice every movement, every sound, every involuntary gasp or breath, feeling out as she went along and anticipating his desires and needs.

It was not what she was accustomed to doing, but she found that it was not at all difficult to focus on him and his desires, to see his needs and respond to them before he could even express them in words. Dawn had been right, she realized. Spike was incredibly easy to read. Everything he felt did indeed show, whether he wanted it to or not.

And she was taking full advantage of that fact – but for once, for his benefit, not her own.

Though she found that in the end it was good for both of them. In her selfishness and desperation last fall, she had never thought that bringing him so much pleasure could be so gratifying for her as well. All she had thought about was her own needs of the moment.

Now, she found that the soft sounds of pleasure he made when she touched him, the movement of his body under hers in response, made her long for him with rising pleasure of her own. It was not long before she was desperate, aching to have him inside her.

“Buffy!” he gasped suddenly, as if reading her mind. His voice was low and raspy with his need for her. “God, I want you, Buffy! Now!”

The sound of the powerful desire in his voice, the beginnings of a forcefulness he had lost long ago, returning with it, only heightened her desire even more, and suddenly she was terribly relieved by his whispered words, because she could not wait any longer herself. Without hesitation she complied with his half-demand, half-plea, lowering herself slowly down onto him, taking him inside her.

Within mere moments they had once again found their own perfect unity of rhythm, moving together as one as they always had, if only in this way. But their connection was more powerful than she had remembered, because this time it was more than just physical. This was her, finally allowing him to *really* know her, take her, claim her as his own.

And she was claiming him as well, allowing him in with all her heart and not just her body this time, surrounding and encircling him in the safety and warmth of her loving embrace. They belonged to each other, and in those precious moments, each complete in the embrace of the other, nothing could come between them, ever again.

This time, instead of the cold stony silence that had marked their former trysts, Buffy filled the air around them with her soft, affectionate words, telling him over and over that she loved him, wanted him, how much he meant to her, how good it felt to be in his arms like this again.

Always before, she had averted her eyes, simply gone through the motions necessary to achieve the physical satisfaction she had craved, then left as quickly as possible, ironically wanting to avoid allowing things to become truly personal.

Not this time. Now, she kept her eyes focused on his through it all, wanting to drink in every look, every slight shift in expression, every nuance of every sound of his voice. With every moment she felt more tuned in to his emotions and desires, until she truly felt that they were each a part of the other – like a missing piece.

She found herself wanting to really and truly *know* this beautiful creature that she had never appreciated -- until she had found out the hard way that she couldn’t live without him. It was really true, she realized, that it had taken losing him for her to realize the treasure that she had held in her hands.

But she had found him, and through some miracle, they had managed to turn past hurts into a stronger, deeper relationship, and now that he was back here in her arms, she was never going to let him go again. She was going to love him and cherish him and make him see every moment how much his love meant to her.

She could feel herself riding on the edge of her release, and knew by the deep, shuddering breaths he drew and the trembling of his body all around and inside her, that he was as well. She pulled him closer to her, her movements in perfect harmony with his, as she gasped out in a breathless whisper, “I love you, Spike…oh…God…I love you so much!”

The simple words, spoken in such a heartfelt way, that he had yearned for for so long, were all it took to push him over the edge at the exact same moment as she cried out in an intensity of pleasure, and they collapsed, breathless, trembling and exhausted in each other’s arms.

They just lay there, side by side and facing each other, clinging to each other, gasping for breath as they slowly drifted back to earth. Finally she opened her eyes to look at him, hoping desperately that she had managed somehow in all of that to get across to him the message she had been trying to convey.

He was staring at her, his eyes wide and fixed on her face in an expression of stunned awe, his lips slightly parted and trembling as he held her, his hands at her shoulders, as if he was afraid she would suddenly fly away, disappear -- scarcely able to believe that she was really his.

But she was. Finally, he knew it beyond all doubt. She was really and truly his. In a mixture of profound joy and adoration and simple relief, overwhelmed by the power of the moment, he rested his head against her chest, breathing hard, clutching at her arms and holding her close to him.

Slowly she raised one hand to stroke gently through his loose blonde curls, wrapping her other arm around him and holding him close. And as soon as she could find the breath to speak, she resumed the sweet words she had maintained during the consummation of their love.

She told him how much she loved him, that she would never leave him, how strong and beautiful and brave and incredible he was…just holding him and loving him the best way she knew how.

And when he finally recovered enough to look up into her eyes, his own still shocked and disbelieving, but tearless and for once full of an utter joy at the love he had finally accepted as real and his, she knew that it had been what he had needed. He believed her. He understood the truth of her love.

And no matter how long it took, she would make him see that he deserved it, too.

God, she had so much lost time to make up for!

But as their lips met in another kiss, sweet, tender, and intimate – she knew that she had already made a very good start.

When the doorbell rang around eleven o’clock the next morning, Spike and Buffy were still lost in dreams of the night before, entangled comfortably in each other’s arms.

Dawn, on the other hand, had been up for a couple of hours already by then, despite the fact that it was Saturday. Her slowly but surely formulating plan, now hovering on the brink of its execution, kept her from sleeping very well lately. She was in a constant state of anticipation that would not let her rest – like a much darker, more frightening version of a child on Christmas morning.

And her plans for this particular day, the finalization of all her preparations, had her feeling even more expectant and excited than usual. She had no idea how she was going to manage to wait all day long until Buffy left at six o’clock for her shift at the Doublemeat Palace.

She was just hanging up the phone when she heard the doorbell. It had rung a couple of times, but when she picked it up, there was only silence on the other end of the line. Irritated, thinking that it was probably one of those annoying automated telemarketing calls that took forever for the person to actually speak to you, she hung up the phone quite a bit harder than she had to. She shrugged as she walked toward the door. At least that way she could avoid actually having to *speak* to the telemarketer, by hanging up before they could say anything.

She opened the door to allow the visitor inside; it was exactly who she had expected it to be, as she had invited him last night to come over this morning.

Xander.

“Hey,” he said nervously as he stepped off the porch into the foyer and followed her into the living room, taking off his jacket.

“Hey,” she replied, as they sat down on the sofa. For a moment neither of them said anything, just kept exchanging awkward, nervous glances.

The night before, they had come to an understanding. Dawn had forgiven him – he had made it very difficult not to, considering how he had saved her from Warren and all – but things still felt a little weird between them.

Even though it had been her suggestion that he stop by today to attempt once more to talk to Buffy, now she wondered if it had been a wise idea.

“Buffy around?” he asked, glancing anxiously toward the stairs, and it wasn’t clear whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no.

“Still in bed,” Dawn replied with an apologetic half-smile. “I didn’t think she’d sleep this late. Well, I guess I *should* have thought…” she amended, then stopped suddenly, realizing that this was still probably not a welcome topic for Xander.

However, to his credit, he managed a smile, even if it *was* a bit forced, and pointed out lightly, “Well, maybe at least when she *does* get up, she’ll be in a better mood…more …forgiving, maybe?” His voice sounded both hopeful and terrified.

“Actually,” Dawn laughed a little as she confessed, “that’s kind of what I was hoping for.”

Xander laughed too, and things did not feel as strained between them.

“So…” Dawn began after a moment’s pause. “I know that Buffy needs to know that you understand…and it’s not gonna be easy to convince her…but I don’t think you should tell her about Anya. Unless you have to. You know?”

She didn’t mention her true reason for feeling that way. She didn’t really think that Anya would be in any danger just because Buffy knew she was a vengeance demon again; she just didn’t want her sister to have the chance to figure out what she had in mind before she could pull it off.

“You’re probably right. It might make things harder on her,” Xander agreed, clueless. “I’ll try to skip the look-at-my-heroic-suffering, feel-sorry-for-me bit and hope she forgives me without it.”

After that, there didn’t seem to be much to say. After a few moments of awkward silence, Dawn shrugged and said, “She’ll probably get up soon. You can just hang out and wait for her if you want,” and reached for the remote to turn on the television – the universal filler of awkward silences.

It was on some inane talk show, and the clamorous sounds of yelling and fighting, fifteen people all shouting at once, came from the screen. After watching in silence for a few moments, Xander said in a voice of subdued optimism, “I guess it could always be worse.”

Dawn gave him a dubious look. “Oh, sure,” she muttered. “ ‘I slept with your baby’s daddy’ isn’t all that much worse than ‘I tortured your boyfriend’,” she pointed out with dry sarcasm.

“Not helping with the scared-out-of-my-mind deal here, Dawnie,” he reminded her, feeling terribly nervous again. “And I didn’t…”

His voice broke off as they both heard the sound of soft, slow footsteps on the stairs. Xander felt his stomach turn over inside him, not knowing if it was Buffy or not, or how she would react to the sight of him sitting in her living room. He could barely bring himself to look.

It was Spike.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, taking in the sight of the sick, fearful expression on Xander’s face, the way he averted his eyes in shame at the sight of him, for a moment before moving or saying a word.

Then he shrugged slightly and said simply, “Morning.”

Dawn quietly replied as Spike continued on toward the kitchen.

Xander’s face fell. So Spike intended to give him the same silent treatment that Buffy was doling out. And of the three people he had offended so deeply, although he had been the worst wronged, Spike had seemed the most willing to forgive him. Apparently, Buffy had managed to change his mind.

At the kitchen doorway, Spike paused, turning halfway to face the two on the couch.

“Oh, right,” he said sarcastically with a little smirk, but there was a teasing sparkle in his eyes. “The great Xander’s too good to respond to the likes of me, is that it?”

Xander looked up in surprise when he realized that Spike’s greeting had actually been directed toward him as well, after all. “No,” he rushed to explain. “That’s not it, I just thought – I mean – I didn’t think you…”

His voice trailed off as Spike disappeared into the kitchen, smiling and suppressing a laugh. He was being gracious about it, all things considered, but he was well aware that the power in this particular situation had definitely shifted in his favor. No harm in enjoying it a little. Power was a feeling he hadn’t had much of lately.

As Spike left the room, Dawn placed her hand on Xander’s knee, as his feeble protests stumbled to a halt. When he looked at her, she shook her head a little at him and said with a smirk, in a tone that was a little patronizing, but not unkind, “Just let it go, Xander. He’s over it. Quit while you’re ahead, okay?”

Xander looked at her for a moment, realizing that she was right, then nodded slowly. This was Spike’s way of letting him know that they were okay. Back to the normal exchange of insults as usual.

After a few moments, Spike returned to the living room with a steaming mug of blood, and sat down comfortably beside Dawn. Glancing at the television screen, he commented, “What are we watching this bloody rubbish for? There’s got be something better than *this* on the telly!”

“Is Buffy up yet?” Dawn asked him, smiling as she leaned back against him. Even in the smallest of ways, she was glad to see Spike’s assertiveness gradually returning.

“In the shower,” he replied, his eyes still on the television screen, taking advantage of her nearness to pluck the remote from her hand and begin flipping through the channels.

The phone rang again, and Dawn rose with a sigh to answer it. But before she could cross the room to pick it up, the ringing stopped, halfway through the second ring. Returning to her seat, she shrugged.

“Guess she’s out of the shower now,” she commented.

Xander gulped. The moment of his judgment was getting closer and closer.

In fact, it was only a few minutes more before they heard a second set of footsteps coming down the stairs, this time faster.

Xander had no time to prepare. Within an instant, Buffy was standing frozen at the foot of the stairs, staring at him in shock. For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Spike and Dawn wondered how Buffy would handle the situation. They both knew her well enough to know that the distance between her and her best friend had been killing her.

They both also knew her well enough to know that it was going to take some extensive groveling on Xander’s part before she would be willing to admit it.

“What’s up?” she asked simply, her tone and expression cool and impassive. The two short words were loaded with much more meaning that one would suspect.

“Um…hi, Buffy,” Xander mumbled, meeting her eyes bravely, but then looking away at the stony expression he saw there. “Um…can we…can we talk?”

“Don’t you ever get a new idea, Xander? This whole talking thing doesn’t usually work out. It usually ends with you insisting that you know better than I do how to run my life or lying to me and threatening the people I love,” she snapped, a bit defensively, and Spike knew already that if Xander played his cards right, he could be forgiven by the time this conversation was over.

“You…said that last time, Buffy,” Xander dared to point out quietly…his cautious come-back to her comment about his lack of originality.

Buffy glared at him viciously. Okay, so far the Whelp was striking out.

“If you’ve got something to say, then say it!” Buffy snapped, looking away from him and crossing her arms over her chest in a way that those who knew her well knew to be a defensive gesture; she was afraid of giving in too easily.

“Buffy, I’m sorry!” Xander insisted. “I’m really and truly sorry. I understand now. I understand why it was so wrong to do what I did, and I know it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever done.”

She was silent, waiting for him to go on, but she did deign to look at him, finally, an expectancy, a cautious hope in her eyes.

“It was cruel, and thoughtless, and I swear, Buffy, I’ll never do anything like that again. And I understand if you can’t really trust me for awhile, because I lied to you, Buffy, and that was wrong too. But…but I just want you to please, *please* give me a chance to earn your trust again,” he begged her, his voice quiet and pleading as he searched her eyes desperately. “Let me in at least enough to show you that I really mean it.”

“Last time I did that…” Buffy began, just as the phone rang again.

She glanced in irritation toward the kitchen, annoyed at the interruption. Dawn was shamelessly focused on the conversation between the two of them, and barely seemed aware of the ringing phone.

“I’ll get it in the kitchen,” Spike said quietly, rising from the sofa and making his exit, not wanting this rather important discussion to be interrupted.

A silence fell over the room for a moment as the ringing ceased. Xander hesitantly went on, “I know I’ve broken your trust, Buffy. You have no reason to believe me. I’m throwing myself on your mercy, Buffy,” he admitted, his dark eyes honest and achingly vulnerable as he stood to face her, shaking his head a little with the realization of the helpless position he was in.

“How can I know that you’re not gonna just do the same thing again, Xander?” she asked him, her voice tired and sad.

“You can’t,” he admitted after a brief pause in which he tried to come up with an answer. “The truth is, you can’t really know, Buffy. But I want to make you be able to trust me again. Please…I would never hurt Spike…not now…not now that I really understand what he’s been through…”

Buffy suddenly turned on him, her eyes blazing with a protective fury. “You *understand*?” she spat the word back at him in disgusted disbelief. “How can you even begin to say that you *understand*? He’s been through an ordeal that most people never have to even begin to think of! *I* can’t understand what he’s going through, and I’ve tried! I love him with everything in me, and I can’t really understand, no matter how hard I try, because I haven’t *been there*, Xander! How can you dare to look at me and say that you *understand*?”

Xander glanced at Dawn instinctively, knowing that she knew the truth, knew how it was that he could genuinely know what Spike had been through. But she had been right; he couldn’t betray Anya’s trust to make things easier on himself.

But when he looked at Dawn, she was no longer paying close attention to the conversation. She was looking toward the kitchen, frowning thoughtfully. The concern in her eyes drew Xander’s attention away from his own plight for a moment.

“What is it, Dawnie?” he asked her suddenly.

“Nothing,” she replied distractedly, shaking her head and glancing at him for a moment before looking back to the kitchen door. Then she changed her mind and said quietly, “He’s just been in there a while, I wonder who’s on the phone.”

She glanced at Buffy, who was frowning now at the odd look of worry on her little sister’s face. “Who was on the phone earlier?” Dawn asked suddenly.

“No one,” Buffy replied. “They hung up. Why, Dawnie? What’s wrong?”

Dawn felt an odd, sick feeling rising up in her stomach at the answer. One weird silent call was possibly a telemarketer, possibly nothing at all. Two in the space of fifteen minutes was a little stranger. Unless…

Unless the caller had hung up the first two times…because they hadn’t gotten the person they wanted to talk to…and they didn’t want their call to be discovered by anyone else…

*Oh, God.* Suddenly, Dawn knew exactly who was on the phone.

She jumped up off the couch.

“Dawn!” Buffy’s voice was a little sharper than she intended it to be. Dawn’s obvious fear was frightening *her* a little, too. “What’s going on?”

Dawn ignored her completely, rushing toward the kitchen. How had she neglected to think of it? she berated herself.

Although he was physically safe here in Buffy’s house, no longer too weak to defend himself in a fight, surrounded by people who cared about him and would protect him from anyone who tried to harm him…

There was still one way that Warren could get to Spike.

Spike left Buffy and Xander to the intense discussion they were involved in, going to answer the phone so that Buffy wouldn’t have to. He partly wanted to just let it ring; after all, he was at least as interested as Dawn was in how the whole thing would turn out.

He found himself genuinely hoping that Buffy would find it in her heart to forgive her friend, and wanted to be around for the conversation, to be able to help in any way that he could toward their reconciliation. He could tell that Xander really was truly sorry. He had no idea how, but the boy seemed to have had a complete and total change of heart.

But in this house, you never knew what would happen next. For all they knew, the phone call could very literally be the end of the world. As much as he hated to leave the room, he had better answer it.

With a sigh he reached to pick up the receiver, halfway through the fourth ring. “Hello.”

“Well, well. You’re pretty hard to get a hold of these days, you know that?”

The devastatingly familiar voice was soft, casual, as if they were nothing more than two friends who hadn’t spoken in a while. Spike froze; he stopped breathing completely, as he felt the cold beginnings of panic starting in his chest, tightening around him, cutting off his breath.

“Surprised?” Warren laughed, his voice as calm and controlled as always, but hardening with every word. “You shouldn’t be. What, did you really think I’d let you get away that easy?” He paused before going on in a menacing tone, “You thought wrong.”

Spike tried to calm himself down, tried to remind himself that he was safe here. Warren couldn’t touch him anymore. He realized that he had started breathing again, ragged, rapid breaths. *Can’t hurt me,* he reminded himself, trying to control the violent trembling that had taken over his body. *I’m strong now…he doesn’t control the chip…can’t hurt me…*

“Y-you can’t hurt me,” he said the words aloud, his voice shaking and much more timid and quiet than he had intended it to be. *Just hang up the phone…don’t let him…* “You – you don’t have any power over me anymore. I’m going to…”

“Don’t even think of hanging up that phone!” Warren snapped, interrupting his hesitant, thoroughly unconvincing words in a harsh, threatening tone.

Spike froze. Reason told him that Warren couldn’t come near him, not as long as Buffy was there, and that even if he somehow managed to catch him alone, the balance of power had become much more…well, balanced…since he had seen him last.

Warren’s super-strength was gone, and he no longer controlled his chip. And Spike had been getting stronger, regaining his physical ability to defend himself. Warren really didn’t have the power to hurt him anymore.

All those very logical thoughts scattered in terror before the sound of that cruel, threatening voice.

There was a moment of silence as Spike tried to make himself disobey the command. All he had to do was hang up the phone, and the power that Warren still managed to wield over him would be broken. It wasn’t such a hard thing to do…just to hang up the phone…was it?

He didn’t move.

“See?” Warren’s voice was softer now, and there was a smugly satisfied note in it. “Things haven’t changed so much after all…have they?”

Spike didn’t respond, feeling a wave of shame wash over him at his weakness. The part of him that had been steadily growing stronger, his developing confidence and courage, screamed at him to fight back…to not allow this monster to haunt him any longer.

“Yes…yes they have,” he argued quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Y-you’re going to prison. You – you can’t control the chip anymore. And Buffy…”

“Shut up.”

Spike automatically obeyed, his words cutting off instantly at the quiet order from his former master.

“Okay. Let’s start with Point A. Prison,” Warren began in the calm, measured tone of a teacher. He paused before going on with a sneer in his voice, “Not gonna happen, Buddy. Sorry to disappoint you. They haven’t really got enough evidence against me to tie me to the robbery. And that’s the only thing I’ve been arrested for. All the other stuff…the chip, you, my plans…anything they found actually in writing? Well, let’s face it, it looks like science fiction. Can’t convict someone for having a really, really good imagination. Can they now?” There was a cruel, nasty tone in his sarcastic words.

Spike did not respond, feeling his heart drop at the realization that Warren was probably right. In the entire time he had spent secretly going through Warren’s records, he had never found anything related to the robberies. The only way he had even known about them was from Warren’s own mouth.

“Are you listening to me?” Warren demanded coldly.

“Y-yes.” The whispered response was immediate, without hesitation, and he cursed himself inwardly for his fear and weakness.

“Good. On to Point B. The chip.” He was silent for a moment, allowing the dreadful tension to build, charging the atmosphere, before he went on, his voice relentless and demanding, “You really sure about that, Spike? You sure I can’t control it anymore? Who ever said there was only one controller for your chip, Spike?”

He felt his stomach turn over inside him at the words. *No…no…it’s not possible…* he insisted to himself, shaking his head in denial. If Warren really had another controller, why had he not used it before now? It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Unless…unless he was just biding his time…waiting until he could do the most damage, until he could somehow get him away from Buffy’s protection. No…it just couldn’t be true!

He didn’t know how he could bear it if it was.

“And then there’s Point C,” Warren continued without waiting for a response this time. “Buffy,” he sneered, a mocking note in his voice as he said the name. “You two sure seem to be hitting it off again, don’t you? Sure seemed to be having a good time last night.”

Spike gasped, without meaning to, startled by the revelation. Warren had seen them? When? How? How did he know anything about last night?

Warren laughed. “Yeah, that’s right. I was watching you. I’ve been watching you for a while now, Spike. Making my plans…biding my time…You know it’s only a matter of time, right?”

Spike felt the panic rising in his throat; he felt sick. “No,” he whispered, helplessly. “No, you…you can’t…she won’t let you come near us…she’ll kill you if you try…”

“Yeah…Buffy’s a pretty forgiving chick, isn’t she, Spike?” Warren’s quiet, loaded words were worse than a blow. The insinuation in them drove a sense of shame back into his heart that he had all but defeated already. “At least…you know…she’s trying to be. But…you know…I don’t think girls really get over stuff like that…not that easy…do you?”

Spike swallowed hard, fighting back tears, and did not reply.

“I asked you a question,” Warren’s voice was warning.

“Sh-she forgives me,” he managed to choke out the words in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “She loves me…”

“Please,” Warren scoffed, and Spike flinched at the cruel derision in his voice. Biting off the words, clearly and distinctly, driving his heartless point home with vicious accuracy, Warren went on, “Do you really think anyone could ever *love* a thing like you, Spike? Especially a girl like Buffy? Come on! She’s *tolerating* you. She feels *sorry* for you. But how long do you think that’s gonna last? Really? How long do you think it’s gonna be before she gets tired of the pathetic little puppy following her around?”

He did not allow Spike even a moment to recover from that cruel emotional blow before delivering the next one, “It won’t be long before she starts looking for ways to get away…maybe just for a little while, at first…you know…” He paused before going on in a low, menacing voice.

“But all I’ll need is a few minutes.”

Spike felt a cold chill of terror go through him at the realization of what Warren was saying. He shook his head, wanting to deny it…unable to find words.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Spike. Don’t think I’m not. And the first chance I get… I’m taking back what’s mine,” Warren declared menacingly. “And this time…your girl’s not gonna find you. Never. Do you understand me, Spike?”

