Buffy heard a splash behind her, steam hissing as Xander put the fire out, but it was too late. Water dripped from the bottom of the cot and trickled across the floor, and Buffy sobbed. Spike seemed to shrivel in on himself, the bones appearing under his skin, stark and horrible and emaciated.

Skeletal.

She'd seen Spike nude before, plenty of times, but she'd never seen him look so naked.

"Buffy, what hap – oh, my God," said Xander.

Spike had no spare muscle left, anywhere on him. She could see the tendons surrounding his joints. She could see every bone in his ribcage, see where three of them were broken and misaligned. Could see a kneecap split into two pieces.

God, he'd had broken bones and they'd just been shoving him around like a floppy ragdoll, like it was nothing. Like he couldn't possibly have any injuries underneath the obvious ones.

She was so stupid.

And while she was having a fit of the womanly vapors, Spike was laying there sweating swampy bilge water out of his system and looking more and more like a corpse who'd died of starvation rather than by drowning.

She clenched her hands into fists, shoving the knuckles into her forehead. Deep breaths, Buffy. You can do this. You're not the one who's hurt, here. You're the one who can help. You can…

"Did we do this?" she asked. Had to.

"No," said Xander.

Buffy looked up at him, desperate to believe.

"Look," he said, "Zer Moduz told us that he was caught by something that was making him weaker, right? Something he couldn't fight. You remember when the Initiative got him, that first time he came to Giles' house?"

"He was…" Buffy cast her mind back a few years. "Yeah. I remember. He was thinner then, too. You could see it in his face." She reached over toward Spike, let her hand hover near his cheek. Sharp and fragile-looking as broken glass. Not quite able to make herself touch. "But this… this is so much worse." Looked back up at Xander. "You're really sure?"

"I'm positive," he said. "We'd have to put some effort into it – you know, recite an incantation or something, and, and do things to him – in order to make something like this happen." He nudged the chain, gestured vaguely behind him. "All this – we're taking off what was done to him, Buff. We're making it better."

"God, I hope you're right," she whispered brokenly.

"I'm positive," he said again. Wrapped her in a hug. "We're making it better, Buff. Spike will be okay. We're making it better."

---

Something was changing.

Spike's chest didn't feel as heavy anymore. It almost felt like he could breathe again – he tested it… no. Not yet.

And it wasn't just his chest, either. His limbs, his body… he felt – lighter, somehow. Almost as if he could move.

He tested that, too. Tried to pull at his bonds the way he'd struggled before, when Figg first put them on him. He didn't expect to actually get any motion, not just yet, but… maybe a little tension…

There. Yes. Pretty sure his arms just tightened, the tiniest bit. Pretty sure his fingers moved, a little. The bindings still held him; he was still paralyzed. The effort to move had nearly pushed him under and into unconsciousness, again.

But whatever these new hands were doing, it was definitely helping.

Making things better.

---

Buffy was shaking. She could do this, she kept telling herself. She could do this. She had to. Had to be strong. For Spike.

It had been so long since she'd needed to be strong for the people around her. She hadn't missed it. Had really, really appreciated the chance to just let go and be Buffy instead of "Slayer, The", general of the armies against the apocalypse – version whatever. But in exchange it seemed as if she'd gotten weaker, somehow, in the past year. As if some kind of muscle had atrophied inside her, something that she used to be able to flex whenever she needed to be… grim. Hard and cold and grim.

You know – strong. For other people.

She swallowed, hard, once, twice. Deep breaths. Three times. You can do this, she thought. Spike needs you to do this. You can fall apart – no, really, you can – just later. You can fall apart later. You can do this.

Gradually, she untangled herself from Xander's embrace. Scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Smelled swamp and rot, soaked into her skin. "I'm… mostly okay," she said. "Sorry."

"Oh, don't be an idiot," said Xander gently. "You're not okay, and you shouldn't be. Not looking at this."

Buffy looked up at him in shock. He just shrugged.

"Channeling Anya," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Too much?"

Another laugh he startled out of her. He was getting good at that. "Sounded just like her," she said, sniffling.

"It's true, though," said Xander. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Grimaced, took them back out again. "If it were her? Laying on that cot…" he looked away for a second. "Yeah. You're not supposed to be okay. But you can keep it together for just a little longer, right?" He tipped her chin up, his good eye gazing into both of hers in turn. "Right?"

"Yeah," she said. Closed her eyes for a second, steeling herself to turn back around and look at the man she loved, so wrecked right now. Depending on her. "Yeah, for a little while longer."

She turned around.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Scissors next, for the cord." Xander reached out and pulled them off his workbench, handed them to her. "White, then black, then red," she muttered to herself.

"What was that?" he asked.

