“I trust you’ve slept well?” The Watcher spoke with a calm, cultured tone that was painfully familiar, though the years and experiences that had passed for Spike made it sound somehow foreign and unsettling as well. “How are you feeling?”

Spike simply looked at him blankly for a long moment, hardly able to imagine how he might answer such a question.

“Hungry?” he replied finally, his voice hoarse and uncertain. It was the only thing he felt at the moment that he would dream of sharing with Giles.

The Watcher smiled tolerantly with a brief nod. “We will see that you get some blood right away. You’ve been asleep for…well, for several days now.”

Spike studied the Watcher’s guarded expression with increasing perception, as the memories came back to him, and his eyes narrowed as he flatly observed, “Not without some assistance, I take it. Yeah?”

His own voice sounded strange to him, like this, in normal conversation. Speaking without seeking permission first was a strange thing to him now, and a part of him still feared punishment for doing so -- a rather large, strong part of him. But, subconsciously, he also recognized that to show such irrational fear to the Watcher would reveal something of the horrors and humiliations he had experienced, and the last person he wanted to know of the things that Siron had done to him was this man, who had often been his enemy, and never his friend.

Well -- not quite the *last* person. But close.

Giles acknowledged his words with a nod and a vaguely apologetic smile. “The girls -- the Slayers -- are not accustomed to the concept of a vampire who is not the enemy. They could not tolerate your presence unless you were sedated. Then, of course, there was the trip by air, during which we had no recourse but to send you crated in the cargo hold. And we rather thought you’d not handle it well if you happened to awaken in such a state.”

Spike said nothing, looking away, though he had to admit the logic of Giles’ reasoning.

“So what happened exactly?” Giles asked quietly, a note of mild curiosity in his voice. “We heard about the battle between Wolfram and Hart, and Angel’s group, but we were told that there were no survivors on Angel’s side.”

*There *weren’t* any survivors.*

“Well, you can see that wasn’t true.”

Spike’s voice was low, humble, and he knew it was nothing resembling the way he used to speak, but he simply couldn’t help it. The confidence that had once characterized every facet of his outward persona was gone, and he was not sure that he could ever get it back.

In fact, he was quite sure that he could not.

“Obviously,” Giles conceded with a smile. “I’m -- quite curious as to how you managed to survive such tremendous odds against you. Would you mind telling me about it?”

*Yes, *yes*, I mind! You can’t know! I won’t ever tell you, so *don’t* ask me! I can’t let anyone know…*

“Yeah,” Spike murmured, his eyes downcast, focused on the sheet he was slowly folding and unfolding between his fingers. “Yeah, all right.”

He realized suddenly with a sick sensation of mingled shame and panic that, when he had been found, he had still been wearing the horrible little slave’s costume that Siron had forced him to wear. They had to know already; they all had to know his shameful secret! He couldn’t look up at the Watcher, couldn’t speak, his throat constricting with a mixture of fear and humiliation.

Gradually, as his body shifted uncomfortably beneath the bedding, Spike realized that the feeling was different than it had been in the slave’s clothes he had worn. Shifting the sheet back slightly, he saw the top of a pair of dark jeans that someone had thoughtfully put on him at some point during his unconsciousness.

He didn’t know whether that development made the situation better or worse.

He knew that Melinda and the other Slayers had seen him in the other clothes, and Andrew as well, if his memory served him correctly, but how long had he been dressed, and how much information had been passed around in the days of his unconsciousness -- and how much of it was even true at this point?

How much did Giles know?

“Spike?” The Watcher’s unusually gentle voice drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked up from the bed to Giles, a startled expression on his face.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I -- I was -- what were we talking about?”

“The battle,” Giles reminded him patiently.

“Right,” Spike repeated flatly, trying to pierce through the fog of confusion and fear that still shrouded his thoughts. “The -- the battle…”

It felt like a lifetime ago.

“There were -- more demons than I could count. More than I’d ever seen in my bloody life. There was -- a dragon…”

Spike found that the memories of the battle came with difficulty, and he struggled to remember the details -- and then gave up. Between the traces of the sedative still in his system, and his own reluctance to think about the things afterwards that he *could* remember, he found it impossible.

“They all died,” he stated. “It was just -- just too many of them. We couldn’t…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head slowly.

“Except you,” Giles persisted softly.

Spike swallowed hard, closing his eyes against the flood of images that filled his mind, only to find that they found him more easily with his eyes closed.

“Yeah. I was -- was taken prisoner.”

“By Siron.”

Spike couldn’t help his flinch at the sound of his former master’s name. “Yeah,” he whispered.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Spike,” Giles sighed heavily. “Why would Siron kill all the others and spare you? Do you know?”

“*Why*?” Spike gave him a lost, uncertain look, looking away very quickly before the perceptive Watcher could read too much in his haunted eyes.

“Why,” Giles echoed. “Why he spared you.”

Spike swallowed hard, fighting back a sob. He couldn’t, *couldn’t* let Giles know.

But -- did he know already?

“He -- he made me a slave,” he admitted in a low voice, his gaze locked onto the sheet between his fingertips once more. “I -- I don’t know why…but…”

“Hmm.”