“No,” he whispered, desperation in his voice. “No…”

“Yes,” Warren insisted, mercilessly. “Enjoy it while you can…cause it’s not gonna last. You know what I’m gonna do to you, Spike? When I get you back?”

And the boy launched into a vicious, heartless monologue, describing in brutal, graphic detail the many abuses he would inflict on him once he had him in his power again. And, unable to find the courage to talk back, or hang up the phone, feeling the painful pressure of old fears and hurts burdening him once again, Spike just stood there, listening to every word in helpless terror and pain.

Shaking violently, he could no longer hold back the tears, and they flowed unchecked down his face, as the haunting voice that had been long since banished by the love of his fledgling family managed to find its way back into his heart, through the cruelty of Warren’s words.

*He’s right…you’re never gonna really escape…sooner or later he’s gonna catch you again…and you’ll be right back where you started…this is all too good to be true…you don’t deserve it, and you can’t keep it…* the voice insisted, as his sobs overwhelmed him.

Before he knew what was happening, Dawn was suddenly at his side, one small arm wrapped around him protectively, and the other reaching for the phone. Without even realizing he was doing it, his trembling hand clutched the phone tightly as he listened to the vicious threats and cruel degradations Warren was pouring out. She couldn’t pull it away from him.

“Spike,” Dawn said softly, trying to catch his gaze, with her own eyes wide and serious, and he knew that somehow she knew what was happening. “Give me the phone, Spike.”

He stared up at her, his eyes stricken and terrified, confused, as he hovered between his two warring realities…his cruel past, and the present love that was desperately trying to pull him back from the edge of the abyss.

“Come on, Spike,” Dawn whispered, gently trying again to pull the phone from his grasp, and this time he released it, allowing her to take it.

Buffy was right behind Dawn, and as Dawn took the phone and moved a couple of steps away from Spike, she quickly moved in to put her arms around him. He collapsed against her, sobbing, and she pulled him closer.

“What is it?” she whispered, her eyes wide with concern. “What happened?”

Dawn’s harsh voice, trembling with rage, suddenly drew her attention.

Warren was still talking, unaware that he had a new listener, when Dawn interrupted him. “You bastard! You disgusting little piece of shit!” she snarled, hatred and fury in her voice. “You are never going to touch him again! I’m going to *kill* you!”

Before the realization of who Dawn was talking to hit her fully, Buffy felt a chill at the pure menace in her sister’s voice, knowing beyond all doubt that she fully meant her threat. Then, she *did* realize what had just happened, and all her attention was focused on Spike, a trembling, broken wreck in her arms.

Warren was silent for a moment on the other line, before he laughed when he realized who he was talking to. “Well, hey, Dawn,” he said, his voice light and casual. “Hi to you too.”

“Don’t you ever dare call here again! I mean it, Warren. You’re going to be sorry for this. For everything. When I get through with you you’re gonna wish you’d never even *seen* Spike!” Dawn went on, further infuriated by his utter lack of concern over her anger or what he had just done.

“Oh, no,” Warren said mockingly. “Guess I shouldn’t have messed with *you*, huh? I’m *so* scared!”

“You will be,” Dawn snapped, and slammed the phone down, fuming. “The nerve of that little creep! I’m gonna…” She stopped when she turned and saw her sister and Spike.

He was clinging to her desperately, his arms wrapped around her, his head on her shoulder as she held him close to her, whispering soothingly to him.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “He can’t hurt you. It’s okay, Baby. I’m not gonna let him touch you, ever. I promise.”

Dawn slowly drew nearer, her eyes welling with tears at the damage that had been done in a matter of seconds. Spike was making so much progress, doing so much better, and a few cruel words from Warren had sent him spiraling back down into the darkness again.

When Buffy’s tear-filled eyes rose to meet hers, she knew that her sister was thinking the same thing.

“You can’t,” Spike struggled to speak through his tears, raising his head, not meeting Buffy’s eyes. “You…”

“What?” Buffy gently encouraged him. “What? I can’t what?”

“You can’t always be there, Buffy,” he finally managed to get the words out, despair in his voice. “I can’t *expect* you to always be there…and…and he…” He stopped, shaking his head as he lowered it back to her shoulder.

Dawn watched the understanding growing in her sister’s eyes, as she stared off over Spike’s shoulder, frowning in thought as something occurred to her, her hand idly, comfortingly stroking through his hair.

Gently, she pulled back, seeking his gaze, wanting him to look at her. Finally, hesitantly, he did, only because he knew she wanted him to. That old shame over the things he had done and experienced, dragged so mercilessly back into the forefront of his thoughts, made him want to hide his face from her again.

“You’re right,” she whispered, her eyes solemn as they searched his. “I’m going to be with you as much as I can, Spike. I’m going to protect you in every way that I can. But you have to be able to protect *yourself*, Spike.” Her words were kind, but firm as she held his gaze. “You need to know for yourself that no one can hurt you…not because I won’t let them…because *you* won’t let them.”

He looked confused, shaking his head a little, not quite understanding what she was getting at.

“Come on,” she urged him, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the stairs. “We’re gonna go to the Magic Box. There’s something I want to show you.”

As they disappeared up the stairs, Dawn wondered what her sister had in mind…but only for a moment. She had plans of her own to put into motion, and quickly. The fact that Buffy and Spike were going to be out for a little while just helped her plan along. She didn’t have to wait for Buffy to leave for work that night.

She hurried up the stairs to her own room, and closed the door behind her, already trying to reach Anya.


In her bedroom, Buffy pulled her jacket on over the comfortable work-out clothes she had just changed into. Spike sat on the edge of her bed, his eyes downcast, thinking about the events of the morning, as he waited for her to be ready to go. Here in the safety of this room, away from the power of Warren’s voice, reality was beginning to slowly return.

Again and again he reminded himself that Warren held no more power over him. He was safe here. No one would hurt him. But the fact was, he knew that there had been a lot of truth in the words Warren had spoken to him. Warren probably would not go to prison, and Buffy could not always be there to protect him.

*It IS only a matter of time,* the voice whispered again in his head.

Buffy didn’t speak as she went about her preparations to leave. When she was ready to go, she went to the closet and took out a familiar garment, running her fingers over the worn leather as she slowly crossed the room to sit beside him on the bed. Wordlessly she held it out to him, putting an arm gently around his shoulders.

He looked up at her for a moment, his eyes wide and vulnerable, before gazing down at the coat she had placed in his hands. He swallowed back the lump that rose in his throat at the sight of it…so many memories connected with it.

He didn’t move to put it on, just sat there staring at it for a moment.

Just when Buffy was about to say that they should go, he finally spoke, his voice husky with tears and so quiet that she almost couldn’t make out the words.

“Nasty bugger took it,” he murmured in a trembling voice, his eyes still focusing on the coat in his lap as he idly rubbed the leather between his fingers. “Stole it from me.” There was an aching emptiness in his voice, and she knew that he was talking about much more than the coat itself.

Her arm around him gently tightened, as she turned his head to face her, searching his eyes as she whispered, “But you got it back.”

His wide eyes were full of hurt and despair as he corrected softly, “No. *You* got it back, Buffy.” He looked down again at the coat, shaking his head a little as he went on, “He wore it for so long…don’t rightly fit anymore.”

Buffy looked down with him at the coat in his trembling hands, swallowing hard, trying to find the right words to help him through this. “It will,” she whispered. “You’re gonna get stronger. As – as big as he had to be to – to stretch it out like that,” she grimaced inwardly at her own weak metaphor, but went on nonetheless, “You’re just gonna have to get bigger. Stronger. Work back up to your full strength…and make it yours again.”

His eyes met hers, questioning, unsure of exactly what she was saying.

She was going to help him understand. Smiling her encouragement, she took his hands and pulled him up off the bed. “Starting tonight,” she said, a determination in her voice as she led him to the door. “Come on.”

Buffy stopped at the top of the stairs. “Go on down,” she told Spike. “I’ll be right there. I just need to talk to Dawn for a minute.”

He nodded, subdued and obedient, though he didn’t really feel safe being alone just yet, so soon after the traumatic phone call he had received. As usual, however, he would comply with her wishes and do whatever she asked him to do, eager to please her.

She never would have thought that would turn out to be a trait she would want to break him of.

As soon as she knew that Spike was headed down the stairs, Buffy immediately went to Dawn’s room, entering without knocking, and without hesitation.

Dawn looked up at her, startled, from where she stood by her bed. Buffy scarcely noticed Anya, standing across from her, but the vengeance demon was still unnerved by the sudden sight of the Slayer.

“I…I just got here,” she explained unnecessarily, a guilty expression on her face. “I came up the stairs…like…humans do.”

Buffy was too focused on the questions she had for her sister to notice Anya’s odd behavior – after all, “odd behavior” went by a different scale when it came to Anya, anyway.

“How did you know it was Warren on the phone?” Buffy’s voice was quietly demanding as she fixed her penetrating gaze on her little sister.

Dawn didn’t object to the intrusion, didn’t even attempt to concoct an excuse or explanation for anything. Her plan didn’t seem to be in any immediate jeopardy. Buffy was too distracted by the most recent events of the day.

“He was at the Bronze last night,” she admitted, meeting her sister’s gaze. She knew Buffy was not going to give up until she knew the truth. “He kind of…gave me a hard time, but…Xander stopped him.”

Buffy’s mouth worked with repressed anger as she looked at the floor for a moment, trying to control the rage building inside her. It was not directed at her sister, but rather at the cruel, psychotic monster that she now knew had been stalking them the night before.

Still, her voice was accusing when she looked back up at Dawn and said, “And neither one of you thought it was necessary to tell me about that because…?”

“Because you and Spike were having the night of your lives,” Dawn answered immediately, in all sincerity, not looking the least bit ashamed or apologetic. It was obvious from her tone that she felt she had made the right decision, and did not intend to back down from it. “Because the last thing he needed on the first night he’s been out of this house was for it to be wrecked by Warren.”

“But this,” Buffy countered sarcastically, gesturing vaguely toward the door to indicate the incident in the kitchen, “being completely caught off guard like this when he thought he was safe…to have that creep manage to terrorize him in the one place that he was actually starting to feel secure… that’s *exactly* what he needed, isn’t it, Dawnie?”

“I was going to tell you,” Dawn lied. “Today. But not in front of him. I didn’t want to get him all freaked out.” In truth, she had had no intention of telling Buffy about Warren. If Buffy killed Warren, that meant that Dawn wouldn’t get to do it herself.

Buffy shook her head, with a tired sigh. “Well, it’s kind of late to worry about that now. The freak-out thing kind of already happened.”

There was silence for a moment before Dawn asked her quietly, “Where are you guys going?”

“To the Magic Box. Warren is obviously still a threat. He’s out of jail, and Spike told me he’s usually armed, so that means that Spike’s still in danger. Physically he’s getting pretty strong…but emotionally,” she shook her head with a grim expression on her face. “he’s still not got it in him to fight back. I think maybe if we start training a little…maybe it would help.”

Dawn nodded slowly, silently. It did sound like a good idea, to help Spike get his fighting spirit back.

“Call the others while I’m gone,” Buffy said softly, as she turned toward the door. “When Spike and I get back, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“What kind of work?” Dawn asked, frowning slightly, hoping Buffy’s ideas would not conflict with her own.

“Warren wired Spike’s chip so that it doesn’t fire every time he tries to hurt people anymore… only if it’s Warren. Spike can’t hurt Warren without the chip going off automatically, no matter who’s got the controller. So it doesn’t matter how much we train…as long as that chip’s in his head, it won’t make a difference. If Warren comes after him, he’ll be defenseless,” Buffy explained, her eyes flashing flames of anger at the cruel injustice that had been inflicted on Spike.

“We need to find a way to get that chip out,” she declared. “And then…once I know that he can’t hurt Spike…we’re going to find Warren.” She paused, her expression hardening as her eyes narrowed in fury, her voice softening to a deadly calm as she turned to go, “And I’m going to kill him.”

She left without another word and headed down the stairs to meet Spike. Dawn watched her go in silence for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was a determined whisper.

“Not if I find him first.”


“So tell me again, why exactly are we here, love?” Spike asked Buffy, his voice sounding tired and a bit impatient, but his eyes still revealing the uncertainty and fear he had been trying hard to cover up.

He had been very quiet on the ride over to the Magic Box, thinking. He hated that Buffy had seen him break down like he had, yet again, and just when things had been beginning to look so good for them. He had been starting to feel like himself again, secure and confident in her love for him.

And then Warren had come along and dashed it all to pieces in a matter of moments.

He desperately wanted to be strong and capable -- the man that she wanted, that she deserved. But in spite of everything, all the security and confidence he had spent the last few weeks rebuilding, a few moments under the influence of Warren and he was right back in that place of terror and hopelessness. He wanted be able to be the person he had been before all this had started, to be able to be strong, the fighter that he had once been – for her.

The breaking-down-in-tears thing didn’t really help with that particular image.

Warren had been right, he realized, feeling a sick sense of fear greater than any physical threat. Buffy would sooner or later weary of dealing with his weak and broken state. She was the Slayer. She needed someone powerful and capable, not a cringing, pathetic creature that she had to look after and protect every moment. And if he couldn’t manage to be that…it was only a matter of time before he lost her for good.

So, he tried to put on a brave front, to act as if the incident was not having that great of an effect on him after all…as if he was over it already. He tried to keep his tone light, to employ a bit of his old sarcasm, to smile and hide the fear and confusion he still felt as Warren’s vicious threats played over and over again in his mind.

But he couldn’t hide what was in his eyes. He never had been able to, and especially not from Buffy.

“I haven’t done much training lately,” Buffy replied, her voice casual. She gave a shrug with a sad little half-smile. “No one to train with. And you need to get your strength back up…work on your fighting skills. You haven’t done any fighting for nearly six months now. So I was thinking we could…do a little sparring, you know…get us both back to form.”

He looked at her for a moment in silence, trying to hide the dismay he felt at her suggestion. This only confirmed what he had already suspected. Buffy didn’t need any help “getting back to form”. She was in the best shape of her life. That was merely a ruse she was using so as not to make him feel too pathetic.

Well, it was too bloody late for that, by a long while. He knew what this was about. She was unhappy with the weak, pitiful creature he had become. She needed him to be strong, to be a fighter, and she was going to try to help him become that again.

But she was right; it had been so long -- *too* long -- since he had struck out at anyone – since he had even had the opportunity to attempt to defend himself. When he thought about it, the violence no longer felt as natural and comfortable to him as it once had. But, if this was what she needed him to do…

Still, the very thought of striking out at *her*…of hurting her even in a small way, even when she had asked him to…made him feel sick. He had sworn to himself that he would never hurt her again, as long as he lived. The thought of fighting her, even just in a sparring match, reminded him too much of the painful past they shared.

“I…I’m not sure, Buffy,” he replied, his voice soft and trembling a little in spite of his resolve to be strong for her.

“Come on, Spike,” she urged him gently, smiling her encouragement as she took on an easy fighting stance in front of him, bouncing a little on her heels with anticipation. “It’ll be fun.”

The eager expression on her face, the taut, prepared position of her body, ready to spring into action at any moment, had a sense of familiarity about it for him, and it sparked something in him – the memory of a feeling, a sensation – that moment of expectation and challenge just before a fight.

The beginnings of a cautious, tentative smile began to form on his face, as he replied in a voice of quiet resolve, “All right then, pet. Let’s give it a go.” The least he could do was try, for her. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

The beaming smile that broke out over her face encouraged him, and he began to think that maybe he could actually do this. It was only sparring, anyway…not a real fight. It wasn’t as if either one of them would really hurt the other.

Sensing that he would not be able to bring himself to do it, Buffy initiated the conflict. Her right fist shot out in an easily anticipated, easily blocked blow, and he did not disappoint her, effortlessly blocking her follow-up punch as well.

“Come on, now, pet,” he teased her, a triumphant and slightly defiant smile taking over his face as he found himself falling back into the old, natural rhythm of their first dance. “You’ve got to give me a bit more than that to work with.” Maybe this would actually be fun, he realized suddenly. After all, it always had been in the past.

Buffy’s smile widened, pleased with his success so far. Still, she was cautious, aware that physically she was far stronger than him at the moment, and emotionally he was still vulnerable and fragile. While this sort of contact was perhaps the most comfortable, most natural for both of them, at the moment it was full of hundreds of potential pitfalls for his slowly recovering heart. She carefully felt out the situation as she went along, wanting to push him just far enough to regain his confidence without pushing him too far, either physically or verbally.

“Well, you know, it’s been a while,” she shrugged, keeping her voice light. “Thought I’d start you off easy.”

He easily fell into the pattern of verbal sparring that had always accompanied their physical fights, shooting back, “’S like riding a bloody bike, love…not something you forget,” as he blocked a kick, catching her foot and pulling her off balance, knocking her onto the mat on her back.

She quickly jumped up, laughing, before he could think to be alarmed or question whether or not he had hurt her. “I didn’t know you could ride a bike,” she countered innocently, feinting to the left and then catching him in the stomach with her classic right hook and causing him to stumble back a couple of steps.

She was holding back, not wanting to actually hurt him, but she knew exactly what she was doing. It was time to make him actually fight back a little, not just block her blows. He had to be able to defend himself if – no, *when* – it came to it.

He glanced up at her, startled by the blow, but when he saw the teasing challenge in her sparkling eyes, it helped to put him at ease. This was Buffy…he trusted her completely. She would never hurt him, and as long as she was with him, he knew he was safe.

She came at him again in a controlled volley of punches and kicks, most of which he easily blocked…a few of which found their mark. They spun and darted back and forth in an echo of their first confrontation, so many years ago.

Except that this time, he never once struck out at her.

She found herself growing a little frustrated at her perceived failure. It was as she had feared; the fighting instinct that had so driven him before had been systematically and ruthlessly forced down until he simply couldn’t seem to bring himself to strike out, even when under attack like this, even when he knew in his mind that it was perfectly safe to do so.

How could she break through that wall he had built? She was afraid to go any further than she was going at the moment; she didn’t want to go so far as to make him afraid that she would actually hurt him, and she didn’t think he was quite ready for a real fight yet, anyway.

Before all of this had happened, she knew that neither of them would have felt the need to hold back in a sparring match such as this. Each would have known that the other could take whatever they could dish out, and would have acted accordingly.

Now, she was afraid of bringing to mind the beatings he had been through, further traumatizing him and potentially breaking the trust she had worked so hard to rebuild in him; and he was afraid of hurting her, unable to forget the last time he had done so, and the devastation it had left of their relationship.

“Come on,” she urged him, her voice quiet and intense, as she aimed another blow, and he blocked it, knocking her back a few steps. “That’s it…come on, Spike, let me have it…”

He advanced on her automatically, his body remembering the moves to the dance, drawing back his fist to strike. But he faltered at the last second, dropping his hand back to his side, before quickly raising his hands in a defensive posture, preparing himself for her next advance.

She shook her head in mild irritation, saying a bit sharply, “No! Come on, Spike, don’t hold back on me now!” She advanced on him again, and he easily evaded her assault, dodging around her and forcing her to spin around with him.

He wanted to do what she was asking, and appeared to be preparing to go on the offensive, but hesitated at the last moment, holding back again. Slowly he dropped his hands back to his sides, defeat in his eyes, and the rhythm was lost. He shook his head and turned away from her, lowering his eyes.

She quickly followed him, taking him by the arms and turning him to face her. “Spike… come on, Baby, you can do this, I know you can!” Her voice was gently insistent.

“I can’t,” he argued, an anguished note in his voice. “I – I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You’re not gonna hurt me, Spike,” she insisted, seeking his eyes with her own. “It’s just like…like practice. It’s okay. I *want* you to. You have to be ready, Baby. We don’t know what’s gonna happen…”

“You think I don’t know that?” he suddenly countered, his eyes shooting to hers, revealing the fear he had been trying to hide. “I know I’ve got to be able to fight, love. If I can’t I’m no good to anyone – not myself and certainly not you and Dawnie.” His voice softened as he lowered his eyes and went on, “But I just can’t…I just can’t hit *you*, pet. I can’t. Not – not yet. Not after all that’s happened.”

There was a moment of silence as she tried to compose her response. She could understand his hesitancy, the guilt that he still struggled with even after all this time. But she had to somehow make him see that it was really and truly all right…that she trusted him not to hurt her, that she *wanted* him to do this…to let her help him prepare for the possible danger that lay ahead.

Before she could speak, however, they were both startled by the sudden sound of a quiet male voice from the doorway into the store.

“Think you could hit *me*?”

They looked up together in surprise at the unexpected observer to their conversation.

Xander.

Buffy and Spike stood there for a moment, staring in surprise at Xander, leaning casually in the doorway, calmly watching the dramatic little scene. Buffy wondered how long he had been standing there, just how much he had seen and heard.

Then her eyes narrowed in anger, born of her frustration over Spike’s refusal to fight her, and the mistrust she still held for Xander. “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded defensively, stepping immediately between Spike and Xander in a protective way, facing her friend down coldly. If Xander thought to hurt Spike again, he was gravely mistaken.

“I didn’t ask you, Buffy.” Xander’s voice was strangely cool as he stepped slowly toward them, his pace measured and even. “I’m talking to Spike.” He moved as close as he could get to Spike before encountering the obstacle that was Buffy.

She stood firm between Xander and Spike, glaring at the taller, dark-haired man in front of her. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing here, Xander, but if you think I’m letting you come one step closer to Spike, you…”

Completely unexpectedly, Xander reached out a hand and pushed her to the side, out of his way. He was only able to actually push her aside because she was caught completely off guard. He hadn’t hurt her in the slightest, but she had never thought for a moment that he would actually lay a hand on her, and was unprepared for it when he did.

As Xander moved to stand directly in front of Spike, his posture not exactly threatening, but definitely challenging, Buffy indignantly moved forward to step between them again. That boy had some nerve! She had always held back with Xander, knowing that she had an incredible advantage over him physically, but now she fully intended to give him the butt-kicking of his life.

But before she could move, Spike suddenly stepped closer to Xander, filling in the slight space left between them in an instant. “What the bleedin’ hell do you think you’re doing, you bloody ponce?” he demanded, furious, glancing back toward Buffy for a moment. “Shoving her around like that?”

Xander met Buffy’s eyes for just the briefest instant over Spike’s shoulder, pleading silently for her understanding, and realization suddenly dawned on her, before she could follow her protective instinct and try again to get between them. She looked carefully at Spike, who was too focused on Xander to notice her scrutiny.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen that fire of anger in his eyes.

Xander knew exactly what he was doing, after all -- and now she did, too.

“Buffy’s a big girl,” Xander pointed out, his voice calm and mild. “She can take care of herself. It’s not really your business, is it?”

“It bloody well is my business!” Spike insisted, advancing a couple of steps on Xander, forcing him to back up a little, without even realizing he was doing it. He was genuinely angry now. “The fact that she could kick your soddin’ arse halfway to China doesn’t matter, boy. You’ve put her through a lot lately; you’ve no idea how hurt she’s been over all you’ve done. And you’ve got no call shoving her around, Slayer or not!”

For months Spike had been beaten, tortured, degraded, and humiliated – and all without any possible outlet for the painful feelings brought on by it all. To have shown anger or even disagreement with the way he was treated would have only brought on more suffering, as he had been utterly powerless to actually change anything about his situation.

