Two months later

The cuts carved through his flesh straight down to the bone. Bright red skin peeled away to expose veins with ragged edges. His inner forearms were shredded to soggy bits.

"See? Down, not across, Spike," Angel said.

He slipped his heavy leather coat on in preparation to leave. Spike remained silently shaking in the corner. He'd thought his body had reached its limits weeks ago, but somehow Angel kept stringing him along. Every moment of seemingly generous appeasement was followed by an even more rigorous round of cruelty. That's what Angel did best, after all: The prolonged torture. Spike should have known that Angel would grant him no reprieve.

"I know why you accepted the claim, you know. You hoped that I would let you die. But I'm not gonna make it that easy for you, William. You go after my girl, you step out of line, you will pay for it. Got it?"

Spike closed his eyes. Too much input. His brain couldn't process everything fast enough. It was like the world dragged through molasses, and he couldn't figure a way to keep up.

"Enjoy the quiet," Angel said as he walked to the door. "Oh wait." He flipped the switch on the wall and entered his key code afterward. The loud siren began to howl, and the lights strobed. The familiar irritants. "That's better."

Angel left.

Spike hadn't slept in over a month.

* * * * *

Angel hadn't been able to avoid getting blood on his shirtsleeves. In a pinch, though, his jacket would hide the stains. Wouldn't do to look unprofessional while at work.

The heavy door to the restricted area shut and lock automatically behind him. Angel continued to the lobby and paused at Harmony's desk.
Dawn and that redhead slayer were still there, as they had been for the past two months. They'd take turns going out to get food or take showers, but they remained camped out in his lobby. He knew it was a clear message from Buffy: She planned to rescue Spike. In the meantime, she'd send Dawn and the slayer with the silly hats to keep an eye on him.

Fine. He'd hoped to settle into a more friendly relationship with Buffy, but her hysterical reaction to Spike's condition made that impossible. He'd done what he had to initially to keep Spike in his place. But this wasn't about Spike anymore. No, it was about Buffy. She hadn't understood at all about why he had sold Spike - for her. She was angry at him for it. If she was going to be like that, he might as well give her a reason to be angry. Since Spike is apparently so precious to her, he'd keep him.

Harmony finished with her phone call. "Oh, boss, Malcolm faxed over that information you wanted about Developmental Control in England." She held up a manilla folder. "Do you still want me to contact the London Branch?"

Angel nodded. He took the folder from Harmony and set it to the side. He'd get one of his people to look at it. He didn't need to bother with that sort of minutiae. There were better ways of applying his time.

With a smile, Angel approached the two squatters. "Dawn," he said.

Dawn looked up from her laptop, her fingers poised above the keys. The slayer beside her straightened up.

"Got something for you to pass on to Buffy." He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the polaroid he'd taken. He tossed it onto her laptop's keyboard, chuckling as her wide eyes fastened to it.

"Keep up the good work," he said to the slayer.

As he walked away, he smirked. Much better use of his time.

* * * * *

"Oh! Oh..." Vi stared at the photo over Dawn's shoulder.

Dawn's gaze remained fixed on the small picture of the brutalized Spike. She knew Angel was attempting to amp up the psychological torture - something he excelled at, soul or no.

"You don't have to actually pass it on to Buffy," Vi said.

Dawn shook her head. "She needs to know." Dawn began pulling up the camera in her phone. "Maybe it'll prod her into doing something."

* * * * *

"Buffy, you can't actually want to do this." Giles took off his glasses in that familiar gesture of frustration.

Buffy crossed her arms in response. Giles had arrived back from his trip 'round the world not two hours ago, and he'd already - despite Buffy's wishes - been filled in on recent events. Of course, this necessitated a "talk", which seemed to have the sole effect of distracting Buffy from her plans.

"It's not that I want to do this, Giles. But I'm not going to leave Spike with Angel, and this is the only way to help him."

"Have you considered that it might be more merciful to - "

"No." Buffy cut him off. "I'm not killing Spike. That's final."

Giles returned his glasses to their rightful place and sat down in the desk chair across from Buffy. He looked tired as he began to roll his sleeves down to ward off the chill of the castle. "This is very dangerous."

"Kinda in my job description."

"And you'd be leaving your post for who knows how long - "

"Giles, plenty of other slayers now. Having me out of commission temporarily isn't gonna tip the balance."

He sighed. "Tell me more about this plan."

Knowing that she had her foot in the door, Buffy relaxed. She sat down and leaned forward. "Willow said it's kinda like the mind thingy she did with me when Glory had taken Dawn. Just, over a distance, and with Spike.

"Going into Spike's mind would be..." he trailed off.

"Horrifying? Yeah, I know."

"And then, you'll be...hunting down Angel or...?"

"Locating Angel's claim and removing it. Willow says that it'll manifest in some dreamlike way. Probably a fight or maybe something wonky. Whatever. Once I have that done, we can send the slayers in to extract Spike."

"And you'll be here."

"Far, far away from Angel. I don't trust him not to do something to take me out while the spell's on."

Giles rubbed his forehead. "And how will you form the connection between yourself and Spike? You're on different continents."

Buffy's phone vibrated in her pocket. She raised a finger to Giles and retrieved it, flipping it open. Her stomach dropped when she saw the hastily photographed polaroid Dawn had sent her. The quality was blurred and off-center and the image was small, but she could tell that it consisted of Spike and a lot of blood. Two months had been too long. She had to get to him now.

Distracted by the picture, Buffy attempted to resume her discussion with Giles. "Um...Willow said she'd be able to do the linky thing if I had something of Spike's in my possession. We got it covered."

"What do you have of Spike's?"

Eyes still fixed to her cellphone display, Buffy's free hand traveled to her neck. Her fingers ghosted over the scarred bite wound. "He left me something while he was here."

* * * * *

The frigid floor tiles were smeared with Spike's dried blood. He drew his knees up to his chest, trying to keep his focus on the bloody whorl of a painting on the floor. Smatterings of deep red punctuated the canvas, each connected by streaks of crimson. His entire torture laid out on industrial tile.

Buffy was in front of him.

She laid on her back, head closest to him. She tilted her face up to peer at him upside-down. She wore a sheer sundress - something Spike couldn't remember her actually wearing before.

The incessant strobe of the light didn't fall against her. She remained constantly illuminated while the background of bloody masterpieces faded and reappeared around her. Likewise, the sound of her voice was unimpeded by the pealing sirens.

"Don't take it personally."

Of course she wasn't real. He'd seen so many of these hallucinations now, he almost couldn't keep track. His mind moved at glacial speed, only able to process the tiniest amount of input. Still, he managed to keep a steady undercurrent in his head: Not real. Not real. Not real.

The apparition turned over and propped herself up on her elbows. The neckline of her dress dipped to the scarlet floor, tantalizing him with the anticipation of flesh. She tilted her head to the side.

"I just can't let myself be tied to a thing."

A sob escaped Spike. He put his head down, hoping she'd go away.

No luck. Her presence manifested beside him. Her lips were at his ear.

"I'm too good for that."

He lashed out with a growl, punching blindly at where she should be. There was nothing, of course. His swing tore at the wounds on his arm, yanking the skin apart from the scabs. New blood dripped to decorate the art project beneath him.

Spike curled inward again. Better not to move. Wounds everywhere that were in danger of being opened.