"The charm," said Buffy, "from my dream. Remember, I told you each color did something different to him? Part of the charm went 'Red for flesh and blood, black for the demon within, white for the soul he bears'. I need to cut them in a certain order – soul first, then demon, then body. White, then black, then red."

She reached out, slid her scissors under the white cord that now draped loosely across his chest. There was an elaborately tied knot just over his heart.

Cut.

---

Might've spoke too soon.

Helping, he'd thought the hands were… but now he could feel something cold and metallic sliding along his chest. Knife blade, maybe. Flashed back to his concern, faint, that someone had decided to use him for magical spell ingredients, or experiment on his body while he couldn't do anything to fight it.

Distantly he felt his demon stir. Anger, far away. And then the blade moved, and…

Fear! Fear and confusion, worry, love, Buffy, need – get away make it stop what where why

He was afraid. God, he was terrified. What were they doing to him? Where had they taken him? He couldn't see, needed to see, at least that, let them see, let him go and make the whole thing stop, mercy, he was scared, what they wanted, they were getting it, couldn't they tell that much? Did they have to hurt him to get it? Figg – was this part of his spell, squeeze his emotions to get the last of his strength before he – before – he didn't want to die. Not yet. Not when he knew where he was headed.

Not when he hadn't answered Buffy's call for help. She needs you. Go to her.

Let go, he needed to go, get out, get away… Buffy…

Let us go!

---

"Here, lift his arms up for me," said Buffy, "careful, careful – go easy… there." As gently as she could, she worked the white cord up past Spike's shoulders, lifting him the barest amount possible so as not to disturb his ribs any further. She slid it out from behind his neck and handed it to Xander.

Settled his bony arms back in place, just letting his wrists rest on her palms. She was scared to grip something that looked so fragile. Like trying to handle bird bones.

"Should I try and get the grill started again?" he asked.

Buffy bit her lip. "I wasn't sure if we should try and untie the knot first, or just light it up. Your call – or, you know, you could get your friend on the phone. Cathy, right?"

"Yeah," said Xander. Glancing away for just an instant. Uh-huh.

"You'll have to tell me what's the what and how long you've been dating, once we're done here," said Buffy.

"We're not – hey! I mean, what? I – how did you –" Xander stopped. "Okay. We haven't actually started going out yet. Just coffee and conversation at work. Professional," he insisted when Buffy raised an eyebrow at him. "And so not relevant right now."

"Sorry," said Buffy. "Needed the break."

"I figured," he replied, "but let's save my love life or total lack thereof for entertainment some other evening, all right?." He tossed the cord into the grill and held his lighter to it. "This thing is soaked, Buff. Doesn't want to burn."

"Keep at it," she said. Distracted as she slid the scissors under the black cord near his shoulder.

Cut.

---

Rage.

Ah, lovely wrath, how we've missed you.

Spike's demon surged forward, free of the worst of its constraints, flinging itself at the remainder of the spell. Only the magic and his soul kept it in check. How dare they keep him in here, caged like a beast? How dare Figg try to steal what belonged to Spike?

Well, no. Actually the greed part he understood perfectly.

There's a reason vampires can't touch holy things. Demons are all about the seven deadlies, they are. Greed, gluttony, pride… oh, sweet wrath… envy… lovely, luscious, lascivious lust…

Humans call them sins. Demons call them a way of life. Spike tended to call them a good weekend.

Never was much for sloth, though, come to think of it. Tended to get in the way of a good time.

Demons, vampires' demons anyway, are all about appetites. And Spike's demon had been forced to lie still like a good dog for far too long now. He threw himself against the barriers again. Tried to go into game face and couldn't. He was hungry, and horny, and very, very angry at what had been done to him.

He wanted food. Blood, and lots of it. He wanted to rip some young thing's throat out and pour her life's blood down his gullet until she was dry, then do it again, and again until he could take no more, and then do it one more time just because he could.

He wanted sex. Wanted to feel his body under his own sodding control again, feel it respond to his commands, feel some other beauty respond to him too. Play her like a violin and see how high a note she could hit.

'Course, he was exhausted enough and weak enough right now that sloth was beginning to have some appeal after all.

He wanted… wanted Buffy.

Wanted to go to her. Wanted to lay in her arms and sleep, all his appetites sated, his anger appeased, and let his guard drop. A predator knowing he was safe from petty scavengers and carrion eaters, taking pleasure in comfort. Give in to this exhaustion, this deadly weakness, knowing she would watch over him while he slept (can we rest now, Buffy?).

Wanted her. Just her, and sod the rest of it. He'd be her good dog, give it all up, if it meant he could have her. Just to be near her again. Go to her. She needs you.

His demon stirred again, weakly, but still fully present at last. Still angry.

Let us out.

---