So, he had repressed the anger, the hatred, forced it back so as not to reveal it to his tormentor, who was constantly looking for the smallest reason to cause him even more pain. It had become so ingrained in him that he had no right to show such feelings, that his was only to shut up and take whatever was dealt him, that even now in safety he found it difficult to stand up for himself and his rights.

Buffy and her rights, however, were an entirely different matter.

The rage that had built in him, though buried, during the past six months, had been boiling under the surface, growing stronger and stronger, until by the time he had been rescued it had been becoming difficult to hold it back. Now, the sparring match and the heated conversation with Buffy that followed had gotten his adrenaline flowing, heightened his senses and emotions, bringing them that much nearer to the surface – and making them that much more difficult to control.

So it was that when Xander strolled into the room like that, in the middle of a very private, personal conversation, and proceeded to interrupt as if he belonged there, even going so far as to push Buffy out of his way like that…

“Oh, yeah? Why don’t you do something about it, Spike?” Xander challenged him, crossing his arms over his chest, regarding him with raised eyebrows over an expectant gaze.

Something snapped in Spike at that moment – something that had been desperate to “do something about” all the horrible injustices and abuses that he had taken, but had been forced into submission and not permitted to do anything about, for far too long.

“Believe I will,” he muttered, swinging at Xander before he even realized he had done it.

The punch landed, hard, across Xander’s jaw, and he staggered back a couple of steps, his hand gingerly touching the sore spot there. Then he laughed, softly, shaking his head. “Man, is that all you’ve got?” he asked incredulously. “No wonder you’ve been getting your ass kicked for the past five months!”

Buffy gasped involuntarily, cringing at the words, glancing anxiously at Spike. She had become so accustomed to being so cautious about his brutalized emotions, being so careful to say only things that would rebuild his self-esteem, and never to say anything to tear it down.

But Xander’s words only seemed to bring out more of the seething rage that had been slowly consuming Spike, eating away at him. He lunged for the boy again in a fury, knocking him backward a second time.

“I’ll *show* you what I’ve got, you soddin’ idiot!” he muttered, moving in in preparation for another blow.

Xander dodged backward, not allowing that one to fall. “Still not impressed,” he said in a voice that was slightly mocking, but not cruelly so. “You know, it kinda surprised me when *I* was able to freak you out so bad before – I mean, you’ve got years of fighting experience on me – but now I think I’m starting to see why!”

Spike’s expression darkened, as the image of Xander, standing before him brandishing the control device for his chip, mocking and using his pain to his own advantage, came unbidden into his mind. His eyes were blue flames of fury as he came at Xander again, this time hitting him hard enough to knock him to the ground, and following it up with a hard kick to the boy’s stomach.

As Xander coughed and struggled slowly to rise, Buffy wondered for a moment if maybe she should step in. It was a good thing that Xander was trying to do, but Spike had regained more of his strength than he realized, and he seemed to be losing control. No matter how angry she had been with her friend lately, she really didn’t want Spike to hurt Xander badly.

But before she could move, Spike began to speak, and she froze. Standing over Xander as he rose back to his knees, resting there for a moment before getting up, Spike’s jaw was working with anger, and his balled fists at his sides were trembling in rage.

“You can’t begin to understand *why*, Xander!” he snarled, his voice low and shaking. “A git like you’s got no idea what real fear feels like…do you? No, you’ve had the Slayer there to chase the monsters away for you ever since you’ve known there *were* monsters to fear at all!”

Carefully, Xander rose to his feet, focused on Spike’s face, keeping his own expression neutral. “I think I do understand,” he said softly.

“You couldn’t possibly,” Spike whispered, shaking his head slightly, his eyes fixed on some point just beyond Xander. “There’s no way.”

“Then why don’t you explain it to me?” Xander’s voice was slightly goading, but Buffy could hear the sympathy in it, as he took a couple of steps toward Spike, deliberately aggressive, pushing him into action again.

In an instinct reaction, Spike lashed out with a couple of quick blows, sending Xander back to his knees, as he snapped in a trembling voice, “Don’t bloody touch me!”

Xander held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, to indicate that he would comply.

There was a brief, heavily weighted silence, in which the only sound was Spike’s ragged, labored breathing. Neither Buffy nor Xander moved, sensing that he was on the verge of a major breakthrough.

Finally Spike spoke in a voice that was quiet but intense, “You couldn’t know what it’s like…to be at the mercy of a sadistic little prick who gets his kicks from your…your pain…your…fear. Knowing that if all was as it should be, he wouldn’t be able to touch you…you could tear the bloody git to pieces with your bare hands…but all’s *not* as it should be. He’s a hundred times stronger than you, and then there’s the soddin’ chip… you can’t fight…can’t run…can’t do a bleedin’ thing but sit there and take it like…like the pathetic little ponce that you are…”

His voice was full of pain and fury, and Buffy couldn’t tell how much of it was directed at Warren and how much was directed at himself.

He paused for a moment, swallowing hard, trying to get his composure. A part of Buffy wanted to speak up, to argue with his assessment of his own weakness, but the better part of her knew that silence was the wisest course of action at this moment. He needed to get these things out.

“Not to mention the fact,” Spike finally went on, his eyes welling with angry tears that he refused to let fall. “that not a bleedin’ soul even knows where you are. There’s absolutely. No. Bloody. Hope. You know you’re stuck in that hell until he gets mad enough one day to finally dust you…’cept you know that’s not gonna happen. He likes his little game to much to break his toy too badly.”

“And no one’s coming for you. Not ever. Because you’ve gone, like the bloody monster you are, and driven away anyone who even cared for you in the slightest. There’s no one who even cares enough to look for you…to wonder where you are or if you’re…you’re all right, or…”

His voice broke there, and he shook his head again, looking away, trembling all over with intense emotion. Buffy dropped her head, choking back a sob, overwhelmed with pain and guilt again over leaving him there to suffer at Warren’s hands for so long. She should have looked for him, she should have found him long before she had…

Spike turned halfway toward her, sensing her pain, and said softly, “But you can’t blame them…it’s not their fault. They’ve no way of knowing you haven’t just run away… anyone *would* run away after what you’ve done. So it’s your own fault that no one’s trying to find you. It’s *all* your own fault.”

“It’s a prison, a bloody torture chamber, of your own making, and you know you’re never…ever…getting…out,” he finished, his voice barely above a whisper by now.

“So,” Xander began cautiously, from where he stood a few steps from Spike. He had risen to his feet again at some point during Spike’s painful remembrances, and the vampire had not even noticed, trapped in the world of his memories, somewhere between the present and the past. “you think it’s all *your* fault then…you *deserved* to be beaten and tortured and starved and God knows what else because you made one – granted, really big -- mistake…he was right to do what he did, then? Because you *deserved* it?”

Spike’s eyes shot up to his, furious. “No, he bloody was *not* right to do it!” he practically spat the words out in resentment and hurt. “He’s a sick little pervert who got *pleasure* out of what he did to me, and he had no right…no matter what I’d done…he had no right…”

His voice broke off again, and he looked at the floor, swallowing hard as he fought once again not to break down, not to let his rage take him over completely. Finally he finished, almost as if just realizing the truth of his own words, “He had no right. No one deserves what he did to me. Never.”

Xander nodded thoughtfully, stepping closer to Spike again. “So…what Warren did was wrong. He had no right to do that to you. We’ve established that.” He paused before continuing, “But you know he’s gonna come after you again. You know that, right?” His tone was matter-of-fact. “And you’re just gonna…what? Lie down and take it? Cause ya know, you’re sure don’t seem to be willing to put up much of a fight!”

As he spoke, he suddenly advanced on him again, moving forward in an intimidating way. “What are you gonna do about it, Spike?” he demanded, his voice intensifying to match his physical attack. “What are you going to do?”

Spike immediately caught his arm and countered with a punch of his own, sending Xander staggering back into the wall, punctuating his trembling, furiously tearful words with several more hard blows. “You don’t know a bloody thing about it!” he shot back, his voice low and trembling with rage. “I’m gonna bloody fight back is what I’m going to do! I’m not lying down and taking a bloody thing anymore! Not from you! Not from Warren! Not from anyone!”

He stood there in front of Xander, furious and shaking violently, breathing hard with the exertion of the beating he had just dealt him, as he glared defiantly at the boy who had once gone out of his way to torment and terrify him – and now had gone much further to rebuild the confidence he had helped to shatter.

A slow smile spread across Xander’s bruised, bloodied face as he met Spike’s eyes with his own fiery, unyielding gaze. “Glad to hear it,” he said softly.

His eyes widening as he realized what Xander had just said, he frowned in confusion. “What…?”

“I’m sorry, Spike,” Xander went on, holding his gaze, his voice quiet and sincere. “I’m really sorry for what I did to you. And I’m sorry if I’ve…if I’ve crossed the line just now. But you’ve got to know that *you* are the only one who can keep yourself from being a victim again, Spike. You. Nobody else can protect you all the time.”

He glanced at Buffy with a sort of sad smile. “No matter how bad they want to. You have to know that you have both the right and the power to defend yourself. And you can’t let anyone push you around and make you believe that you don’t. Not Warren…not me…not anyone.” There was a deep sorrow in Xander’s eyes as they met Spike’s unflinchingly, accepting the full responsibility for the mistakes he had made, and going far beyond words to set them right again.

Spike stared at him in disbelief as he began to realize just exactly what the boy had done. Xander slowly, painfully, moved past him away from the wall and toward the door. Spike turned slowly to watch him, his eyes wide with shock as he noticed for the first time Xander’s battered face, and realized that he was the one who had done it to him – and that Xander had willingly allowed it to be done, even *caused* it to be done.

“Why?” he asked simply, softly, feeling a rush of overwhelming gratitude for Xander’s unexpected sacrifice.

Xander stopped in the doorway, without turning, and paused for a moment before responding. “Because I *do* understand,” he said quietly, and without another word he was gone.

“Oh, God, I’m so dead!” Anya moaned, leaning forward and putting her head in her hands as she sat down in the chair across from Dawn’s bed. “You’re gonna get me slayed for sure, Dawnie, I just know it!”

“Buffy’s never gonna know that you had anything to do with all this,” Dawn insisted, shaking her head. “I’m the one who’s *really* risking the wrath of Buffy here! Cause she *is* gonna wanna know how I pulled it off, and I’m not gonna say a word, I swear!”

She paused before pointing out with a shrug, “Besides, anyway, most of the stuff I’m having you do doesn’t even look like magic, anyway. I could probably pull it off myself…in like…ten…years…” Her mouth turned down in a pout, before she shrugged it off and looked back at Anya expectantly, hoping her words were having the desired effect of convincing her to do what she wanted.

“Except the one *really big* magic thing that is very obviously also a *vengeance* thing!” Anya shot back, sounding agitated and upset and more than a little scared.

“Look, Anya,” Dawn went on, softer, finally a little sympathetic as she tried to calm her down. “Even if Buffy *did* find out about this – which she won’t – I *really* don’t think she’d be mad about it. She wants Warren to die a slow, painful death almost as much as I do. She just wants to do it herself. She’s planning on tracking him down and killing him later anyway. All you’re doing is helping me to do it first.”

“And helping you to be in peril of your life, and helping you to commit a felony before you’re even out of high school, and introducing you to dangerous demon types, and…”

“Anya.”

Anya’s anxious little rant cut off suddenly, and she gave Dawn a dubious, mistrustful look.

“Please,” Dawn said softly. “Please just help me do this. For Spike.”

Anya just looked at her for a moment, her expression not changing, before she sighed wearily and glanced at the floor. Dawn had played the one card she knew trumped any that Anya might attempt to use. Looking back up into Dawn’s eyes she replied quietly, defeated, “Okay.”

“So where does this guy live, anyway? This guy I want to see? You said he lives near Sunnydale, right?” Dawn asked, satisfied that Anya was securely back in her camp. “So how am I gonna meet up with him?”

“You don’t need to go to this guy’s place, Dawn. Certainly not alone. He’s dangerous. If you go alone to meet him, you’ll disappear and never be seen again – well, at least, not… all of you at once,” Anya amended, a little grimace on her face.

It was nothing compared to the disgusted, horrified look Dawn gave her at the ghastly comment, spoken so matter-of-factly.

“Well, how else do you suggest I set up a meeting with him, then?” Dawn’s voice was beginning to sound a little irritable.

“Well,” Anya began hesitantly, as if she had a feeling that she would regret sharing this information with Dawn, “there is one place around Sunnydale that he does hang out a lot…”


Buffy and Spike each stood frozen in place as the door shut slowly behind Xander, both of them just trying to take in the magnitude of what had just happened, of the powerful gesture Xander had just made.

Buffy looked cautiously at Spike for a moment, wondering if he was okay. Actually, he seemed better than she’d seen him in a long while. The fire that had long since been quenched by months of systematic, breaking abuse, was back in his eyes. Xander’s words and actions had given him a lot to think about, but had in no way wounded him or added to his trauma.

Buffy knew that Spike was still dealing with a lot, and it would still take some doing for him to completely conquer his fears, but somehow she also knew that he had just taken a huge step toward becoming himself again.

And they had Xander to thank for it.

Buffy turned slowly to look toward the door where her friend had just disappeared. She stared at it for a long moment, her eyes welling with tears at the thought of what he had done. Then, suddenly, she took off out the door, running through the store and out the front door of the Magic Box in a rush of pounding footsteps and jangling bells.

She caught up to him a few yards from the shop, catching him by the arm and spinning him around to face her.

He flinched a little when he saw that it was her, at her firm grip and the hard set of her mouth, despite the fact that her lips were trembling and her eyes were filled with unshed tears.

*Here it comes,* he thought. *She’s about to ream me out good for freaking Spike out again. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t have…*

Buffy just stared at him, her green eyes wide and solemn and brimming with tears. Then, suddenly, she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly to her in a desperate embrace.

He was struck speechless, partly with shock at her very unexpected actions…and partly with the simple lack of the oxygen necessary to form speech.

“Thank you,” she whispered through her tears. “Xander, thank you so much for what you just did in there!”

Tears welling up in his own eyes, he put his arms around her, smiling a tentative smile over her head. “I couldn’t have done anything else, Buffy. I – I had to…to make up…” He stopped, shaking his head a little. Glancing down at Buffy, who was still hugging him tightly, he asked in a hesitant, cautious voice, “Does…does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

“Xander, I don’t hate you,” Buffy said, looking up at him, but not ending her embrace. She had not realized until this moment how very badly she had missed her friend during their recent estrangement. “I never hated you. You did a really stupid, wrong thing…and I was damn mad about it… but I could never hate you, Xander.”

“Good,” he choked out, meeting her gaze with his warm brown eyes. “Um…Buffy… could part of the whole…not hating me thing…be…possibly letting me live? Can’t… breathe…here…”

“Oh, God, Xander, I’m sorry!” she laughed through the tears that streaked her face as she pulled away from him quickly, and he laughed too, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief.

He had not done what he had done to get Buffy to forgive him. He had genuinely wanted to help Spike, and ironically, he felt that at the moment he was perhaps the only one with enough understanding of what he had been through to be able to know what it would take to help him overcome it. Considering the part he had played in Spike’s recent regression, it was no more than his responsibility to do what he could to help him.

Buffy’s forgiveness was just a very, very pleasant side effect.

The soft laughter of their reconciliation faded slowly into silence, and his deep, solemn brown eyes searched hers. “I really am so sorry, Buffy,” he told her, his voice quietly imploring.

She stared into his eyes for a moment, the mirth fading out of her own, but finally allowing the warmth and affection she had been blocking out for the past week to show. “I know,” she said quietly with a slow nod of her head. “You’ve proven that today. It’s over, Xander. Let’s just try to forget it and move on.”

He nodded, gratefully, too choked up to reply, blinking back the tears of relief that sprang to his eyes at the blessed mercy of her forgiveness, that for a little while there he had feared he would never find.

“Come on back to the shop with me. We need to get you cleaned up,” she gently urged him, frowning in concern at his battered face as she linked her arm through his and turned them back toward the Magic Box.

“No.” He shook his head emphatically as he gently unentangled his arm from hers. “I think Spike needs a little space from me for a little while. And I *know* my face needs a little space from him!” he pointed out ruefully, touching his bruised eye gingerly.

Buffy smiled sympathetically. “You might be surprised,” she said softly. “I don’t think he’s mad at you at all. What you did back there – that meant a lot, Xander.” She paused, frowning, her eyebrows raised with a hint of attitude in her expression, “But shoving me out of your way like that…”

He felt a touch of apprehension for a moment. He knew it had been too easy; there had to be a catch.

Suddenly her face broke into a smile as she shook her head and finished, “*That* was brilliant.”

He laughed as he tucked his head modestly and said with a little shrug, “He needed a good mad. He hasn’t had one in too long. At least, not one that he could let out. He needed to be able to prove to himself that he can get mad, he can take up for himself, and it’s not gonna lead to total, terrifying badness…you know?”

“I know,” Buffy nodded. “And he really needed to get all that stuff off his chest – to just talk about it some, you know? He’s been holding it all inside ever since he got home, scared to talk about it…”

“And that’s a heck of a lot of mad to hold in,” Xander broke in, shaking his head with a little whistle through his teeth, staring thoughtfully just past her, a grim expression on his face.

Buffy studied his face for a moment, frowning speculatively. “Not that I’m complaining,” she said. “but I’ve just got to ask, Xander. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Xander hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond in a way that would be both honest and safe for Anya, before he finally admitted with a little shrug, “Anya.”

“Huh?” Buffy was surprised. “What do you mean?”

“She – she had a long talk with me after that night…the night I brought the term ‘jackass’ to whole new heights? She was pretty ticked at me for that, too. I guess *everybody* was.”

“We were,” she confirmed, smiling a little too brightly at him.

“Thanks for clearing that up,” he said dryly. Then his tone became more serious as he went on, “She helped me to understand. To see where Spike was coming from, from a different perspective.”

“Hmmm,” Buffy said in a voice of mild surprise. She would not have thought that Anya had it in her to be so intuitive. “Go Anya, being all percepto-girl.”

Then she frowned.

“Wait…how did Anya even know what happened?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not like you were going off and *bragging* about it!” Suddenly she frowned in disapproval as she asked, “You weren’t, were you?”

“No!” Xander insisted quickly. “Of course not!” But the focus of his thoughts was not really on defending himself at the moment. His stomach dropped as he realized that he had just made a crucial slip.

*Oh, crap.*

“Um, I guess Dawnie must have told her.”

Buffy nodded pensively, remembering Anya standing in her sister’s bedroom earlier. “Yeah, they’ve been getting kind of tight lately, ever since Anya came back to Sunnydale. Anya was over at the house tonight talking to Dawn.”

“She was?” Xander kept his voice calm, unconcerned, but the wheels were beginning to turn in his mind.

Anya, suddenly showing up in Dawn’s room, a matter of minutes after Warren had pulled his cruel little act of mental terrorism with her best friend…Dawn’s threat to Warren on the phone immediately following the incident, which had in no way sounded like idle words…her calm assurance at the Bronze that Warren *would* pay for what he had done to Spike…

Suddenly it all fit together in his head.

Dawn was planning to get her own vengeance on Warren for what he had done. His mind raced with the implications and possibilities. It was a good idea, really, he conceded mentally. Spike had been too emotionally devastated and terrified to wish any harm on Warren himself, he knew. Actually, it kind of seemed like a good way of eliminating Warren as a threat…if Dawn wished wisely.

He knew from experience that vengeance wishes could be very tricky, complicated things, and if one was not careful, they could have unexpected – and decidedly unpleasant – results. And now, in retrospect, as he thought about the way Dawn had been acting lately, some of the things she had said, it worried him, the focus on vengeance that she seemed to have been gradually forming.

He thought for a moment about telling Buffy about his suspicions. After all, Dawn could very well be placing herself not only on emotionally dangerous ground, but putting herself in actual physical danger as well. Although she sometimes didn’t seem like it, especially lately, she was still little more than a child.

But then he thought of Anya – and Buffy’s likely reaction to the idea of Anya’s *helping* Dawn to put herself in such dangers – and shuddered inwardly.

No, he decided suddenly. He trusted Anya. She knew what she was doing, and she would not let Dawn endanger herself. He would keep her secret until he had a much more solid, definite reason not to.

“I guess that’s cool,” Buffy shrugged, and he had to shake himself out of his reverie and remind himself what they had been talking about. “I mean, Dawn had been feeling kind of out of the loop I think, before Spike got back. And I kind of think that Anya *always* felt like that. It might be good for them.”

*Oh, right…Anya and Dawn becoming friends…*

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he answered noncommittally, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Well, anyway,” she said, glancing back toward the Magic Box. “I’d better go see how Spike’s doing.” She laughed softly, looking at the ground for a moment before meeting his eyes again with gratitude. “That was better than any training session I could have put him through.”

She paused, and her eyes became steely as she said, “Do me a favor and get ahold of Will and Tara. We need to meet at my house in…” She glanced at her watch. “…about an hour. It’s time for us to get planning.”

“Sure, Buff. Planning what?” he asked, as always willing and ready for whatever she had in mind.

“We’re finding a way to get rid of that stupid chip. As long as Spike’s got it, Warren can get to him,” Buffy explained. “And then…we’re going to find Warren.”

She didn’t have to say anything else. Her intentions were perfectly clear, and in spite of the fact that probably no one agreed more than Xander with the sentiments that she unknowingly shared with her sister, he felt a chill go down his spine at the cold fury he heard in the Slayer’s voice, and was suddenly very, very glad that he hadn’t taken his intimidation of Spike any further than he had.

He nodded slowly and replied in a voice of quiet agreement, “Okay, Buffy. I’ll gather the troops.”

Buffy nodded in satisfied response. “Good. That power-hungry little creep’s gone free for too long. He deserves to die for what he’s done, but he’s probably not even gonna do any prison time at all. That’s justice for you,” she shrugged with a bitter note in her voice. She paused as she turned back toward the Magic Box and finished in a voice of cold determination, “We’re gonna find him…and I’m gonna give him a taste of real justice.”

“This is so not scary,” Dawn scoffed, standing beside Anya – just outside the door to Willy’s bar. “My sister comes in here all the time. It’s totally no big deal.”

“Dawn,” Anya pointed out in an overly patient, measured, calm tone, “the fact that your sister comes in here all the time does *not* make it safer for you. It makes it worse. It means that there are probably at least a dozen demons in there that think *you* look like a pretty great victim.”

Dawn swallowed hard, trying not to show how nervous Anya’s words made her. She took a step toward the door, then stopped, not opening it. “Anya, why did you have to say that?” she demanded, turning toward her in irritation. “Now how am I supposed to even go in there?”

Anya shrugged. “Well, that’s why I came with you,” she replied. “Because if anybody messes with you, I’ll just turn them into something even more disgusting than they already are, and a lot less dangerous. Like…a little bitty slug or something.”

Dawn actually did feel considerably better, and stepped toward the door again.

“Provided they’re not choking you or anything and you can actually speak to make a wish,” Anya amended.

Dawn froze again for just a moment, shooting a look of mingled fear and annoyance over her shoulder at Anya before drawing her shoulders back, putting on a stance that screamed attitude, and pushing the door open ahead of her.

Willy noticed her the moment she walked in the door, and Dawn noticed out of the corner of her eye, as she scanned the crowd with an arrogant look that she hoped was at least a little intimidating, that the little bartender was terribly unsettled by her presence. She tried not to notice the dozen or so pairs of eyes that were locked onto her, watching her every move. An odd quiet seemed to fall over the room as Dawn and Anya approached the bar.

“You shouldn’t be here, kid,” Willy told her, his voice trembling a little, running a shaky hand through his greasy dark hair. “It isn’t safe; you’re not exactly citizen of the year around these parts.” He paused, then looked up at her triumphantly, an idea just dawning on him. “You’re too young!” he informed her, pointing a finger at her. “Can’t serve alcohol to minors, you’ve gotta go!”

“Okay, most of what you serve isn’t alcohol anyway,” Dawn pointed out, rolling her eyes. Then she put on a very Buffy-like smile and stepped closer to the bar. “And I’ll get out of here when I get the information I need.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Willy muttered. “Look, kiddo, you’re no Slayer…”

“No. But my sister is. And I bet she’d be plenty mad if she happened to find out I was hanging out here, and you let me stay and served me alcohol…not to mention what she’d think of the fact that you never cut me off and I got staggering drunk and went home with some really cute random boy vamp and almost got killed.” Dawn’s imaginative little monologue was punctuated by a self-satisfied smile as she raised her eyebrows and looked at the bartender expectantly.

Willy sighed wearily, a defeated look on his face. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a demon named Arashmar,” Dawn said, leaning her elbows on the bar lazily, feeling smug and cocky from her small victory. “I heard he comes in here a lot. You seen him lately?”

Willy’s eyes widened in surprised apprehension. “Okay. We’re done here,” he informed her. “Your sister would be a lot angrier if I hooked you up with *that* guy.”

“*If* she finds out,” Dawn corrected, a little too quickly, afraid she was losing her advantage. “Which she won’t. The whole cute vamp guy attacking me and it’s all your fault thing, on the other hand…she’s *definitely* gonna hear about.”

Willy looked at her for a moment, muttering to himself in resentment. Then he finally said, “Fine! He comes here every Friday…should be in any minute now, actually. If you wanna wait a little bit, you should be able to catch him.” He turned away, shaking his head, as Dawn and Anya each took a seat at the bar to wait.

“What do you want with that guy, anyway?” Willy asked, turning back toward her for a moment, frowning. “He’s really hard-core, kid. Pretty dangerous. You don’t wanna hear the stories I’ve heard about humans who’ve tangled with him. Pretty gruesome. The stuff of nightmares.”

The Slayer’s little sister smiled a peculiar smile as she replied in a quiet, grim voice.

“Let’s hope so.”


Buffy walked back into the training room, carefully closing the door behind her before turning to look at Spike. He was leaning on the edge of a pommel horse, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his head bent downward, staring off into space, lost in thought.

His back was to her, and he did not see her come in.

She walked up behind him without saying a word, smiling to herself at the very sight of him. He was looking a lot better, she noticed. The black t-shirt he was wearing fit him well – which was in itself a good sign, he was putting on weight – and she could see that he was beginning to fill out a little again, now that he was getting enough blood and rest, and not consistently having what little strength he had sapped by frequent bouts of torture.

She slipped up to him and put her arms around his shoulders from behind him, pulling him close to her, thinking how grateful she was to have him back – and how grateful she was that that was beginning to be true in more than one sense.

Surprisingly to her, she felt his body tense under her touch, the moment before he reacted, springing into action. He reached up and caught her wrists, spinning around and twisting her around with him so that her back was to him and her arms were pinned, crossed across her chest.

He was breathing hard as he held her there, and she felt her heartbeat quicken with the memory of times past, the two of them in just such a familiar pose of challenge, and so many other similar ones. His hands on her wrists were firm and unyielding, but not painful, as he just stood there, holding her against him. She suddenly realized that she, too, was breathing hard, as she felt her desire for him rising up within her.

“Ought not to sneak up on a bloke like that, love,” he murmured in her ear, so close that she could feel the smile slowly forming on his lips as they brushed her ear. “Might mistake you for some nasty thing.”

Buffy didn’t know if he actually had mistaken her for a threat, and reacted instinctively to it, only realizing once he had pinned her that it was her – or if he was simply exercising his new-found confidence in this aggressive, seductive little scene he was building here.

Either way, it was a good thing, and she liked it.

She leaned her head back against his shoulder so that her lips were a fraction of an inch from his, meeting his eyes with her bold, fiery gaze as she countered in a husky, seductive whisper, “Are you sure you’re mistaken? Maybe I *am* a nasty thing.”

His smile slowly widened, and she could see the smoldering desire in his blue eyes as they held her gaze. “Don’t look like it, love,” he whispered. “Perhaps you’d better show me.”

She smiled for an instant, then with a quick twist of her wrists, broke his hold and turned around in his arms to face him, putting one hand at the back of his neck and pulling him in for a deep, intense kiss that was nothing like the typically gentle ones they had shared recently, as the fingers of her other hand played teasingly just inside the low waistband of his jeans.

Neither of them was in the mood for gentle at the moment.

His arms snaked around her, running up and down her back in a constant motion, feeling unable to touch her enough, as he deepened the kiss, plundering her mouth with a desperate intensity.

She welcomed the aggression, her hand moving from the back of his neck to fist in the fabric of his t-shirt as she pulled him away from the pommel horse and blindly steered them toward the mat in the center of the room. She was surprised at the effect his sudden assertiveness was having on her.

She loved having the opportunity to cherish and nurture him, the warmth and affection of the love they shared. But she had missed this – the fire and passion that she had felt the need to check lately in order to not push him too far, to not confuse or frighten him.

He didn’t seem the least bit confused at the moment, and not at all frightened; he seemed very sure of what he wanted.

Buffy was sure, too. “Oh, God, Spike, I want you!” she gasped in an urgent voice, pulling him down with her onto the mat, on top of her. “I need you now!”

One of his hands rested at her shoulder, while the other slowly slid down her side to her hip, as his tongue urgently explored her mouth. Suddenly he pulled back a little, his eyes wide, as he glanced toward the door.

“The door?” he whispered questioningly, though his voice was low and raw with his need for her, and his lips quirked upward in a familiar, seductive smirk that said he really wouldn’t care all that much if the bloody door was standing wide open.

“Locked,” she gasped, breathless already, further excited by the look on his face and the thoughts it provoked, jerking him back down by his shirt to resume the kiss.

The thought of being caught somehow seemed to heighten their desire for each other; but the realization that there was no possible way they could be interrupted gave them the freedom to give in to those desires. It didn’t matter that they were in the training room behind the Magic Box – which happened to be open at the moment. At that moment, they were the only two people in the world, each of them rediscovering a part of the other they had thought was lost forever.

Spike’s hands slid back up her sides, slipping her shirt up and over her shoulders, and her hands reached up to allow him to remove it completely, then moved to return the favor before pulling him close to her again.

The shock of his cool, hard flesh against her skin made her gasp in pleasure. “Oh, Spike…” she moaned softly, her hands sliding around him for a moment and then back again between them as she unfastened his pants and worked them down over his hips.

His hands followed her lead and effortlessly slid the soft yielding fabric of the skirt she was wearing off her body. With nothing separating them, his cool, hard body against the hot, soft skin of hers, they lost themselves in each other and in the passion of the moment, with a desperate intensity.

“Buffy…sweet…want you…oh God, Buffy…” Spike whispered, his hands moving urgently over her body, his mouth covering hers.

She pulled back with a gasp of pleasure at his touch to moan softly, “Spike…I want you…take me…take me now…”

He was only too ready to comply, falling down upon her, into her, as her hands wrapped around him to pull him closer, deeper.

“I need you…” she moaned, one hand fisting in his hair as the other held him to her. “I need you…inside…I need…”

He looked up at her face in a momentary confusion, unable to understand what she was asking for, too lost in the moment to fully process her words. “What…what, love?” he whispered, in a gasping, shuddering voice. “What do you want me to…”

“I need...to be…yours…take me, Spike,” she gasped, pulling his head down so that his lips brushed her throat. “Take me…all of me…”

The intensity, the desperation of her plea, combined with the thought of the sweet ecstasy of pleasure and intimacy of what she was asking for drove him impossibly close to the edge of his release.

Suddenly, a strangled little cry rose in her throat, and he knew that the anticipation of what she craved, what she was practically begging him for, was having the same effect on her. “Now,” she rasped in a whisper. “Spike…I need….I love…you…take me…now…*now*!”

In an instant he had changed, revealing his true nature to her without hesitation, and plunging his fangs into her throat. She let out another cry at the exquisitely sharp pleasure of pain. He drank deeply, taking her life, her very essence into himself as she took him into her, until their bodies, their hearts, their very lives were combined into one in each other’s arms, and they were both lost in an uncontrollable rush of pleasure and passion.

Utterly spent, they collapsed in each other’s arms on the mat, trembling and panting, clinging to each other. As she watched, glistening golden eyes changed to the deep, sparkling blue she knew so well, boldly, openly, gazing into the fiery depths of her own emerald eyes.

There was something there she had not seen in a very long time. No, she corrected herself, searching the fathomless blue depths in wonder. She had *never* seen that look in his eyes.

Challenge…possession. That look said that she was his, and he knew she was his, a precious treasure that he had no intention of ever relinquishing to another.

She knew the feeling. She had longed for him for so long, missed him desperately and wanted him back in her arms just like this. Then she had found him, and her joy at having him back in her life had been overwhelming. Still, it had been tainted by the pain of knowing that a part of him was missing, driven out, lost to her.

But this very afternoon, something had changed drastically in him. He had managed, with a little help, to find that missing part that had been stolen away long ago. He had regained some of his confidence, his security, remembered who he was. The realistic side of her warned her that the journey was probably not over, and he still had a ways to go to return completely to his former strength and confidence.

But Spike had found his way, and if he hadn’t reached it yet, he was still steadily and surely making his way home.

And now that she really had him back, she knew that she would never let him go again.

“So that’s the deal,” Dawn finished outlining her proposition for the demon sitting across the table from her, and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to appear nonchalant, though her heart was racing with a mixture of adrenaline and fear.

Anya sat beside her, not really participating in the negotiations, leaving it in Dawn’s hands. After all, this whole thing was Dawn’s “baby” so to speak, anyway. Anya just sat there and warily observed the creature sitting at the table with them, silently listening to Dawn’s offer.

Arashmar was a shape-shifter, and at the moment the form he was in was what he probably thought passed for human. And it did…mostly. His façade was nearly flawless – except for the chilling opaque blackness of his eyes, devoid of any light or color to betray his thoughts or emotions – assuming he had any. Like the cold, dead eyes of a shark.

Dawn forced herself to meet those terrifying eyes, even though she felt a shudder of fear run through her at the sight of them. Maybe it was because, although she had thought she could handle this, she was *not* her sister, after all, and did not have the experience Buffy had with creatures such as this one.

Or maybe it was simply because it was utterly impossible to read anything, any reaction or feeling whatsoever, in the depths of darkness in Arashmar’s eyes. However, she knew that he, on the other hand, would be able to read a lot from her inability to look him in the eye, and she steeled herself to meet his unsettling gaze.

“Sounds promising,” Arashmar conceded, his tone noncommittal. “I’ve only got one question for you, girl.” His deep, low voice was calm, and he smiled a chilling smile as he asked quietly, “Why should I wait a week to *pay* you for this deal – when there’s a perfectly good prospect sitting right here in front of me – alone and unclaimed – unprotected?”

Dawn felt her heart jump up into her throat, but forced herself to keep her expression cool and composed. “Because I really don’t think you want to give the Slayer a personal vendetta against you.”

“The Slayer?” he scoffed. “This is the Hellmouth, child,” he informed her derisively. “It takes more than one missing girl to bring down the wrath of the Slayer. I seriously doubt she’s going to go out of her way to come after me because of *you*!” His tone was full of contempt, and unmistakable menace.

“Yeah?” Anya broke in, a smug smirk on her face as she spoke for the first time during the conversation. “One missing girl might be *exactly* what it would take to bring the Slayer down on you…if the girl happens to be her little *sister*!”

Arashmar leapt suddenly up from the table, overturning his chair behind him as he did, staring open-mouthed at the girl sitting calmly in front of him.

“You’re the – you’re the *Slayer’s* sister?” he sputtered in a mixture of anger and fear, the intense dramatic tone of his voice dropped. He no longer sounded the least bit intimidating to Dawn. “This conversation is *over*!” He swept his hands out in front of him in an emphatic gesture. “Making a deal with you could end up getting me killed!”

“*Not* making a deal with me *will* get you killed,” Dawn immediately replied, her voice quiet and a calm smile on her face. Anya’s eyes shot to hers in surprise at the hard note that was suddenly in her voice. “I promise.”

Arashmar stood there for a moment, staring back at her. His eyes were of course blank and expressionless, but his fear and frustration at the little girl’s threat, and it’s very real power, were both obvious to Dawn.

“Why don’t you sit back down?” she suggested innocently, her eyes sparkling with triumph as he slowly complied, his dark, unsettling eyes locked on her in suspicion.

Dawn was practically bouncing in her seat with satisfaction and a childlike glee that was vaguely unsettling to both the demons sitting with her. Anya was impressed. Dawn was standing up to this considerably intimidating creature – and completely turning the tables on him. Now *he* was the one sitting down and listening meekly, and little Dawnie was in control of the conversation.

*Must run in the family,* Anya thought with a slight shrug.

“So. Do we have a deal?” Dawn asked softly, still smiling brightly at him.

There was a long pause before Arashmar grumbled in a low voice, “I suppose we do.” He looked down at the table for a moment, frowning thoughtfully, before looking back up at Dawn. “I just don’t see what you’re getting out of this,” he went on, suspicion in his voice. “I’m the only one who seems to be benefiting from this little deal, and I know better than to trust that. That sort of thing is always, *always* too good to be true. What’s in it for you?”

Dawn’s smile widened, and her voice softened in a chilling way, full of a menace that was frightening in the voice of a girl so young, as she replied immediately, “Revenge.”


“Well. Go, Dawnie,” Anya said as they stepped out of the bar onto the busy street and headed back toward the house. “Where’d you learn to be so freakin’ scary?”

“Hmm…let’s think, Anya,” Dawn said in a dry, overly patient voice. “My sister’s the Slayer, and my best friend’s a master vampire. Where do you think I might have picked the scariness up?” Then she smiled, her eyes suddenly warm as she looked at Anya. “It’s all coming together,” she said in a confiding tone, her excitement evident. “I think we’re actually ready. Is the place all set up like I asked you?”

“Ready to go,” Anya affirmed, nodding. A slight frown creased her brow as she looked Dawn in the eye with some concern. “I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me just do it all…just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I mean, you could have wished it all into being without having to do all the tedious set up and meeting with demons in demon bars and all.”

“I told you already, Anya,” Dawn reminded her quietly, turning away and walking again down the sidewalk. “This is personal. I want for Warren to *know* exactly why this is happening to him. I’m gonna make him pay *myself* for what he did to Spike.”

Anya was silent, not having any response. It bothered her to hear the cold, bitter sound in the young girl’s voice. She agreed that Warren deserved to suffer, and badly, for the cruelty he had inflicted on Spike.

She just wasn’t so sure that it should be at Dawn’s hands…for Dawn’s sake.

“Well, let’s do this then,” Dawn said suddenly, stopping in mid-stride on the sidewalk and turning to face Anya again, looking her in the eye with a firm resolve of determination. She hesitated for just a moment, before she began solemnly, “I wish…”

“Wait a second,” Anya cautioned her, suddenly feeling very apprehensive about the whole affair, thinking fast to come up with a reason to stall the girl, not even knowing exactly why she wanted to stall her. “Don’t you think..don’t you think you should find out what Buffy’s planning before we do this? If she does something and finds out what you’re doing before it’s done, it could really mess things up. These vengeance wishes are very touchy…any interference could be pretty dangerous.”

Dawn frowned, impatient and frustrated, but seeing the reason in the words Anya had just happened to come up with off the top of her head. “You’re right,” she grumbled, her lips turning down in a pout. “You suck…but you’re right.”

She perked up a little as she looked back at Anya and declared firmly, “But first thing tonight…when Buffy leaves for work and everyone goes home…we’re doing this. No more putting it off. It’s time for Warren to pay.”


“Oh, shoot!” Buffy gasped, suddenly yanking herself out of Spike’s arms and scrambling awkwardly to her feet, looking wildly about them for her discarded clothes.

She didn’t remember dozing off, in the blissful haze that had surrounded them, but somehow she was just now waking up…and it was exactly an hour since she had told Xander to get the gang together.

Spike let out a disgruntled little whimper of protest at the loss of contact. “Buffy,” he mumbled sleepily, a slight whine in his voice and a pout to his lips as he looked up at her – and she found neither annoying, and both absolutely adorable.

“We’re late, Baby,” she explained quickly, giving him a soft, apologetic smile, as she pulled on her shirt and hurriedly buttoned it, then swore softly and tore the buttons open again to rebutton the shirt correctly. “Everybody’s gonna be at my house waiting for us, and we’re gonna come waltzing in late looking like – like…”

Her eyes fell on him, and her words broke off at the look in his dark blue eyes.

He was leaning up on one arm, watching her boldly as she dressed, unashamedly admiring her with a look that was worshipful and wicked in his eyes, a slight smirk playing about his perfect lips. “Like we just shagged each other silly for an hour?” he supplied helpfully.

Her expression slowly softened to a smile as she met his gaze, and shrugged. “Well… yeah,” she replied, her voice low and husky, as she knelt down on the mat beside him, leaning in close and putting one arm around him with a wondering expression in her eyes – as if seeing him for the first time…again. She knew she had to get ready to go, that they were already ridiculously late, but suddenly she just wanted to be close to him again.

“And that would be bad?” he questioned, reading the awe and adoration in her eyes and matching it with his own, feeling a thrill at realizing again the depth of affection she had for him.

She shook her head and whispered, “No…not bad…” as she leaned down to kiss him, slowly, thoroughly, and he fell back down onto his back on the mat.

When she pulled away from the kiss to look him in the eyes again, he whispered in a voice that was both teasing and affectionate. “Well…in that case…maybe it’d be even better if we’d been shagging each other silly for *two* hours?”

She laughed softly, a low, sensuous sound in her throat, as she kissed him again. “But by then they’d be gone…and they’d miss the whole thing anyway,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “Can’t say that I’d mind. Give us more time to ourselves.”

She sighed in a resigned sort of way and pulled back reluctantly. “No…we’ve gotta go on over there. Everyone’s meeting to plan a way to get rid of your stupid chip…and then get rid of stupid Warren. We can’t really skip out.”

She got up and pulled her skirt back on, as he slowly rose from the mat behind her, a thoughtful frown on his face as he considered her words.

“Buffy, love,” he said quietly, a little hesitantly, as she turned to face him once she had finished dressing. “Is there…do you really think…”

“What?” she pressed him gently, coming close to him and putting her arms around his waist in an affectionately possessive manner.

“Do you think there even *is* a way to get this soddin’ chip out, love?” His eyes were wide and wondering, searching hers. He hadn’t really even considered the possibility since his rescue from Warren’s house. The thought had honestly not crossed his mind.

Buffy’s face hardened slightly into a firm resolve, but her eyes were still warm and reassuring as she said quietly, “There has to be. And I’m gonna find it.” She shrugged after a brief silence, before suggesting, “Maybe there’s a spell or something. If there is, Willow and Tara can find it. Or…or a doctor, or…”

“No Initiative doctors, Buffy,” he said quietly. “Don’t want anyone poking around in my head anymore, love.”

“No, of course not,” she assured him, reaching up a hand to run her fingers gently through his hair. “You’re right. But there has to be a way. We have to get that thing out, so no one can ever control you again, Baby.”

He didn’t reply, just looked at the floor for a moment, before pulling gently away from her embrace to finish getting dressed. As they finished getting ready to go, he could tell that his silence concerned her. She was worried about him, wondering what he thought about the idea of having the chip removed.

The truth was, he really didn’t know what to say at all.

He didn’t even know what to think.

For years all he had wanted, all he had thought about, was getting the bloody chip removed. Now, the thought of it actually taking place, of Buffy *helping* him make it happen, simply floored him…as did the thought of actually being free from the tiny piece of silicon and wire that had dominated his life for so long.

It had become so firmly entrenched in his life, his mindset, that he hardly remembered what it was like before he had had it.

And as he began to remember what it had been like, an uneasy feeling began to come over him, as the beginnings of new worries began to take shape in his head.

For her part, Buffy managed to somehow keep silence, to not push him to tell her what he was thinking about, what was bothering him. She was learning to resist the urge to attempt to control him, to press him to go along with her wishes, and allow him to make his own decisions and assert control over his own life.

Finally, just as they were about to walk out into the Magic Box, he said quietly, and a little reluctantly, “Buffy…”

“Yes?” she asked him, her voice soft and neutral, but with an expectancy that she couldn’t hide.

“Are you sure…are you sure you *want* to…to get the chip out?”

The question stunned her, and she turned quickly to fully face him, her green eyes full of confusion as they searched his. “Of course I do,” she finally answered, after a silence in which she tried to understand where this was coming from. “But…this is about what you want, Spike. Don’t you want it out?”

He did not respond for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yes, love. I want the thing out. But – but if it is…then…will you…” He hesitated, not sure how to say what he was thinking, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

And suddenly she understood.

Her expression softened with the comprehension of what was troubling him, and she reached a hand to tenderly touch his cheek, drawing his eyes back up to meet hers. “Spike,” she said softly. “I trust you.”

He shook his head, starting to interrupt, looking down again.

“No,” she said firmly. “I trust you, Spike. I know that you don’t need that chip to keep you from hurting people. That chip hasn’t worked on you with anyone but Warren in a long time, and you’ve been free for almost a month now…and you haven’t hurt anyone.”

“ ‘Cept Xander,” he pointed out, his voice low.

She suppressed a smile and conceded, “Except Xander. But you know he had it coming real bad.”

“Bloody right he did.”

She let out a soft laugh, before it faded out and her eyes became serious. “Spike…look at me,” she said in a quiet, firm voice, and he obeyed, his blue eyes anxious and troubled. “I know that you can do good, without the chip. I know you can. And you have to be able to defend yourself.”

“If there’s one thing this whole thing has taught me…it’s that humans can be every bit as evil as demons,” she went on, her tone somber and sad. “You have the right to protect yourself from Warren or anyone else who tries to hurt you. And just because you can, doesn’t mean you’re going to go back to the things you used to do.”

She paused before continuing, her deep gaze penetrating and seeking. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me,” she said softly.

He nodded, swallowing hard as he bravely met her gaze.

“Do you *want* that, Spike? Do you want to be the way you were before the chip?” she asked him simply.

He looked at her for a moment, before shaking his head slowly. “I don’t want to be a killer, love. Not anymore. I – I guess I haven’t really wanted that for a long time…long before all this.”

She looked deep into his eyes for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Then that’s it. You don’t have to be. You control your own life, Spike…from now on. And I believe in you. I believe you can do this, without the chip, without anything holding you back but *you*.”

His eyes welled with tears at the simple words that meant so much to him. She believed in him; she trusted him to be the man she wanted and deserved, all on his own without anything forcing him to be.

And as he put his arms around her, embracing her, unable to express in any other way the depth of love and gratitude he felt for the gift of her trust that she had just given him, he made a firm determination in his mind. He would be what she needed, and prove her trust well-grounded.

He would never let her down again.

Buffy stopped on her front porch, her hand on the doorknob, unable to bring herself to turn the knob and walk inside for a moment, imagining the looks and comments awaiting them on the other side of that door.

She gave Spike a rueful look, but he only smiled back at her innocently. His expression made it obvious that he was not all that concerned with what the others thought of them; the sparkle in his eyes told her that he was actually amused by the whole thing.

“Glad you think this is so funny,” she muttered in good-natured annoyance, before taking a deep breath and plunging forward, opening the door.

In the living room, Willow sat on the couch next to Xander and Dawn, and Tara sat on the floor in front of her, her back resting comfortably between Willow’s knees. Anya stood, a little awkwardly, leaning in the doorway, partially blocking Buffy’s view of the others.

At the sound of the front door opening and quietly closing, the soft sounds of conversation in the living room ceased, and Anya turned around to look at them, moving to reveal the others looking at them, a wide range of expressions displayed on their faces.

Dawn had a knowing smirk on her face; it was all too clear, by her sister’s flustered demeanor and the rumpled clothes they wore, just exactly what had delayed them. She tried to catch her sister’s eye, but Buffy was blushing furiously and wouldn’t look at her. Spike, on the other hand, caught her gaze immediately, just the hint of an amused smile playing about his lips. She raised her eyebrows a few times teasingly at him, and he shot her a playfully warning look.

Xander’s expression was carefully neutral; he had only just been forgiven for his negative attitude and actions toward Spike of the past several years, and wasn’t really sure how to react – what was acceptable. He hadn’t talked to Spike since he had walked out of the training room earlier, and he didn’t want to give either him or Buffy the impression that he was upset by what had obviously gone on between them after he had left. It was their business, and he could honestly say he had no problem with it.

Willow looked a little concerned, but it did not seem to be because Buffy had been off having sex with *Spike*, so much as it was just that Buffy had been off having sex in a semi-public place and when she was supposed to be somewhere else. Xander had told the group that Buffy and Spike were training at the Magic Box, so when they showed up as late as they did, it was perfectly clear what had happened.

Tara just looked embarrassed, but she was trying to suppress a smile.

“Well, I hope you two enjoyed many orgasms while we were sitting here waiting for you,” Anya said sarcastically with an overly bright smile.

Buffy’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red, as she hurriedly walked the rest of the way into the living room, eager to begin this meeting and get the focus onto something besides her and Spike.

“So,” she said brightly, completely ignoring Anya’s comment. “Any ideas so far?”

Tara reached up and squeezed Willow’s hand lightly as she nodded, her smile eager and enthusiastic. “We’ve been thinking about it,” she said in an optimistic tone, trying to help Buffy move the conversation onto more comfortable territory. “We were talking about…maybe a spell?”

Willow nodded, looking hopefully toward Buffy, as always anxious to help her. “There’s this spell to remove the unnatural element from someone…it’s supposed to be for like, people who’ve been poisoned, or are sick with cancer or something…but with Spike, it would probably take out the chip. That’s the…unnatural element…in Spike,” she suggested, her voice faltering a little on the end, as she realized what a long shot the suggestion was.

“There’s that word again…probably,” Spike muttered, giving Buffy a dubious, apprehensive look. “Last time I heard that word in regards to a spell – no offense, Glinda,” he glanced apologetically toward Tara, “but it didn’t go so well for me, love. Sorry.”

“Um…I am probably the last person who should be bringing this up right now,” Xander began slowly, cautiously. “But isn’t Spike kind of…um, unnatural…himself? Just his very existence? I mean, vampires are unnatural. Wouldn’t a spell to remove something unnatural just…”

“Scratch that,” Buffy interrupted quickly, her eyes widening as she followed that train of thought to its unpleasant ending. “Not that spell, then. Any other ideas?”

Willow looked disappointed. “It could work,” she began, but when Buffy shot her a pointed look, she sighed. “We’ll keep looking, I guess,” she gave in.

“We’ll have to,” Buffy said, her voice darkening with worry. “We have to get the chip out as soon as possible.”

“Do you still have any way of getting a hold of Riley?” Tara suggested hesitantly. “He might know someone from the old Initiative who could…”

“No!” Buffy and Spike both spoke at once, firmly.

“No Riley,” Buffy said emphatically.

At the exact same moment, Spike stated firmly with a note of alarm in his voice, “No bloody Initiative!”

Their eyes met for a moment in a meaningful look, before Buffy looked back toward her friends, shaking her head. “There has to be another way,” she said quietly, a note of desperation beginning in her voice.

“We’ll find one,” Willow assured her quickly, wanting to ease her fears. “Tara and I have only just started looking through our spell books. If that spell won’t work for Spike, we’ll find another one that will work.”

“We have to find something,” Buffy said with a sigh. “Until we do, Warren is still a threat to Spike.”

“So…how did Warren get out of jail, anyway?” Tara frowned, confused. “I thought he was arrested for the robberies. Did they let him off?”

“Not yet,” Buffy said in a voice full of barely repressed anger and disgust, as she walked to stand in the doorway near Spike, leaning against the wall with a sigh. “Not completely, anyway. He was arrested, but his lawyer managed to get him out on bond. And we’re talking about armed robbery and murder here. He killed those two security guards. Just the fact that his attorney could get him out on bond at all says something. He’s probably gonna make some kind of deal and get off completely free.”

A heavy silence fell over the room for a moment as they all considered her words. It really was beginning to appear that legally speaking, absolutely nothing was going to be done to Warren for the months of savage torture and abuse he had put Spike through.

The truth was, no one outside this room even knew he had done those things at all. The only hope for legal retribution had been that he would be convicted of the robberies, and that hope was looking slimmer all the time.

Spike said nothing, but he swallowed hard and looked away, and the subtle indication of his feelings about the situation was not lost on Buffy. He was standing very near to her, and she could sense that he needed the comfort of her presence. Silently, inconspicuously, she reached out her fingers to softly intertwine with his in the very small space between them, in a comforting, strengthening gesture that none of the others seemed to notice.

Throughout the entire conversation, Dawn, Xander, and Anya had all been unusually quiet. Anya and Dawn had a knowledge of the situation and how it had yet to play out that was not shared by the others – and Xander was beginning to understand the possibilities, as he glanced at the two conspirators every now and then, his mind racing.

His eyes widened as it slowly began to dawn on him just exactly what the girl and the vengeance demon might have in mind for Warren. He looked closely at Dawn out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting quietly beside him, calmly listening as the others discussed the various options – none of which seemed to be genuinely helpful.

It didn’t really seem to matter, he realized. He was becoming more and more certain all the time that none of the ideas they were tossing back and forth would actually take place. There was a hard determination in Dawn’s young eyes that told him that she would follow through with whatever it was she was planning.

“Okay,” Buffy’s firm, take-charge tone drew Xander’s attention back to the conversation at hand. He could hear the note of fear in her voice that told him she was just desperate to *do* something about the problem, and was having a very difficult time with the utter lack of progress they were making.

“So you two are gonna keep on looking for a spell to get rid of the chip,” she recapped, looking toward Willow and Tara, who nodded their assurance. “And I’m gonna ask around, see what I can find out.”

She paused for a moment, before she went on in a harder voice, “But we still need to find Warren.”

“Um, Buffy,” Willow began hesitantly, her eyes uneasy as they met her friend’s. “What exactly are you planning on doing when we find him? I mean…he’s already been arrested…”

“Yeah, and let go!” Buffy broke in, unable to hide the anger in her voice, though it was not really directed at her friend. “As if it doesn’t even matter what he did!” She paused for a moment, then said in a slightly trembling voice of cold steel, “He’s a killer, Will. He’s killed several people already, and we have no reason to believe he’s gonna stop there…”

“He’s not,” Spike broke in softly, unexpectedly, and Buffy fell silent, turning her eyes on him in mild surprise, waiting for him to go on, as everyone else in the room was doing. All eyes were on him, though he met none of them, as he went on in a quiet, carefully controlled voice, his eyes focused on some point in front of him, deliberately avoiding their curious looks.

“He’s not going to stop. He’s all about power, and control, and…and *proving* how bloody big and strong he is. He’s not just violent when he can actually get something out of it…the violence *is* what he gets out of it. He enjoys it…looks for it…bloody *feeds* off it!” Spike didn’t raise his voice, but as he spoke the intensity of emotion, still under a great effort of control, grew in his tone until it was almost a physical pain to be felt by his listeners. “There’s no real way to make him stop…”

“There’s *one* real way to make him stop,” Buffy broke in, correcting him softly, giving Willow a meaningful look. “And only one way.”

Willow’s eyes widened with the realization of what Buffy was saying, what she intended to do. She could understand Buffy’s desire to punish Warren for what he had done. She knew that if Warren had done anything to hurt Tara, she knew that she would want to hurt him, too.

But that didn’t mean she would resort to murder.

“Buffy,” she began, alarm in her cautious voice. “you can’t just…”

“I can. And I will,” Buffy interrupted, her voice a little harsher than she had intended it to be. “This is a case where the justice system is obviously gonna fail. They’re gonna let him get away with this.” She stopped for a moment before going on in a cold voice. “I’m not.”

Willow was silent; it was obvious that she was very troubled by Buffy’s words, by her shocking intentions, but knew her well enough to know that she was not going to be dissuaded from her plan easily, and at the moment was not in a mood to discuss it. She glanced toward Xander, hoping to catch his eye. The two of them would have to have a talk about this, figure out some way to make Buffy see reason before she did something that would change her life forever.

“Buffy’s right.”

Xander’s quiet, firm words stunned Willow, and she did a little double take. “*What*?” she gasped in dismay and disbelief.

“She’s right,” he said, meeting her eyes with resolve. “Warren’s not gonna stop unless someone stops him. Until someone does something about him, not only is Spike in danger, but so is anyone else who crosses his path and happens to make him mad.”

“But just killing him,” Willow argued, shaking her head. “That can’t be the way! There has to be…”

“He hurt Dawn,” Xander broke in, and the words stunned Willow to silence for a moment.

The eyes of the Slayer and the vampire shot to Xander instantly in surprise and rising anger.

“What?” Spike said, his voice low and almost a growl, his eyes sparking golden flame, intent on Xander and his explanation.

“That night when you all went to the Bronze,” Xander went on, meeting Spike’s gaze without backing down. “Warren was there. Dawn…tried to get him to leave. And he pushed her into the wall. He was gonna hit her. Just because she said something he didn’t like.”

Buffy’s green eyes were blazing with fury as she looked to her sister for confirmation of the truth of his words, and found it in her guilty, trapped expression. Spike’s gaze was still focused on Xander; he didn’t wonder in the slightest about the truth of the matter. One thought reverberated again and again in his head, building in intensity at the very thought of the sick, sadistic monster he knew too well, laying a single hand on his precious little Bit.

*I’ll kill him…I’ll kill him for touching her…I’ll never, never let him hurt her…*

“He’s dangerous,” Xander said softly, stating the point he had been trying to make by bringing up the incident at the Bronze. “It doesn’t matter who the person is, how defenseless they are…Warren is a twisted little sociopath who doesn’t care about anything or anyone but himself and what he wants…and he won’t stop until he’s dead.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Spike muttered, his voice heavy with memory and quiet with barely restrained rage.

Willow did not say anything, just sat there staring at the coffee table, trying to process it all. The very thought of it was still disturbing to her, but she couldn’t find a valid argument for the points Xander had raised.

“I was hoping you could help me track him down. Find out where he lives,” Buffy said, her voice quiet and even as she searched her friend’s eyes, an imploring look in her own – imploring not so much for her help as for her understanding. “I mean…if you don’t want to, I’ll understand…and I won’t be mad or hold it against you. I can find him myself if I…”

“I’ll help you find him,” Willow interrupted softly, her eyes not leaving her focus point on the coffee table. She said nothing else, and Buffy did not feel it wise to push the point any farther at the moment.

After a few more minutes of subdued conversation in which not much was really established as far as a real plan of action, the little meeting broke up. Willow and Tara headed out to the car, and it was clear by the troubled expression on Willow’s face and the glances they were exchanging that they were going to discuss the matter further on the way home.

Spike seemed troubled as well, after the conversation, which had both fed his fears and brought his painful memories to the surface. But it had also further fanned the flames of anger rising in his heart toward the one who had placed that fear and pain there. Buffy could tell that he had a lot on his mind, and that for once he was feeling the need to talk about it. Within a matter of moments, they had excused themselves and disappeared upstairs to her bedroom.

An odd, awkward silence fell over the three remaining people standing in the living room – Dawn, Xander, and Anya.

After a moment, Anya said too cheerfully with a big, bright smile, “Well, I’m gonna head back to the motel now. See you later, Xander.”

Dawn walked with her to the door, and as he picked up his jacket and put it on, Xander tried not to look as if he was trying to hear their whispered exchange as Anya stood on the front porch, Dawn standing in the doorway and talking to her. It wasn’t hard to pretend, as they were speaking so quietly that he really couldn’t make out a word they were saying.

But as Dawn stopped talking, Anya’s response was unmistakable, even from where he stood across the room. He had seen and heard it leave her mouth enough times that he could read the single word on her lips as she whispered her response.

“Granted.”

Dawn felt her stomach do a nervous, excited little flip as she watched Anya vanish before her eyes, off to fulfill the wish she had just made. She had finally done it, and there was no going back now. In a matter of moments, her vengeance would begin, and the vile monster who had so shattered her best friend would learn for himself the meaning of the word “broken”.

She felt a strange chill of foreboding, but it was greatly outweighed by the expectant thrill of knowing that all the planning she had been doing was about to finally pay off. She just had to wait for Buffy to leave for work, and find some excuse to give Spike for where she was going, and then she could leave as well.

She no longer worried about leaving Spike alone in the house. As of this moment, Warren was no longer a threat to him, and she was confident that he would be able to hold his own against any other opponent that came against him. His physical strength and emotional self-confidence were both beginning to return; she knew that it was only the chip in his head, and the psychological control Warren had wielded over him, that had caused him to remain vulnerable to Warren’s threats for so long, even after he had been freed.

And Dawn was fairly certain that at this point, neither of those things would be an issue any longer.

She felt a little pang of guilt as she thought over the past couple of days and realized that as the final stages of her plan had come together at last, she hadn’t spent very much time with Spike. It wasn’t as if he had really seemed to need her that badly lately, she reminded herself. Buffy seemed to be doing a fine job all on her own in the comfort department.

And she had had a very good reason for being distracted; she had been focused on one thing only: making Warren suffer as he had made Spike suffer.

Somehow, she felt certain that once justice had been served, once her friend’s agony had been avenged, things could finally start to get better for them again. She hated to admit to anyone just how badly shaken she had been by the whole thing, and though she had been terribly worried about Spike before he had finally started to recover, that was not the only reason she had been so affected by it all.

Ever since she and Spike had started to become close, around the time of her mother’s death, Spike had been Dawn’s strong, protective brother-figure, so to speak. When she was in danger, he had protected her, even to the point of enduring torture for her. She had always felt safe and secure with him, as if none of the evil, scary things that surrounded them there on the Hellmouth could hurt her, as long as he was there.

And then one of those scary, evil things had hurt *him* -- torn him viciously to pieces, until nothing was left of the pillar of strength he had once been for her. All that remained was a broken, devastated shadow of the vibrant, passionate friend she had known.

And it scared her to death.

If Spike, her support through the most frightening, confusing times of her life, could be so destroyed, and not by some huge, terrifying demon, but by a rather ordinary – if psychotic – average human being, then what chance did she have at all? It shook her foundation, sent her world spinning. Not only for the sake of her devastated friend, but also for her own, she had to set things right again.

She turned to go upstairs to get ready to go – and stopped short at the sight of Xander, standing in the living room looking at her intently. There was just a hint of suspicion in his dark brown eyes, and it sent an uneasy, sick feeling into the pit of her stomach.

“Xander!” she said, trying to keep her voice casual. “You scared me!”

His voice was soft as he shrugged his shoulders slightly, his piercing eyes never leaving hers. “I’ve just been standing right here,” he pointed out. “No reason for you to be jumpy…is there?”

Dawn shrugged off his comment, sensing immediately that he suspected something. “All this talk about Warren,” she explained. “Got me a little spooked, that’s all. I’m going upstairs, see you later.” And she headed quickly toward the stairs.

Xander caught her arm, gently but firmly, stopping her and pulling her back to face him, his hand on her arm and his intent gaze both unyielding.

“Dawnie,” he said softly, and there was no mistaking the concern in his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Dawn forced a laugh as she tried to pull away. “Going upstairs. Let go of me.”

“No, Dawn. Really. What are you doing?”

Her expression grew angry as she pulled harder against him. “Xander, let go of me! What’s the matter with you? If you’re going all psycho on us again…”

Xander released her immediately, but his eyes never faltered. “You should be very careful, Dawnie,” he said, his voice quiet and calm, but intense with his fear for her. “I know you want to make Warren pay. Believe me, I do too. But vengeance wishes can be very, very dangerous. And there are some lines that you can only cross one way.”

She was silent, not even bothering to argue; it was clear that he was on to her. And in spite of her determination, her firm conviction that what she was doing was what needed to be done, his observations were very sobering. If she killed Warren, she knew that she would never again be exactly the same person that she was right now.

“I know,” she said quietly, holding his gaze. “I know what I’m doing.” Her voice was somehow soft and hard at the same time, and he knew that there would be no convincing her to abandon her plan.

“What did you wish for?” he demanded, a little more forcefully as his frustration rose. He was not getting through to her at all, and who knew what kind of danger she was placing herself in?

“None of your business!” she snapped. “I’m going upstairs now, so I think it’s time for you to go home, Xander!”

He looked her in the eye for a moment longer, searching those hard, impenetrable depths for any clue as to what she was thinking. Finally, realizing that she was not going to give in, he let out a weary sigh, his eyes troubled, as he turned away and said quietly, simply, “Fine. Good night.”

He walked outside to his car and started the engine, driving slowly around the corner… and the next one, and the next…until he had circled the block. He turned back onto Revello Drive, parking a few houses down from the Summers’ home, next to the curb in a spot where a large oak tree partly shielded his car from view from the front porch of their house. With any luck, Dawn wouldn’t notice it there.

Whatever reckless danger she was placing herself in, whatever she was walking into…he was determined that she would not walk into it alone.


Dawn slipped up the stairs, careful not to make any noise to attract the attention of her sister or her friend. She could hear the sound of quiet but intense conversation coming from the other side of Buffy’s closed bedroom door. From the sound of things, they would be distracted for a while.

Quickly she went into Willow’s old bedroom, which was supposed to be Spike’s, though he never actually slept there anymore, closing the door silently behind her. There was something she needed before she could be on her way.

Now where would he keep it…? she wondered, frowning thoughtfully as she scanned the room. After a moment her eyes fell on the familiar black leather coat hanging in the closet.

*Of course!* she thought, going immediately to it and reaching into the pocket, glancing anxiously back toward the door, hoping that the serious conversation in the next room was still in progress. Her hand closed lightly around the object that she sought, and she took it, putting it quickly into her own pocket and hurrying out of the room and to her own.

*Okay,* she thought, taking a couple of slow, deep breaths in an attempt to settle her nerves. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table, which read 5:36. *Just a few more minutes…*

Buffy would be leaving for work in a few minutes, and she would be free to carry out the plan that had consumed her every thought for the past few weeks. A last-minute study session at Janice’s house – that would work as a plausible cover story. Hopefully Spike would be concerned enough with everything that was going on that he would not see through the story, and let her go without too much of a problem.

She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop fidgeting as she waited through the next interminable twenty minutes. Finally, she heard Buffy’s bedroom door open and two sets of footsteps going down the stairs. She went to the door of her room and listened carefully, waiting until she heard the front door open and close.

*Okay…so far so good,* she thought. Her sister, the biggest obstacle to her actually getting out of the house, was gone.

Now all she had to do was get the one person in all the world who knew her better than anyone and always saw through to the truth she tried to hide to believe a very thin, spur-of-the-moment, obvious lie.

“Piece of cake,” she muttered to herself, taking a deep breath, as she headed down the stairs.


Xander was just about to give up and head home, thinking that maybe Dawn’s vengeance didn’t require her to go anywhere or be personally involved after all, although he had certainly gotten a different impression from the way she had been behaving. Buffy had left for work fifteen minutes before, and there was still no sign of Dawn.

Just then, he saw the front door open, and Dawn walked out onto the porch, her backpack slung over her shoulder as she walked down the steps and started down the sidewalk. She headed off in one direction, then after a few minutes doubled back and headed the other way, slipping her backpack off her shoulder and discarding it into the cover of some nearby bushes, to be retrieved later.

The sun was just starting to set, and he was thankful for the deepening dusk that would help to conceal him from her, as he quietly got out of his car, waiting for her to round the corner before he began to follow her, being careful to stay out of her sight and not to make a sound.

He followed her through town, and was a little surprised when she led him unknowingly through the entrance of a very familiar cemetery. Of course, most of Sunnydale’s cemeteries were familiar to him at this point, but this one moreseo than the rest.

It was the cemetery where Spike’s old crypt was located.

He was puzzled, wondering why she would want to go there. Spike had taken everything of any value that he owned when he had attempted to leave town that night nearly six months ago, and whatever Warren had not considered valuable had been left at the scene of the accident. At any rate, there had been nothing in the crypt left to go back for, and since Spike was living with Buffy and Dawn now, none of the Scoobies had had any reason to return to the crypt.

He followed her as she walked up to the door and pushed it open, disappearing into the blackness inside. A sudden sense of alarm came over him; it had been months since Spike had lived there. What was the girl thinking? Any sort of monster could have taken up residence in the deserted little building, could be lurking inside ready and waiting to take advantage of the free meal that had just wandered in.

He hurried up to the door, which she had left open behind her, and inside, thinking not about how angry she would be when she found out he had followed her, only about protecting her from the very real danger she was putting herself in. But as he entered the mausoleum, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he didn’t see Dawn anywhere.

What he did say was a faint glow coming from the open sarcophagus in the center of the room.

He immediately headed toward it, hesitating as he looked at the ladder leading downward into it. The underground room was lit up, and there would be no hiding his presence from Dawn once he went down there.

He just stood there for a few moments, listening, wondering what in the world Dawn was up to.


Spike stood in the foyer, staring at the door through which Dawn had just made her exit, anger and fear for her safety warring in him, leaving him unsure of whether he wanted to go after her and beat her senseless or take her in his arms. One thing he knew for sure…

He wanted to go after her.

As he stalked angrily up the stairs to his bedroom, he replayed the conversation they had just had in his head, the harsh words that had passed between them.

The story she had concocted about studying at Janice’s had obviously been a lie. He had immediately seen that the girl had some mischief planned for the evening, something she thought she could put past him, although not past her sister.

“Buffy didn’t say a soddin’ word about you going to this Janice’s house,” he had declared. “And she would have told me. Sorry, Niblet, but you’re not going anywhere.”

“Not my fault she didn’t mention it,” Dawn had muttered, grabbing her backpack and heading for the door. “She knows about it, and I’m going.”

Without a word he had simply stepped into her path, blocking the door.

Her eyes had narrowed in furious challenge, and she had crossed her arms over her chest in a very Buffy-like gesture, raising her eyebrows and demanding, “You think you’re gonna stop me?”

“Bloody right I’m gonna stop you!” he had shot back, his voice incredulous at her tone. “There’s a lot of nasty, dangerous things out there, not the least of which is Warren, and I bet he’d just love to get his dirty little hands on *you*, Niblet. He hurt you once and I’m not about to let him do it again!”

His tone was the one he used to use with her when he was trying to make her back down, a bit patronizing, infuriating her by speaking to her as he almost never did – as if she was a child. She could feel her temper rising; Spike was the one person she could usually count on *not* to talk to her like that. She just rolled her eyes and tried to move around him.

His next words made her even angrier, as he moved with her, still blocking her path, and added, “There is no bleedin’ way in hell that I am letting you leave this house!”

“Please,” she scoffed, feinting right, then ducking left, past him out onto the porch. He followed her, catching her arm and spinning her around. She looked pointedly down at his hand on her arm, then back up at him with more attitude than he had thought could fit in a pint-sized package like hers. “You’re *not* my father, Spike! Let go of me!” She jerked her arm away, glaring at him.

“Warren doesn’t care a thing about me. You’re the one he wants,” she pointed out with a wide, fake smile. “So maybe you’d better get back inside and hide before he sees you!”

The hint of derision he heard in her unusually harsh words stung, and unthinkingly he dropped his hand from her arm, his eyes widening in hurt as he stared at her, at a loss for words.

Dawn immediately felt guilty. In that moment, she had been very irritated with the way he was treating her, and anxious to get to her destination, and a part of her had wanted to say something cutting, something that would let her win the little battle they had somehow started.

Now, she just felt low and mean and very, very sorry for the thoughtless words that had left her mouth.

On the other hand, he had let go of her arm, and he no longer seemed so adamant about stopping her. She swallowed hard, nearly choking on the feeling of guilt that was rising in her, and her voice was softer when she spoke again.

“It’s still light outside, Spike. No one’s going to attack me in broad daylight. I’ll be all right, I promise.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at her with those too-expressive eyes, full of such an injured look that it almost physically hurt her. “I won’t be late. I’ll see you later,” she said, hoping he could see the regret in her eyes that she couldn’t quite bring herself to express just yet.

He nodded slowly, and she decided to take the chance she had been given before he regained enough control to try to take it back. Closing the door behind her, she had disappeared down the sidewalk in the direction of her friend’s house.

He had been too stunned to react for a few moments, and had let her go.

Now, he was determined to correct that mistake. Once in his room, he stalked to the closet and took out his coat, shrugging into it in one quick motion and hurrying back down the stairs, thankful for his enhanced vampire senses that would allow him to still be able to track her if he hurried.

God, he needed a bloody cigarette! As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he reached in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, waiting until he was on the porch to light one up.

Suddenly, he froze, his eyes widening as he realized that something wasn’t right. He reached back into his pocket, then into the other one, searching. Something was missing. He felt his heart sinking, and a sick feeling of panic rising up in his throat, as he frantically kept digging in his pockets for the item he sought.

*No…no…no…*

But finally he had to accept the frightening truth, admit that no matter how desperately he wanted it to be, it simply wasn’t there.

The control device for his chip was missing.

As Dawn made her way across town to Spike’s crypt, the place she had chosen for everything to go down, she was too focused on the harsh words she had spoken to Spike to notice her not-very-stealthy pursuer. How could she have talked to him like that? she wondered, the flush of shame at the memory causing her face to burn, despite the chilly evening air.

The words she had spoken played over again in her mind and she cringed. How could she have been so thoughtless? Deliberately throwing in his face the weakness and fear that he was already so ashamed of and struggling with so desperately? She of all people, the one he had trusted first, and most, in all of this, to be so cruel! But at that moment, standing on the porch with him, all she had been able to think about was throwing him off his game enough to just get away.

She would have to make it right, would have to apologize…later. Right now, she had pressing business to attend to.

She slipped into the crypt and headed straight toward the sarcophagus. Though the room was pitch black, she knew it well enough that she had no trouble finding the ladder and making her way down it into the darkness. At the bottom, she felt around just to the right of the ladder, and found what she hoped was still there, as the almost tangible blackness surrounding her was beginning to freak her out a little – a hand-held torch that Spike used to always keep there.

She took a lighter she had pocketed at a gas station the week before out of her pocket, and lit the torch, squinting a little as her eyes adjusted to the faint but growing light it gave off. As they did, she took in the room before her – set up by Anya to exactly her specifications. Every item she had wished into existence and into this room was there, ready and waiting to be used to exact vengeance upon the object of Dawn’s wrath…

…who was also waiting for her in the underground room, though he didn’t realize it yet, chained against the far wall, apparently unconscious or asleep.

Warren.


His hands shaking, Spike fought off the panic rising up in him at the realization that the one object in all the world that could hurt him worse than any other had disappeared. He no longer had it in his possession, and there was no telling who did.

Only one idea kept playing itself again and again in his head as to who might have taken the device…Warren.

His heart dropped at the thought. “It’s not possible,” he said aloud, his voice trembling with fear, his breathing deep and uneven, as he paced across the living room. With an emphatic shake of his head, he continued, “No…no! There’s no bloody way…”

But Warren *had* been watching him. He had told him so, and Dawn and Xander had both confirmed it. Had he gotten close enough that night at the Bronze to his coat, left carelessly over his chair, to get the device out of his pocket?

The sense of terror began closing in on him, and suddenly he couldn’t bear the fearful, lonely silence of the house anymore. He wished that Buffy was there…or that Dawn would have left. At that point, he would have been glad to see *Xander* walk through the front door!

He headed toward the door, not really sure where he was going, just not wanting to be alone here anymore. He froze, his hand on the doorknob, as a new fear gripped him.

What if Warren was waiting for him out there, now in possession of the thing he needed to control him, just waiting for the “few minutes” he had said he would need to take possession of his slave once again? He felt sick as he unconsciously took a couple of backward steps away from the door, shaking his head a little.

No. That was not an option.

He hurried to the phone and with trembling fingers dialed the phone number for the Doublemeat Palace. It rang and rang interminably, with no answer, which Buffy had told him was not unusual. In a fast food restaurant like that, the phone got answered whenever somebody got a moment to do so, which could be a long time, or not at all.

After about the fourteenth ring, someone picked up the phone and said breathlessly, “Doublemeat Palace, can I help you?”

“Buffy Summers, please,” he said quickly, his tremulous voice little more than a whisper.

After a few moments, Buffy’s tired voice came on the phone, sounding a bit frazzled. “Hello?”

“Buffy…” he began, his throat constricting and his eyes welling with tears of relief at the sound of her voice.

“Spike?” Her voice was suddenly alert, and full of concern at the obvious fear and distress in his voice. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

He wanted to explain, but the various emotions coursing through him at the moment would not allow him to form enough words. All he could manage to get out was, “I…I need you.”

Without hesitation, Buffy said, “I’ll be right there.” Then there was a click on the other end of the line, and the sound of a dial tone. Spike looked blankly at the phone for a moment before putting it back in its cradle, fighting to control the fear, the memories that assailed his mind.

Then suddenly, he gave up the fight, and let his head rest against the wall beside the phone, as he allowed the helpless, shaking sobs welling up inside him to take over.


Dawn’s eyes narrowed to slits of seething anger as she watched the boy before her begin to stir, frowning a little as the light from the torch began to awaken him. She was silent, just standing there staring at him as his eyes opened and he blinked a few times, looking quickly around, trying to take in his surroundings and figure out where he was, what was going on.

Soon enough she would make it all clear, she thought with a cold smile.

He tried to move forward and found his wrists restrained by the chains that held him to the wall, and she felt a perverse yet justified sense of pleasure when his eyes widened in fearful surprise, and he yanked against his restraints uselessly. He would not be able to break those chains, no matter how hard he tried, she knew. They were magically enhanced, provided by her friend the vengeance demon, and could only be opened by one key – the key that had magically materialized in her pocket, she realized with a smile as her hand closed around it.

Warren wasn’t going anywhere – not until she decided that she wanted him to.

Finally his eyes fell on her, and she saw a vague understanding rising in them – and also a very irritating sense of relief. She realized that Warren saw absolutely no reason to fear her.

Another misconception that she was more than ready to clear up for him.

Then, the relief on his face was quickly replaced by anger. “You stupid little bitch!” he snarled at her, pulling against the chains again. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you’d better unchain me right now!”

Dawn smiled coolly at him. “Or what?” she smirked. “I don’t really feel like unchaining you, Warren. Especially since the moment I did you’d probably attack me.” Her smirk widened with a knowledge that he did not have – yet. “Or at least try to.”

“Look,” he said in a patronizing, overly patient voice of barely restrained anger – and the absolute worst tone he could have chosen to take with Dawn Summers, “Dawnie. Sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re doing, Honey. This cute little game you think you’re playing here is gonna get you in some serious trouble if you don’t just end this right now, and let me out of these stupid chains. Okay?”

His mocking smile matched the tone of his voice, and she wanted nothing more than to slap it right off of his face.

“You know,” Dawn said, her voice softening dangerously. “I think you’re the one that’s in trouble here, Warren, even if you don’t know it yet.” As she spoke, she slowly advanced on him, taking her time. She was in no hurry. “Things are a little different now.”

Her eyes hardened, flashing with barely controlled rage as she went on, “I’m sure you had a lot of fun using my best friend as your personal toy…but haven’t you ever wondered…what it’s like from the other side, Warren?” That cool smile was back on her lips, as she reached him, standing just a foot or so out of his reach.

He laughed, as his features twisted into an ugly sneer. “Not really, Sweetie. I guess I was just enjoying myself too much to care.” His eyes held her gaze boldly, revealing to her his utter lack of fear, as he deliberately tried to provoke her. He was firmly convinced that this little girl couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hurt him.

*Time to prove him wrong,* she thought.

“You’re going to care,” she said, her voice trembling slightly as her eyes narrowed in fury at his calloused words. Slowly, holding his gaze, she took her hand from her pocket, enclosing in it the item she had stolen from Spike’s room.

He looked down at the hand she held out, with just a hint of apprehension as it slowly opened. Then he recognized the thing in her hand, and a slow smile began to spread over his face.

“And just what do you think you’re gonna do with that, Honey?” he asked her, laughing. “You may have forgotten, but I’m not the one with a chip in my head. That would be our little friend Spike…”

“He’s not your friend,” Dawn spat out the words in a low, furious voice. Then a strange glint of triumph came into her eyes, as she smiled. “And he doesn’t have a chip. Not anymore.”

“Wha…”

Before Warren could even finish the word, Dawn had depressed the button on the controller in her hand, and his words were cut off in a convulsion of fiery pain shooting through his body.

She only held it down for a few seconds, but when she did he was shaking and gasping for breath, collapsed against the chains that held him. He struggled to pull himself back up to his feet, dark eyes wide with shock and rising fear as he looked back at her, shaking his head slightly with growing realization.

“What….how….?” he stammered, as she took a step closer to him.

Dawn just regarded him in silence for a moment, her smile fading into a hard look as she said quietly, “My friend told me you wouldn’t let *him* talk…you’d beat him and torture him and do unspeakably horrible things to him and the whole time you wouldn’t let him so much as beg you to stop unless you. said. he. could.”

Her words came out, slow, deliberate, each one a separate point in itself, emphasizing the depth of hatred and rage she felt for the cruel, sadistic person before her, now at her mercy.

“He wasn’t allowed to ask questions…to ask for mercy,” she said, softly, shaking her head a little as she held Warren’s gaze intently. Suddenly, her hand flew out in a stunning slap across the larger boy’s face, knocking his head back against the wall behind him as she snarled, “So *shut up*!”


Buffy flew through the front door, her eyes wide, breathing hard. She glanced around for a moment before her eyes fell on Spike, huddled in the corner of the sofa, his knees drawn up in front of him, his head buried in his arms rested across his knees.

At the sound of her entrance he looked up quickly, blue eyes wide with fear until he realized that it was her. She rushed to his side, putting her arms around him and pulling him close to her.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

“I…I can’t find it,” he whispered, panic in his voice. “It’s gone…I don’t know where it is…”

“Where what is, Baby,” she pressed him, trying not to sound impatient. “What is it?”

“The controller,” he whispered, gazing up at her through fear-filled eyes. “It’s gone, Buffy! It’s gone!”

She felt her heart do a funny little flip at the words; suddenly she felt very sick. “What do you mean it’s *gone*?” she asked, her voice low and worried.

Spike tried to explain through the panic that scattered his thoughts and shook him to his very core, his voice rising with fear with each word. “It was in my pocket and I reached in for my lighter and it’s gone, Buffy, and oh, God, what if he’s got it and…”

“Shhh, shhh,” she whispered, holding him close to her, one hand protectively behind his head, the other wrapped around him as she tried to comfort him. “No. He hasn’t got it, Spike. If he had it…we’d know it by now.” She finished, choosing her words carefully. “Are you sure you didn’t drop it out of your pocket somewhere in the house?”

“I…I don’t know,” he whispered miserably as he pulled away to look at her. “I don’t think so…I’ve looked everywhere, Buffy…it’s not here!”

Buffy paused for a moment, thinking, trying to come up with some kind of solution. It had to be here somewhere. Warren had not been able to get near enough to them to take it, so it couldn’t just be *gone*.

“Has Dawn seen it?” she asked him suddenly, looking at him with hopeful eyes. “Did you ask her?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, fresh tears welling up in his eyes at the mention of Dawn. “I – I haven’t had the chance to ask her.”

Buffy frowned at his reaction, then glanced up the stairs, just realizing for the first time that while Spike had sat here on the couch, terrified and in tears and alone, Dawn had been nowhere nearby. That in itself was terribly unusual. She looked away from the stairs and back to him, catching his gaze and holding it firmly with her searching green eyes, as one tender hand wiped a tear from his cheek.

“Spike,” she asked, her voice soft but with a slight sound of worry to it, “Where *is* Dawn?”

“Look, kid…this whole thing is ridiculous…you can’t just do this and get away with it.” Warren’s voice was fast, trembling, and a little higher than usual as he tried again to convince his surprisingly scary young captor to let him go. He had no idea how she had managed to get him in this very compromising position.

All he knew was that he had to find a way to get out of it.

“Why not?” she countered, her tone mocking and her eyebrows raised in a smirk. Dawn knew already what he did not; escape was not possible. “*You* got away with it. Until now.”

He deliberately ignored the last two very disturbing words, and argued, “That was different. You can’t just torture and kill a human being! Dawn, Spike’s a vampire! If it wasn’t for that stupid chip in his head…”

“*Your* head,” she corrected calmly. “And I’d be careful just what I said about Spike right about now, if I were you.”

He stopped speaking immediately, swallowing hard as his eyes widened with the realization of exactly what she had done to him. “It’s impossible,” he said in a near-whisper, shaking his head slightly. “You couldn’t have…how could you…?”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” she pointed out with a shrug. “It’s done. Spike doesn’t have a chip anymore. You do. And now you’re going to get a little taste of what his life has been like for the past five months -- the living hell that you *made* his life for all that time!”

“Look,” he argued, his fear growing stronger and more obvious with every second, every unsettling word out of her mouth. “You don’t wanna do this, Dawn. You’re just a kid. You’re gonna get caught, and you can’t even imagine the trouble you’re gonna get into for this. What do you think your sister would do if she knew where you are, what you’re doing right now?”

Dawn smiled, a cool, frightening expression, as she slowly leaned in closer to her prisoner, looking him directly in the eyes and allowing the pressure, the tension to build before she finally answered in a triumphant whisper, “She’d laugh.”

In spite of himself and his determination not to look weak in front of this “little girl”, Warren felt a chill of fear go through him at the cold, pitiless tone in her voice and the way her green eyes glittered with satisfaction at the effect she was having on him.

“This isn’t gonna change anything,” he insisted, trying another tactic since the first had failed so miserably. “This isn’t gonna make him feel any better – killing me, or – or hurting me, or whatever it is you think you’re gonna do…”

“Not think. Know,” Dawn corrected him, her smile fading away into a hard line. “And it *will* make him feel better. It’ll make him feel safer.” Her voice trembled with anger and a firm conviction that she was right as she continued. “Knowing that you’re gone…dead…and you can never, ever touch him again.”

Slowly, emphatically, she added, “You are never going to hurt him again, Warren. You’re not.” As she spoke, her fingers played slowly over the lines of the tiny device in her hand, making sure that it was in Warren’s line of vision.

His demeanor instantly changed, became placating and appeasing, and he swallowed hard before he said quickly, “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Dawn…I’m never gonna touch Spike again, okay? I mean, if you’ve really gotten that chip out of his head, I can’t… right? I couldn’t hurt him again if I wanted to…”

“And you do.” It was a statement, not a question. “Want to.”

He did not attempt to deny it; he simply ignored her words and went on, knowing that nothing he could say in response to that would be in any way helpful. His eyes were focused on the controller in her hand. “Hurting me…it’s not gonna help him at all. It’s not gonna change what he’s feeling…” he repeated, trying to make her see his pathetically weak point. He was trying desperately to hit on some argument that would change her mind, lessen her desire to make him suffer.

At the moment, he really didn’t have a lot to work with.

“A disgusting little piece of garbage like you can’t even begin to imagine what he’s feeling!” she snapped. “You don’t feel *anything*, Warren! You’re a heartless monster, and there is absolutely no excuse for the things you’ve done to him. You deserve to die.” As she spoke, her hand tightened around the device without even realizing she was doing it, her fingers dangerously close to the button.

“Okay!” he gasped, his eyes wide with fear. “Okay, maybe I do! But Dawn – if you kill me – there’s no going back. You know that, right? Once you cross that line…once you become a *murderer*, Dawn…there’s no way to take that back again. Can you handle that? Because I really don’t think you can! And for what, anyway, if it won’t do Spike any good? Nothing!” he answered his own question, his desperation clear in every note of his nearly panicked voice.

“No, not nothing,” she corrected him, her voice low and intense, calmer now, regaining control of herself and the situation. “I happen to think that justice is worth something, Warren. And that’s what this is…justice. You. Paying for what you’ve done. No one else is going to make you…so it’s up to me.”

“No…Dawn, I’m gonna stand trial! I’m probably gonna go to jail for a long, long time! You really shouldn’t get yourself any more involved in this, just let me go and…”

“What happened to your high-priced lawyer, Warren?” she taunted him, her eyebrows raised questioningly. “I thought you were gonna get away with all of it. Personally, I think that’s closer to the truth. You just don’t want me to hurt you. You’d say anything to get what you want, wouldn’t you, Warren?” Her eyes narrowed and the laughter faded from her voice as she added, “You’re such a liar.”

“But…no…I don’t think…”

“You know…I thought I told you to shut up,” she interrupted, her voice soft, her eyes flashing with an emotion that was more intense than mere anger…she was tired of listening to his excuses, his pathetic attempts to justify and minimize his sick, twisted abuse of her friend.

But somehow, he still felt he had a chance at convincing her to spare him, and kept on talking, desperately trying to change her mind, to dissuade her from her chosen course of action.

And a moment later, Warren’s feeble attempts at arguing in defense of his life were silenced, swallowed up in screaming.


Haltingly, struggling to regain control of his emotions, Spike somehow managed to tell Buffy what Dawn had said about going over to Janice’s. Just as he had already known, before she even said a word, Buffy didn’t know anything about it. Dawn had been lying about the whole thing.

“I need to make a call,” Buffy said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she stood to go into the kitchen. She immediately stopped when she felt his hand clutching hers for just a moment before he let go, not even realizing he had done it.

He just desperately did not want to be alone, even for a moment.

*Just a few minutes,* Warren’s words echoed in his head. *All it would take…*

“Come on,” she said gently, beckoning with her hand, and when he rose she put her arm around his waist and led him with her into the kitchen. They had reached a point of understanding so deep that he didn’t even need to speak for her to see what he needed.

She made her call, keeping it very brief, and then hung up, turning to face him with her arms crossed over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to restrain her anger. “Janice’s mom doesn’t know anything about it. She’s not over there.”

Spike stood up from the chair where he had sat, anxiously waiting while she talked to Janice’s mother. His eyes were full of worry as he said, “We’ve got to find her! Warren could…”

“I don’t think he’s gonna go after Dawn,” Buffy quickly assured him, hanging up the phone and going to put her hands comfortingly on his arms, pulling him close to her. “No, I think Dawn’s just out having some typical juvenile delinquent fun,” she said, a tired, irritated sound in her voice, towards Dawn, not him.

She tried to reassure him, looking him in the eye firmly as she said, “Dawn has lived on the Hellmouth her whole life.” She paused, frowning, adding as an afterthought, “Most of which was fake, but still…she knows how to take care of herself. She’s my little sister. And I’ve taught her well. She knows how to defend herself against bigger, stronger things that try to hurt her.”

Then she added, with a wide, fake smile, her eyes betraying her seething anger toward her irresponsible little sister, “And when she gets home, she’s gonna get a chance to practice.”

The more she thought about how Dawn had taken advantage of her absence – and Spike’s current lack of assertiveness – to get out and party, leaving him here to face this latest uncertainty alone…the more furious she became with her little sister.

Buffy and Spike returned to the couch and sat down, and she put her arms around him, pulling him down into her embrace, soothing the torment of fear that still consumed him with her soft, gentle touch and quiet, comforting voice.

After a very long time, just sitting with him like that, holding him and reassuring him with her presence, Buffy finally managed to calm him down enough that the tears and trembling ceased. She stayed there with him, gently running her hand up and down his back in a steady, calming motion, until she felt the tension ease from his body, felt him gradually relax against her.

Emotionally overwrought and exhausted from the emotional roller coaster that the past few days had been, it wasn’t long before he had fallen asleep in her arms. She had known in her head that it would be this way – a few steps forward, and then a step back; slow progress fraught with setbacks – but it didn’t make it any easier.

They were close enough at this point that she felt his pain, his fear, as her own. Every time hope started to rise, and it started to seem like they had crossed the line so that from that point on, there would be only progress – something like this happened, a setback that reminded them both of how far he still had to go.

Long after he fell asleep, she sat there, still holding him and absently running her fingers through his loose blonde curls. In the stillness that surrounded her, she began again to think about Dawn, and her careless actions that had contributed to the incident tonight.

Though he hadn’t said a word to her about the argument he had had with Dawn before she left, Buffy could tell from the hurt that remained in his eyes when she had mentioned her sister, that there was more to the incident than he was telling her. It was only too clear to her, from his slightly evasive manner about what had led up to Dawn’s leaving, that Dawn had said something hurtful to him before she had left.

One thing was certain. She and her sister were going to have quite a talk when she got home.


It was just a little after nine o’clock when Dawn did get home; true to her word, she had not stayed out very late. She didn’t really need to; she had all the time she wanted to deal with Warren and make him pay for hurting Spike. She just had to avoid…

She stopped suddenly on the sidewalk outside her house, dismayed at the sight of the SUV Buffy had driven to work, parked in the driveway. What was her sister doing home? She would have to think fast if she was going to avoid getting into trouble for this one. Buffy was going to kill her for going out without telling her.

She slipped quietly through the front door, closing it softly behind her, glancing around as she did. It seemed safe at first glance; all was quiet and still. Spike lay on the couch in the living room, sound asleep. She noticed with a frown that his striking face was tear-streaked and troubled, even in sleep.

There was no sign of her sister.

Silently, she slipped up the stairs, hoping to get to her room and to bed before Buffy could catch her. She reached the top of the stairs, and saw that Buffy’s bedroom door was closed. There was no sign of any activity upstairs, either.

*So far so good,* she thought, as she opened the door to her room with a sigh of relief and backed inside, glancing around the hallway one last time before she closed it silently behind her and turned around…

Right into her sister’s smiling face, inches from her own.

She jumped and let out a little shriek. “Buffy!” she gasped, the hint of anger beginning in her tone. “What are you doing here?”

Buffy didn’t even acknowledge her question. She stood there staring at her with piercing green eyes, her hands on her hips in a slightly threatening stance. “Where have you been?” she demanded angrily.

Dawn had been startled to find her sister here, in her bedroom, after making it through the rest of the house and thinking she was home free. And the unyielding expression that was not only on Buffy’s face but expressed through every motion, every tensed muscle of her body, was quite intimidating, though Dawn would never have admitted it to her.

Very quickly, Dawn’s fear turned to anger, and suddenly she was furious, at herself for jumping and giving away the effect her sister’s little surprise had had on her; and at Buffy, for provoking the response.

“At Janice’s,” the lie fell easily from her lips, her tone defensive and more than a little hostile.

“You’re lying,” Buffy shot back instantly, her tone accusing as she raised her arms to cross them over her chest. “I called Janice’s mother. You weren’t there. You’re weren’t even *with* Janice, Dawn. She’s been at home all night.” She said nothing else for a moment, just raised her eyebrows and looked expectantly at Dawn.

“So I went out for a little while. Big deal. Leave me alone,” Dawn muttered, moving pointedly around her sister and picking up some clothes she had left on her floor, which would otherwise have stayed there for another week. She was trying to act unconcerned, to look as if she was too busy to waste time talking to her sister.

“It *is* a big deal, Dawn!” Buffy insisted, her voice trembling with rising anger, disbelieving at her little sister’s attitude. “Warren is out there, and he is very dangerous!”

“I’m not scared of Warren,” Dawn sneered, with a little secret smile to herself. Then she remembered that Buffy could not find out her secret, and shrugged carelessly, “He’s not after me, anyway.”

“No, he’s after Spike,” Buffy pointed out, stepping closer to Dawn, one hand on her hip again. “And he’s not stupid, Dawn. What do you think just might be a great way of getting to *Spike*, Dawnie? Try messing with you or me! And he’s not gonna try messing with *me*!”

Dawn glared at her resentfully. “Well, he didn’t,” she said, her voice low. Despite her anger, she really didn’t want to fight with her sister. That would be risking grounding, and that would be risking the remainder of her plan.

“No, he didn’t,” Buffy admitted flatly, holding her sister’s gaze firmly, her eyes blazing. “But I hope you had a lot of fun tonight, Dawnie. I hope it was worth it. Because while you were out partying or whatever you were doing, Spike was sitting here at home scared out of his mind…”

“He doesn’t need to worry about me either!” Dawn broke in, her voice rising. “I can take care of myself, okay?”

“Not about that, Dawn,” Buffy corrected her, shaking her head. She paused before going on, “The controller for his chip is gone.”

Dawn felt her stomach do a little flip, and tried to look nonchalant, unconsciously putting her hands in her pockets where the device was concealed. “It is?” she asked, turning toward her sister and putting on a concerned look.

“Yes,” Buffy bit off the word, with a challenging look. “It is. And he’s been terrified all night. We have no idea where it is…who has it…and he’s been sitting here alone and scared because *you* wanted to go off and have a good time and couldn’t be bothered with your friend who’s just been through the worst ordeal of his entire life and is just a little traumatized right now!” Her tone was scathing and sarcastic as she glared at her sister, daring her to say one word in her own defense.

For the first time, Dawn began to feel guilty. “I – I didn’t know,” she said, her voice softening as she met Buffy’s eyes.

Buffy looked at her for a moment before her own expression softened as well. “I know,” she said quietly. After a moment she added, “Have you seen it? The controller?”

Dawn shook her head. “No.” All the anger and defiance had gone out of her with the ironic realization that her efforts at avenging her friend had inadvertently resulted in more suffering for him. “I’m sorry, Buffy,” she said quietly, partly because she really was, and partly because she was beginning to calm down and realize that extreme, uncharacteristic meekness was the only possible option not resulting in the complete loss of her freedom.

“I’m not the one you need to tell,” Buffy pointed out, but the anger was gone from her tone as well. She heaved a weary sigh, and sat down on the edge of Dawn’s bed. “We need to find that stupid control device. If the wrong person found it…”

“We’ll find it,” Dawn said quietly, with an assurance that Buffy found somehow comforting, though she herself was not at all sure. Dawn stood there for a moment, subdued, before she said softly, “I’m gonna go downstairs.”

Buffy nodded without looking at her, still lost in her own troublesome thoughts.

As Dawn descended the stairs, she thought over her plan again, reconsidering a few things she knew now that she had overlooked. She needed to talk to Anya, needed to see if they could find a solution. She knew that Spike would surely tell Buffy if she revealed her plan to him; but there was no way in the world that she was going to let him go a whole week in fear and uncertainty, wondering about the whereabouts of the device, while she carried out his vengeance.

That would be just a little bit self-defeating.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes fell on her friend, still sleeping, but tossing fitfully, his features twisted in a frown, as a soft moan escaped his lips.

A nightmare. Once again, Dawn felt the guilt of what she had accidentally caused to happen tonight, twisting her stomach in knots and making her feel sick inside.

She hurried to his side, gently shaking him to rouse him from the torment that had followed him into sleep. “Spike…” she whispered. “Spike, wake up…”

With a start he awoke, his eyes wide and fearful, pulling back away from her, raising one hand as if to strike out in the instant before he became fully aware, and recognized her. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, his startled blue eyes focused on hers, just staring at her for a moment.

Then, suddenly, his strong arms gripped her forcefully, pulling her into a tight, protective embrace, and she felt another wave of shame at the realization that his fear for *her* safety had not been the least of the torment she had brought on him tonight. His arms, though firm, were still trembling with mingled relief and fear, as he held her to him as if he would never let her go.

“If you ever do that to me again, Bit, I’ll bloody tear you apart, do you understand me?” he growled against her shoulder, his voice low and gruff but still tearful with his immense relief that she was home and safe. “Don’t ever, *ever* do that to me again!” The command was both pleading and fierce at the same time.

“I won’t,” she promised in a whisper, returning his embrace tightly, with all her much slighter strength. “I won’t.” And then she added the words she had wanted to say all night, in a tender, trembling whisper so full of emotion that it made her throat and chest ache as she spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

Xander stood silently back against the wall, allowing the darkness to hide him from Dawn’s eyes, which were still adjusted to the relative brightness of the crypt’s lower level, and did not see him as she passed on her way out the door. He didn’t want her to know he was there, not yet, mostly because he really wasn’t sure yet what he wanted to do about this little situation.

And partly because Dawn in this frame of mind – and possibly still pissed off with him from their little confrontation earlier – was surprisingly scary.

He waited until she had left, then crept back toward the ladder, debating whether or not to descend. He could hear the rattling of the chains from down there, as Warren weakly attempted to free himself from them. Mingled with the sound were weak, muffled cries as he tried desperately to draw attention to himself, to somehow get someone to help him. But Dawn had gagged him before she left, not wanting him to be heard and helped by some passing stranger.

And the one person who *could* hear him had no desire to help him.

Xander was surprised and a little disturbed by the utter *lack* of concern he felt over Dawn’s violence toward Warren. A small part of his mind realized that the girl was probably getting in over her head, crossing over into dangerous territory.

But the greater part of him knew with all certainty that Warren deserved whatever she did to him. His memories from the time he had spent reliving Spike’s pain were still fresh in his mind, and even just hearing the beginnings of Dawn’s punishment for the cruel boy chained in the basement room had given him a sense of vindication.

He wasn’t really sure what he was going to do yet. He didn’t want to let Dawn get herself into any real danger. But so far, she didn’t seem to be. She actually appeared to have everything under control.

As he turned and walked slowly out of the crypt, he resolved to keep a close eye on her, to just be there in case she *did* need rescuing, but not to interfere for now. Still, he wanted to be close enough to keep Dawn from going past the point where she could find her way back.

He agreed with Dawn whole-heartedly; Warren needed to die.

He just wasn’t sure that Dawn should be the one to kill him.


“There’s gotta be something we can do about this,” Dawn said, pacing the floor of her bedroom in an agitated manner, not looking at Anya, who was sitting on her bed, listening and frowning in thought. “I can’t just let Spike think that the device is gone, and Warren’s got it or something!” She paused to look up at Anya and said, “You know all about all this vengeance stuff, Anya. What do you think I should do?”

Anya was hesitant to say what she was thinking. The truth was, she was worried about Dawn, about the hardness she had seen developing in her over the past few weeks. She had seen enough to know that while sometimes vengeance was necessary, if it became too important to a person, if it became all she could focus on or think about, it could destroy her.

And already, Dawn’s vengeance wish was having a negative effect not only on her but on those around her – incredibly, on the very person she had made the wish for in the first place!

Anya spoke cautiously, watching Dawn with solemn eyes. “I don’t know, Dawnie. This isn’t going quite the way you wanted it to. Maybe you should just…”

Dawn knew what she was going to say before she said it, and snapped, “No! I’m not just gonna give up on this, Anya! Warren deserves to pay for what he did, and I’m going to make sure he gets exactly what he deserves!”

“Okay,” Anya said, sounding anxious and troubled. “But Dawn – why don’t you just let *me* finish this? Make one final wish to end it, and let me end the whole thing so you and Spike and Buffy can all just get on with your lives?”

Dawn shook her head, softening a little at the genuine concern she heard in Anya’s voice and saw in her eyes. Though she was as determined as ever to follow through with her plan to its completion, she knew that Anya was only concerned about her, only wanted to help her.

“No,” she said firmly, but softly. “I started this, and I’m gonna finish it. I just have to come up with a way to keep Spike from worrying about the controller.” She glanced up at Anya speculatively for a moment. “I could wish something,” she suggested.

“Only if it’s specifically vengeance,” Anya said without hesitation, cutting Dawn off before she could build up too much false hope for herself. “And making a separate wish to cover up the first wish – that’s the kind of complication that causes whole universes to go all out of whack. You might want to be careful, Dawnie.”

Dawn’s lips turned downward into a pout for a moment, before she raised her eyebrows as a new idea occurred to her. “Or,” she went on, only momentarily discouraged by Anya’s comment, “I could just *say* I made a wish – but not my real wish – and just explain it that way.”

“To Spike,” Anya clarified, looking at her suspiciously through wide eyes. “Explain it to *Spike*. Not Buffy. Because Buffy needs to keep on thinking that I am just a perfectly normal human being.”

“Little late to be worrying about that,” Dawn muttered under her breath, then continued with a wide, innocent smile when Anya gave her a puzzled look. “I really don’t care if Buffy worries about the chip or not. It’ll all be over in a week, anyway; she can deal with it. But Spike – I can’t let him suffer like that.”

She paused for a moment before she added, “He knows you’re a vengeance demon again, Anya. And he said he wouldn’t tell Buffy, right? So I can just tell him I…”

She hesitated, frowning in concentration as she tried to think of a plausible story. Suddenly her face lit up in inspiration as she looked back at Anya hopefully. “I can tell him that I wished the controller out of existence! So that no one can ever use it against him again. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

Anya thought about it for a moment, nodding slowly. “Yes. That sort of wish would make sense. And it would explain the controller’s disappearing in a way that would stop Spike from being afraid.” She looked up at Dawn with a bright smile. “Yes. Good idea, Dawn!” she said in an overly enthusiastic voice that, coming from anyone else, would have been perceived as sarcastic.

Dawn smiled in satisfaction, certain that she had finally found the solution to the problem. Buffy wouldn’t have a clue about Anya or the wish she had made, and Spike would no longer have to be afraid.

And no one would be the wiser about her little scheme.

It was perfect.


A few minutes later, once Anya had teleported out of her room, Dawn headed downstairs, eager to find Spike – hopefully not attached to her sister at the moment – so that she could put his mind at ease.

She found him in the kitchen, warming a mug in the microwave. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice when she came into the room. His eyes were focused on the microwave door, though not really seeing it, and his back was to her.

“Hey,” she said softly, and he spun around to face her, startled.

“Hey, Bit,” he replied, his voice low and weary. Constant, mind-numbing terror had a tendency to be exhausting.

Again Dawn felt very guilty for being the cause of his fear, although she had only done it in an attempt to avenge him, with absolutely no intention of hurting him. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft and sorrowful.

He shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “Not your fault.”

If only it were true, she thought with a heavy heart. She took a few steps closer to him, saying more with the look in her eyes than with her words. “No. I’m really sorry.”

He gave her a gently reproving look, and said kindly, “Now, Bit, none of that. We’re past that already, yeah?”

She nodded meekly, but didn’t really feel much better. The night before she had apologized for her harsh words, for leaving him to face his fears alone, and he had readily, openly forgiven her. But the fact that he didn’t know just how much she had actually contributed to the incident kept her guilt from being eased.

“Where’s Buffy?” she asked quietly.

“Shower.”

She nodded, relieved. At least she would not have to come up with an excuse to her sister for why she needed to talk to Spike alone. “Hey, can I – can I talk to you?” she asked hesitantly.

The uncertainty in her eyes was obvious, and he knew immediately that whatever she wanted to talk about, this was a conversation that she was a little bit afraid to have.

“Always, pet,” he replied immediately with a warm, encouraging smile. Trying to put his own fear he was struggling with out of his mind, he stepped closer to Dawn. She needed him; it was time to focus on someone else’s problems for a little while.

He suddenly remembered his drink and held up one finger in a wait-just-a-moment gesture, turning around to take his steaming mug from the microwave. Dawn was surprised by the sweet fragrance that rose from it, and peered curiously into the mug, as Spike pulled it away from her with self-conscious irritation.

“Is that *tea*?” she asked incredulously, her eyes sparkling with laughter as she looked up at him in surprise.

“What?” he said defensively. “I’m bloody *English*, all right?”

Dawn laughed, giving him a teasing push as they made their way into the living room. She covered a mocking word with an exaggerated cough, but he could still hear it clearly.

“*Giles*!”

“You bloody well better take that back!” he growled with false menace.

“Or what?” she shot back playfully, desperately wishing that she could just lose herself in the pleasant banter that always seemed to rise between them, and forget all about what she was about to do.

She was about to look her best friend in the eye and lie to him to his face. And not a little “I’m-going-to-Janice’s-house” alibi sort of lie; this was a huge, enormous completely made up story, and about something about which it was very much his right to know the truth.

And though she knew that telling him the truth was not really an option, as it would endanger both Anya and her plan, she also knew that this lie would also probably make him very upset with her. He was going to be hurt and angry that she had allowed him to go through the previous night of terror, without telling him the “truth” about the controller.

Spike’s teasing smirk drew her attention away from her thoughts and back to him as he said in a low, soft voice that called to memory his pre-chip days, “Would you like me to remind you what happened the last time you challenged me, little girl?”

Spike was the only one in the whole world who could get away with calling her a little girl – who could even make her like hearing it, coming from him.

“Okay!” she laughed, backing a few steps away and then sitting down on the couch behind her. “I give up!” she said as she patted the seat beside her.

He sat down in the spot she had indicated, a smug smile on his face as he met her eyes, his own soft with his affection for her. His smile slowly faded to a serious expression as he registered the worry in her eyes.

“What is it, Bit? What were you wanting to talk to me about?” he prompted her gently, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I – I need to tell you something.” She paused. “And you’re gonna be mad at me.” She made her voice small and timid and frightened, trying to play on his considerable fondness for her.

He frowned, giving her a suspicious look. “What did you do?” he asked her in a dark voice, not buying into her tactics. But the look in his eyes told her that although he saw right through her attempts to play on his sympathies, he would allow her to do it anyway.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell Buffy,” she insisted, looking him in the eye firmly, seriously.

“Not sure I oughta be making a promise like that, love,” he said, his eyebrows raised as he leaned back against the couch, regarding her cautiously.

Dawn knew she could win this, and easily. She shrugged her shoulders and stood as if to go, knowing full well that his curiosity had already bested him. “You know what,” she said with a little grimace. “never mind.”

He caught her arm and pulled her unceremoniously back down onto the couch. “Fine,” he sighed. “Just between you and me, then, Bit. What is it?”

She hesitated, not sure how to say it. Finally, she decided to just come out with it and blurted out, “I know where the controller is…or where it isn’t, actually. I – I’m the one who took it. Sort of.”

She wasn’t making much sense, and she knew it. His eyes widened in stunned surprise and he frowned in confusion. “Y-you?” he questioned, shaking his head. “But why?” His wide, searching eyes, which always saw through whatever façade she wore to the truth beneath it, were gazing into hers, desperately seeking an answer.

That would never do!

She quickly looked down, apparently in shame, but in reality just to hide the truth she knew he would see in her eyes. “I made a wish to Anya,” she admitted. “To make the controller not exist.”

He just stared at her for a long moment, struck utterly speechless, just trying to process what she had just said. “Y-you made it…” His voice broke off, and he shook his head a little, uncomprehending.

She chanced a look up at him, and found that he was too stunned by her revelation to notice the lie in her eyes. Her heart flooded with compassion when she saw the look of disbelieving hope in his eyes – as if he simply didn’t dare to believe that what she was saying could actually be true.

It wasn’t. Not really. But for all intents and purposes, for what it meant to Spike…it was. The threat that the control device represented for Spike had been forever eliminated. With the chip in Warren’s head instead of his, it didn’t matter if the device existed or not; it could never be used against Spike again.

“It’s gone, Spike,” she told him in a trembling whisper, as the power of what she had done suddenly hit her for the first time. She reached out to take his hands in hers, no longer afraid to meet his eyes, searching them with her own. “No one can ever use that thing to hurt you, ever again!” The words were heartfelt and passionate.

And absolutely true.

The thought she had worried about, of how she had allowed him to suffer through the night before not knowing where the device was, never even crossed his mind. His deep blue eyes gazed into hers with slowly fading shock, as what she was saying began to sink in.

The controller, the center of his fears for so long, was really gone.

“You wouldn’t make a wish on your own,” Dawn explained, her tear-filled eyes downcast again, as the powerful emotions at work inside her began to take control. “I couldn’t let it go on like that, Spike. You having to live in fear, never knowing when the wrong person might get their hands on that thing. No one should ever be able to do that to you, and they won’t. Ever again.” By now her tears were streaming down her face, and her voice was trembling uncontrollably.

His throat constricted and his chest burned with the tears, not of fear or anguish this time, but of love and gratitude, that rose up inside him at the thought of what she had done. He gazed at her, wide-eyed with wonder and a sense of awe at this precious girl in front of him.

Slowly, he reached out and pulled her into his arms, and she couldn’t help it anymore. She broke down, allowing the tears she had forced back ever since his return to overwhelm her, the pain she had repressed since his return, for his sake, pouring out to soak his shirt as he cradled her head against his chest.

“I hate that he did that to you!” she sobbed. “I hate it! I hate him!” she sobbed, and he just held her to him, gently shushing her and rocking her gently as the bitterness and sorrow that had been buried in her for so long that it had begun to consume her flooded out from her lips and eyes. “I wish I could have stopped it…I wish I could have…helped you…could have…”

After allowing her to cry it out for a few minutes, he gently took her face in his hands and pushed her back, meeting her eyes with a deep, piercing gaze that stunned her with the fierce intensity of the love she saw there, sapphire eyes welling with tears that did not fall.

“You have done so much, Dawn,” he whispered, holding her gaze, shaking his head a little, in awe of just how much her devoted friendship and support had meant to him over the past few weeks. He spoke again, slowly and intently, emphasizing every word to make her see how deeply he meant them, “If it was not for you, I would not have made it.”

The tender, heartfelt sentiment made her break down again, still not feeling that she had done nearly enough to help her friend, and she shook her head against his steady hands, in denial.

Still, he held her firmly, and slowly leaned down to place a tender, chaste kiss on her forehead, before drawing back to look her in the eyes again and speaking softly with an intensity of inexpressible emotion in two simple words.

“Thank you.”

“Buffy, I’m going over to Janice’s house to study tonight, okay?” Dawn called down the stairs as Buffy was headed toward the front door, on her way to another grueling evening of menial labor at the Doublemeat Palace.

Buffy stopped in her tracks, shooting a can-you-believe-the-nerve-of-her look at Spike, who sat on the sofa. He suppressed a laugh as he glanced toward the top of the stairs, shaking his head, secretly proud of that “nerve” that Dawn had developed.

*That’s my girl,* he thought with affection, though he had no intention of letting her get away with it. Not this time.

Buffy returned to the foot of the stairs, her hands on her hips as she stared incredulously up at her little sister, standing at the top of the stairs with a way-too-innocent expression on her face.

“I really don’t think so, Dawnie,” she said, shaking her head with a wide, fake smile.

Dawn rolled her eyes as she came down the stairs to face her sister more directly. “No, really, Buffy. There’s a big test tomorrow, and I really need to go to her house and study.”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Buffy demanded, disbelieving that her sister actually thought she could get away with this again.

Dawn fought back the answer that sprang to her lips, knowing that it would certainly not do anything to help her case. A triumphant smile rose to her lips as she gave Buffy a challenging look and crossed her arms over her chest, saying, “Call her mom. She’ll tell you. There really is a test tomorrow that we really do need to study for, and her mom really did already say it would be all right.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed in a suspicious frown, but nevertheless she headed for the phone, giving her sister a distrustful look over her shoulder as she did. Buffy disappeared into the kitchen, and Spike turned his own skeptical gaze on Dawn.

“What are you playing at, Niblet?” he asked her softly, a knowing smirk on his lips.

“Nothing!” she insisted, in a tone of indignation that they did not trust her. She repeated, slowly, emphasizing every word, “I am going to Janice’s house to study. That’s. All.”

He raised his eyebrows and did not take his eyes off her, but didn’t say another word as Buffy returned from the kitchen, a frown on her puzzled face.

“She said you two really do have a study date, and she’s gonna be there all night,” she admitted, with a little half shrug, though she still seemed reluctant to accept that her sister was actually telling her the truth.

“So I can go then?” Dawn asked her expectantly, an annoyingly perky smile on her face. She was just enjoying being right way too much for Buffy’s liking.

Buffy sighed in defeat and replied, “I guess so. Don’t be late. I want you home by ten. Okay?”

“Okay, Buffy,” Dawn chirped, much more agreeable than usual, and seeming very pleased with herself as she went back upstairs.

Spike frowned suspiciously up the stairs after her before looking at Buffy. “’M not sure I trust that,” he said quietly. “She’s up to something, love.”

Buffy shrugged and sighed as she headed back toward the door. “Her story checked out. Janice’s mom said it’s true.” She glared balefully up the stairs and muttered, “She probably just wants me to *think* she’s up to something, just to get some kicks out of tormenting me.”

She hesitated at the door, as if just remembering something important, and then turned deliberately back, approaching him as an inviting, secretive smile replaced the tired frown on her lips. He rose to meet her, a slow smile of his own spreading over his face, as she put her arms around him, kissing him deeply, slowly, savoring every moment of it.

When they parted, she sighed again, but this was a happy, contented sound. “Just what I needed,” she murmured, smiling into his eyes. “Now *that* should get me through this long, hard night!”

“Don’t tire yourself out *too* much, love,” he said, his voice low and seductive, a suggestion in his eyes that made her want to call in sick, though she knew she couldn’t. She had bills to pay and groceries to buy and responsibilies…

None of which she felt like considering at the moment.

Reluctantly she pulled out of the embrace, saying with a resigned smile, “Don’t worry, I won’t.” She paused, a slight frown of concern creasing her brow. “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right? Cause you know, I can stay if you need me to…”

“You can stay if you *want* to,” he corrected her with a smirk, before his expression became more serious, as he replied in a mildly sarcastic, self-deprecating tone, “No, love, I think I’ll be all right for a few hours alone.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I mean, Dawn told me that you found the controller, but that was quite a little scare you had there, and if it’s too soon…”

“Dawn told you *what*?” he broke in, frowning, confused by her statement.

Buffy frowned too at his reaction. “That you found the controller. On the floor of your closet this morning. You did, didn’t you?” A hint of fear began to show in her eyes at the thought that the dangerous little thing might still be unaccounted for.

The pieces fell into place for Spike, and he fought back his anger at his young friend, for putting him in this position, of being forced to choose between lying to Buffy and getting her – and Anya – in trouble. “Yeah,” he said quietly, not quite meeting her eyes. “I did. I – I would have told you…guess I just wasn’t thinking…”

“It’s all right,” she interrupted him, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture, her soft smile telling him that she really had thought nothing of it. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve been through so much these past few days, I’m sure you were just so relieved to find it…”

He nodded, feeling sick at the thought of not being completely honest with her, and he knew that he could not maintain this lie, not for any length of time at all. It just felt too wrong to keep this secret from Buffy.

When he was alone with Dawn, he decided, his eyes narrowing slightly in anger, they were going to have a bit of a confrontation. They would have to find some other solution, some way of coming clean about this. Promise or no promise, he would not allow Dawn to push him into lying to Buffy.

Well…not more than this once.

Only a few minutes after Buffy left, Dawn came back downstairs with her backpack slung over her shoulder. She gave Spike an innocent smile as she headed for the door.

“Not so fast, pet,” he said firmly, rising from his place on the couch, his ice blue eyes flashing with anger. “I need a word with you.”

“I’m late,” she breezed, catching his eye for just long enough for him to see that she had a pretty good idea what he wanted to talk to her about, and a pretty good idea that she wanted to avoid talking about it. “Supposed to be there all ready. We can talk later, okay?”

“Just a second,” he said, determination in his voice as he followed her toward the door. She was not going to get away that easily.

“See you later,” she called over her shoulder as she quickened her pace and sailed out the door into the afternoon sunlight, not giving him time to voice his suspicions or question her at all before she was out of his reach.

“Tricky little bint,” he muttered to himself as he returned to the couch and picked up the remote control, swallowing back his irritation. “Oh, well. I’ll bloody well let her have it later!” he sighed to himself. “She’s got to come home some time!”


Dawn sighed with relief as she made her escape down Revello Drive, heading off in the general direction of Janice’s house, just in case Spike happened to be being his over-protective self and watching her as she left. Once she was out of sight of the house, she back-tracked and made her way toward the cemetery and Spike’s crypt.

That had been pretty close, she thought, and realized with an uncomfortable feeling that even now, she had only earned herself a temporary reprieve. She had overheard Buffy and Spike’s conversation and knew that he had found out about the lie she’d told Buffy, so fortunately she had enough warning to get out of there before he could stop her.

But he would be there when she got home. Sooner or later, she would have to face him. And judging by the look on his face just before she had made her escape, he was not at all pleased with the position she had put him in.

She put those troublesome thoughts out of her head as she reached the crypt and made her way down the ladder to the lower level. She lit the torch and squinted against the bright light for a moment, as her eyes adjusted, just before they fell on her prisoner, who was looking at her with a wary expression in his eyes.

She crossed the room to him and unceremoniously pulled the rag she had used to gag him out of his mouth.

“Hey,” she said casually with an unsettling smile, though the carefully controlled rage she felt was clear in her expressive green eyes. “Sleep well?”

Judging by the dark shadows under his eyes and the exhaustion in his haggard face, the answer was a resounding no. She stepped back, regarding him for a moment before she spoke.

“I think I remember how Spike told me this always worked,” she mused, looking down thoughtfully for a moment before returning her cold gaze to Warren. “Right about now you’d be punishing him for not answering you, wouldn’t you?”

Warren tried to say something in response, but his mouth was too dry from the gag and the day and night he had spent with no water to formulate an answer at all.

“The way I remember the story going,” she went on calmly. “It didn’t really matter what he did… you’d punish him anyway…even if he was *really trying* to do what you told him…and just couldn’t. Usually because *you* had hurt him too badly already.”

She stepped closer to him, feeling oddly gratified when he shrank back away from her. “Now, you might be actually trying to answer me right now,” she said with a shrug. “Or you might not…in which case I get to hurt you.” She paused, a cold, triumphant smile on her lips as she said in a voice just barely over a whisper, “I choose to believe not.”

And with those words she pressed the button on the controller, sending a painful shock through his body that made him convulse with pain. Despite her rage, her furious sense of justification because of what Warren had done to deserve this, she did not have his vicious thirst for the suffering of others, and gasped, startled, at the sight of the tremendous pain the controller caused him.

She suppressed the unwelcome sense of vague pity she felt for him, not wanting him to see it, but she released the button after only a few seconds. Then, the pity was swallowed up in anger as she thought again of Spike, enduring that pain for much longer than a few seconds at a time, every day for five months.

Her eyes narrowed, and turned away for a moment, pacing the floor as she tried to keep her emotions under control. If he saw that she was losing control, he would do whatever he could to try to turn the tables on her.

“I bet you’re hungry…thirsty…right now, aren’t you?” she asked with a falsely sympathetic sound in her voice.

He looked at her through suspicious, frightened eyes, his body shuddering as he recovered from the pain of the shock – the very same pain he had forced on Spike for so long. She saw a wary hope building in his eyes at the mention of food and water.

Good, she thought vindictively. That meant she got to crush it.

Her eyes narrowed as she turned to glare at him. “Try going weeks at a time, like you made Spike go. Try *real* starvation, Warren. Too bad we don’t have enough time for you to know what *that* feels like!”

“I – I…” Warren attempted to speak again, his voice coming out in a weak, hoarse croak.

Dawn rolled her eyes impatiently, suppressing another pang of guilt. In an ironic sort of way, her own guilt made her feel more justified in punishing Warren. If she felt this bad – albeit secretly – for the relatively small amount of suffering she had put him through so far, what kind of monster was he that he could have done all he had done to Spike for five months, and genuinely *enjoyed* it?

The kind of monster who *deserved* this, that was what kind!

With a put-upon sigh, she reached into her backpack and took out a bottle of water she had put there earlier, then stood up again and headed back toward him. Warren drew back in suspicion, but his eyes were focused on the water bottle in her hand, a desperation in them that she found irritating.

She was not supposed to feel guilty for this!

Sighing wearily, she conceded, “We can’t exactly have a conversation if you can’t even talk, can we?” as she raised the bottle and poured a little of the water into his mouth, stopping long before he had had enough. “Now what were you saying?” she reminded him, giving him an expectant look.

He looked up at her, his demeanor a million miles from the way it had been the day before. “I – I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please…I’m really sorry for hurting Spike, Dawn…just please let me go!” The insincerity in his tone, the obviousness that he was simply saying whatever he had to say to get what he wanted, angered her further.

Still, she tried not to show it, deciding to play along, to give him a taste of the humiliation he had heaped upon Spike. “Are you really?” she asked him, nodding leadingly. “Are you really sorry, Warren?”

“Yes,” he gasped, nodding desperately. “Yes, I’m really, really sorry!”

“How sorry are you?” she pressed him, her lips twisting up into a taunting smile.

“I’ll do anything, Dawn! Please! I’m so, so sorry! I’m begging you here, please just let me go!” he pleaded.

She tilted her head in a little speculative half-nod. “No you’re not. Not really. But that might be interesting. Why don’t you get down on your knees and *really* beg me to let you go? You just might convince me,” she smirked.

She had no intention of letting him go, and it should have been clear, but he was desperate by this point, and he immediately did as she suggested, though the action of kneeling strained his arms to the limits against the chains that bound them.

“Please! Please, I’m begging you!” he gasped, tears streaming down his face. “Dawn, don’t do this! Please just let me go!”

Now, she felt no pity; only loathing and revulsion. She was beginning to understand Warren a little better. Oh, he loved to play the part of the big man, to make himself feel powerful by abusing those who were unable to defend themselves against him. But in reality, when it came to preserving his own life, he had no pride. He would do anything just to save himself from suffering.

She sneered down at him in disgust for a moment before stepping nearer to him to respond. “Well. That didn’t take very long, did it?” she mocked him, biting off the words in bitter triumph. “You’re not really so tough after all, are you?”

She crouched down in front of him to meet his eyes with her own that were full of pride for her friend and the remarkable strength he had shown in the face of so much worse than what had driven Warren to his knees.

For, although he never would have thought it of himself, as ashamed as he was of what he perceived to be his utter weakness, the very fact that Spike had survived all he had and was somehow managing to come back from it was a testimony to his strength.

No one else she knew could have taken it.

Warren certainly couldn’t.

“I bet Spike begged you to let him go…to stop hurting him,” she said softly in a voice that trembled with emotion. “But *you* didn’t listen, did you?” She paused before adding in a triumphant tone, “But I bet it took a lot longer than this before he did. How long did it take you to break him, Warren?” she asked. “Weeks? Longer? How long until *he* was on his knees? Hours upon hours of brutal torture and beatings, weeks of starvation?”

She leaned in closer, the look in her eyes bitterly mocking as she pointed out slowly, deliberately, “You took a couple of two-second shocks and one day without food. Less than twenty-four hours, Warren. Less than one. freaking. day.”

She slowly rose to her feet, staring down at him like the disgusting, low creature that he was, beneath her – and far beneath Spike.

“I guess this proves who’s really the stronger man,” she informed him in a voice of victory, as she turned and headed back toward the ladder. She paused at the base, turning her head just slightly before leaving to ask him softly, “Just how powerful are you feeling right about now?”

And with her point proven, she disappeared up the ladder, leaving him to ponder her words, and his own miserable fate.

When the telephone rang hours later, a little after nine, Spike couldn’t help but feel a sense of apprehension, remembering the last time he had answered the phone, and the traumatic verbal assault that had followed. Slowly he approached the phone. He swallowed hard, staring at it as it continued to ring.

*Warren can’t hurt you anymore,* he reminded himself for what seemed like the thousandth time, realizing in a moment of clarity that this time it was really true. By this point he was surely physically stronger than Warren, and with the chip controller gone forever, at this point, the worst that Warren could really do to him was to threaten and insult him from a distance.

Dawn had seen to that.

With a deliberate force of will, he picked up the phone, hesitating for just a beat or so before he said, “Hello?”

There was a brief pause before a woman’s voice spoke, sounding uncertain and a little confused. “Um…do I have the right…I mean…is this the Summers residence?” She seemed surprised at the sound of a male voice answering the phone.

“Yeah, who’s this?” he asked, releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, leaning back against the wall beside the phone and closing his eyes as relief washed over him in waves.

“This is Mrs. Morrison – Janice’s mother? I was just calling to check on Dawn, to be sure she was all right,” the woman replied. “She sounded really bad when she called to tell Janice she wasn’t coming, and I was just a little concerned. Do you – do you know if she’s contagious?” Understandably, the woman’s concern was obviously more for her own daughter’s health than for Dawn’s.

But Dawn was the one she should have been worrying about, Spike thought with rising anger toward the girl.

So she’d done it again, just as he’d suspected. He really wasn’t the least bit surprised.

“No, love, I’m fairly certain she’s not contagious,” he said dryly, and quickly excused himself from the call, hanging up the phone much harder than he needed to. “Not a bit contagious,” he muttered to himself. “ ‘Less of course getting beaten senseless is catching!”

Little Dawnie was becoming quite the delinquent, he thought grimly. Lying about going to Janice’s so that she could sneak out of the house, not once but twice now – and probably all to go see some hormone-infested teenage prat like the one she had danced with at the Bronze the other night! And then lying to Buffy and basically forcing him into going along with the lie…

Well, she was not going to get away with it, not if he had anything to say about it! He was going to find her and bring her home, drag her kicking and screaming if he had to, and give her a very unpleasant piece of his mind!

If he could just manage to leave the house.

A fleeting fear came over him as his hand closed around the doorknob, and he hesitated, realizing that this would be the first time since his rescue that he had left the house alone.

The controller was gone, he reminded himself. It was perfectly safe for him to go outside. Warren couldn’t hurt him – not really. The chip might still prevent Spike from actually hurting Warren, but surely he would be able at least to keep *Warren* from hurting *him*.

He gathered his resolve with a deep breath, opened the door, and walked out into the night. He paused on the porch for a moment, allowing his sensitive vampire senses to pick up the lingering scent of Dawn’s distinctive peach-scented shampoo and the candy-sweet fragrance she usually wore.

After a moment, he took off down the sidewalk in the direction Dawn had gone, hours earlier.

When he found himself standing at the entrance to the old cemetery where he used to live, he stopped, angry and more than a little afraid for his reckless young friend. What the bleeding hell was she doing, alone in the cemetery this late at night? Surely after all this time growing up on the Hellmouth, Dawn should know better!

But there was no doubt; if his senses were not deceiving him, she had been here recently, was likely *still* here.

Then he spotted her, just stepping out of the doorway to his old crypt, her head bent down against the chill of the rising night wind as she made her way across the cemetery and back toward the street.

His face set in angry resolve, determined not to give in to her this time, not to let her get away with trying to play him and Buffy for fools, he stalked across the grass toward her, at exactly the right angle to cut off her progress across the lawn.

She didn’t notice him until he was directly in front of her, and she jumped, letting out a little shriek of fright that was carried away and muffled by the increasing strength of the wind whirling about them. A storm was blowing in.

“Don’t *do* that!” she gasped, her eyes wide with startled fear. “You scared me to death!”

“And now I’m going to *kill* you to death!” he snapped, glaring furiously at her, not about to back down. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Bit? What do you think you’re doing out here, this time of the night, alone? Do you *want* to get torn to little bloody bits by some nasty thing out here?”

“I’m not a little girl, Spike!” she shot back, irrationally irritated by the protective anger in his voice that usually made her feel warm and loved. “I can take care of myself.”

“Right,” he nodded, his tone sarcastic, his eyebrows raised in a skeptical look. “That’s why we’ve never had to rescue you from a psychotic hell-goddess, or – or Harmony…”

She gave him a withering look, her own eyebrows raised, and he shrugged. “All right, granted, not so scary,” he admitted, before launching right back into his rant, “…or any number of other evil nasties, just because you decided it’d be a great lark to bloody *run off*!”

“*You* didn’t save me from *any* of them!” she pointed out in a deliberately cutting tone, then tried to take advantage of his momentary stunned reaction to her stinging words by slipping past him while he was distracted.

But that was an old trick, and Spike was not about to buy it again. He gripped her arm and yanked her back around to face him, in an act that was more forceful than any she had seen from him since his return.

“No!” he said roughly as he made her face him. “You’re not gonna just throw me off my game by saying the bitchiest thing you can come up with, Bit! Not this time! You’re not getting out of this that easy!”

“Let go of me!” she snapped, yanking free of his hand on her arm, glaring at him in outrage, but mostly just in irritation that he had seen through her tactics. But she didn’t move away; she just stood there, facing him with fire in her eyes.

“What were you doing in there?” he demanded, waving one hand backward toward the crypt a few hundred feet away.

The sudden flash of guilt and fear in her eyes was all the answer he needed to know that he had hit on something important. He turned without waiting for any further response and stormed toward the crypt door.

“No!” she cried out, her voice swept away by the wind, utterly ineffectual as she rushed after him, trying to catch up to his long, furious strides. “Spike, wait! *No*!”

At the door, she somehow managed to catch up to him, her small hands clutching at his arm and trying desperately but uselessly to pull him back away from the crypt. “Don’t go in there!” she insisted, her voice rising, becoming shrill and almost panicked.

At the door he whirled around on her suddenly in anger and impatience, his eyes sparking blue flames of fury. “Why the bloody hell not?” he demanded, and without waiting for a response he turned back to open the door. He was through playing games with her. She was hiding something, something important, and had been for a long time.

He fully intended to find out what.

“Warren’s in there!” she blurted out in a high, strangled cry that froze him in his tracks.

For a moment, it was as if everything around them stopped. His mind simply refused to process her words for a few long moments, as he slowly turned to face her again, his eyes wide with disbelief and wild with rising fear that he tried to control.

“What?” he whispered, his voice low and guttural with his effort to control the depth of emotion it held.

Somehow she still heard him clearly over the whistling of the wind that surrounded them, as her eyes met his, panicked, pleading, and full of a terrible realization of guilt. She repeated the words softly, her voice trembling and fearful.

“Warren’s in there.”

She could clearly see in his expressive blue eyes the battle that raged within him, as he struggled against the instinctive terror that had become so painfully natural to him, fought to maintain the fragile control and confidence he had been working so hard to slowly rebuild.

She felt sick with the overwhelming sense of guilt over bringing this torment on him – again. Why did it seem like all her attempts at avenging the pain he had been through seemed only to bring down more suffering upon him?

“He can’t hurt you! He’s chained up in the basement, and he has your chip now!” she blurted out in a desperate rush to explain. “Look!” she took the device from her pocket with trembling fingers and held it up for him to see.

She was utterly, completely unprepared for his reaction.

He flinched back away from the sight of the thing, his wide, startled blue eyes full of such a look of confusion and betrayal that she wanted to cry. And all at once, the impact of the secret she had been keeping, the things she had done, the lies she had told to the people she loved more than anything – all of it came crashing down on her in a moment of clarity and understanding.

“You said…” he began, his voice hurt and accusing. “You told me…” He stopped, shaking his head, disbelieving at the extent of her deceptions, as the realization of just what she had done began to slowly register with him.

Suddenly all the pieces began to fit together…her sudden closeness with Anya, the missing control device and the lies she had told to cover it up, her sneaking out and lying about that as well…

Her dishonesty hurt him, but the way she had thoughtlessly just taken it upon herself to move in and handle for him something that was so intensely personal…not even telling him she was doing it, not even giving him any say in how the situation was to be handled…just moving in and taking over, seizing from his hands control that was rightfully his, that he had just barely managed to get back in the first place… It was worse than hurtful.

It was a violation of his trust.

“I had to,” she argued weakly, pleadingly, tears streaking her face. She knew now, suddenly and completely, how wrong and misguided her actions had been – but she had to make him see why she had thought they were right. “If I’d told you what I was doing you would have tried to stop me…”

Suddenly he was right in her face, his own eyes glittering with angry tears in the moonlight, as he shot back in a voice low and trembling with fury, “Why do you think I would have tried to stop you, Dawn?” Somehow the use of her given name in place of one of his usual endearments stung her. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing here. A bloody *stupid*, dangerous game! And if you keep playing it you’re going to get someone hurt…most likely yourself!”

She was silent, stunned by the truth and the venom in his voice, raised in anger against her as it almost never was. Her eyes dropped to the ground with her tears, in the momentary stillness that followed. She was too ashamed to dare to attempt to argue her point again.

He turned his eyes slowly back toward the crypt, staring at the closed door and thinking of the person beyond it. It hardly seemed real to him; it was taking his mind a little while to process the fact that Warren really was down there, chained and helpless as he had been for so long.

A part of him longed to go down there, to confront his abuser and vent his pain and wrath upon him. But a part of him had not yet accepted the reality of his freedom – the truth that Warren couldn’t hurt him. That same part of him was screaming inside him to run, to flee before he fell back into the hands of the one who had come so close to destroying him completely.

For a long moment he stood there, in a frozen state of indecision, just staring at the crypt door in the unearthly silence that surrounded them, broken only by the sound of the swirling wind around them.

Finally, he slowly turned his head to look back at her, his eyes full of tears that he refused to allow to fall.

“We’re going home now,” he spoke slowly and certainly, his voice low and trembling as he attempted to control the raging flood of emotions just below the surface, fighting to burst forth. “And we’re gonna get this whole soddin’ mess out in the open…get this all straightened out.”

She nodded meekly, fully aware that any word spoken on her part at this moment would not be helpful to what he was dealing with, as he stalked off ahead of her toward the entrance. She followed without a word, without any further protest, as he led her back toward the house.

As he slowly began to calm down, to really comprehend what had just happened, he reminded himself that she had done what she had done for him, out of a misguided concern for his well-being and desire to make right the grievous wrong that had been done to him. His anger began to fade, mingled with a grudging affection for the lengths she had gone to for him, even if it had been in the wrong manner.

Still, he knew that he could not back down this time from the firm stance he had taken with her. She had been lying to him and Buffy, and placing herself in a very dangerous position, not only emotionally but physically as well. He didn’t know how far her vengeance had gone at this point, what condition Warren was in or how careful she had been to conceal her actions.

Had Dawn even considered the implications of what could happen to her if the authorities found out about her holding the young man prisoner in the cemetery? He felt a cold chill sweep through him as he began to wonder how Dawn had intended for the whole thing to end.

Perhaps she had never intended for Warren to have the opportunity to tell the authorities.

It was not that he did not feel that Warren deserved death; in truth, he felt that death would be a merciful punishment for all the horrors he had inflicted upon him. But the thought of sweet, innocent little Dawn carrying out that punishment was horrifying to him. He knew too well the effect that taking a life could have on someone, and shuddered to think how such an act would damage this girl that he loved so dearly.

He simply would not allow her to destroy herself. Warren Meers was not worth that.

When they got back to the house, he determined, they would have a long talk, and he would find out just exactly how far she had taken this thing…and how far he and Buffy would have to go to repair the damage.