Spike looked up at the Watcher’s soft sound of surprise. “What?” he asked defensively.

Giles shook his head. “I just -- I’m sorry. It just surprises me to think that you could be made to serve as a slave under any conditions, Spike. You have always appeared to me as the type who would fight and die before he would allow himself to be enslaved.”

“I *did* fight,” Spike insisted, his voice trembling and rising slightly in desperation. “I fought him as long as I -- I mean…” He hesitated, quickly breaking eye contact with Giles again, alarmed by the growing understanding in the Watcher’s sympathetic eyes. “I fought,” he repeated in a voice of quiet, intense emotion. “I did.”

Giles was silent for a moment before asking softly, “What did he do to you, Spike?”

Spike felt his body shaking with the effort to repress the truth of what had happened to him as he forced a calm, casual tone, shrugging weakly.

“The usual for the breaking of slaves. Torture, beatings -- nothing I hadn’t been through before. Psychotic hellgod, Angelus -- remember?”

“Odd, then,” Giles responded, his tone mild and disarming, yet piercing and persistent, “that it’s effect on you was so -- extreme. What made the difference? What caused you to yield under the same torture you’d endured before without breaking?”

Spike felt his face flush with shame, and he blinked back tears of humiliation, as he swallowed back a sob. “It’s -- it’s that obvious. That he -- he broke me,” he whispered, his tone hollow and haunted, the words a statement of fact rather than a question of the Watcher’s opinion.

Giles was tactfully silent, but Spike already knew the truth.

The Watcher cleared his throat before finally breaking the silence. “Yes, well, I’m certain that it took quite cruel and heinous tactics to -- to break you. More -- personal, and invasive -- than you’ve disclosed to me thus far. Am I correct in that assumption, Spike?”

Spike could not hold back his tears by now. His head bowed, he nodded silently, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I can understand your shame, Spike,” Giles went on after a few moments, his tone mild and compassionate. “God knows I would be ashamed as well, in your position.”

Spike looked up at him, startled by the words, before his gaze was driven downward again by the pitying knowledge in the Watcher’s eyes.

“Of course,” Giles added, almost as an afterthought, “it *was* a terrible ordeal, I’m sure. I’m certain that many others would have broken just as easily.”

Spike flinched at the last word, certain that it was not intended to be hurtful, but shamed by its use just the same.

*It wasn’t easy,* he insisted desperately in his mind. *I tried. I tried so hard! It wasn’t ‘easily’ at all -- was it? Am I just a pathetic little ponce who couldn’t take it? If I’d been stronger…if I’d fought harder…?*

“I’m assuming you’ll want me to contact Buffy right away?”

The Slayer’s name drew Spike’s thoughts momentarily away from his ordeal, and he looked up at the Watcher sharply, a bit lost. “What did you say?” he asked in a hushed, apprehensive tone of voice.

“I’ll call Buffy for you, let her know what’s happened. She’s been terribly busy in Rome, with the new Slayers there, but I’m certain that when she becomes aware of the fact that you’re alive, and of what’s happened to you, she’ll be quite sympathetic and eager to help you, Spike…”

“*No*!” the vampire objected forcefully, almost frantically. “No, I -- I don’t want her to…don’t call Buffy.”

Giles raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, studying Spike’s expression for a long moment before remarking quietly, “I would think that you would want very badly to see her, Spike. Of course, it would be difficult for her to accept what’s -- happened to you. And I know you’re aware that I’ve never supported your relationship with Buffy. But after what you’ve been through, Spike, I will not stand in your way if you wish to seek out her support. I’m sure in time she’ll be able to get past…”

“*No*.”

The Watcher fell silent, waiting for the vampire to go on.

“I -- I don’t want her to know. I couldn’t -- couldn’t take that. Please.” Spike turned desperate, anguished eyes on Giles. “Please don’t tell her. Just let her go on thinking I’m dead. Thinking I -- I died a -- a hero. Please.”

The Watcher reached out a gentle hand to rest on the vampire’s shaking shoulder, and Spike felt his sobs rising up in him again at the sympathetic touch.

“You *were* a hero, Spike,” he reassured him quietly. “Whatever has happened to you now -- whatever you’ve become -- cannot change that now.”

Spike knew that Giles was trying to be supportive and reassuring, but his words only served to make him feel worse, to remind him of what had once been -- and all that he had lost.

“What do you want, Spike?” Giles asked him after a moment. “What can I do to help you?”

“I want to get out of here,” Spike replied without hesitation, his voice hoarse with tears, barely over a whisper. “Please -- I just want to -- to go away…”

Giles nodded slowly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand. “I’ll help you, Spike,” he stated. “Your physical injuries have almost completely healed. You should be able to travel whenever you are ready to do so. There are many places besides L.A. and London -- places where you’re not known -- where you can escape the past, and still do a great amount of good.”

Spike nodded without looking at him, his distant haunted gaze focused downward again. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Please. I’d -- I’d like that.”

After a moment, Giles replied with a nod, “I’ll make some calls. I should be able to make some arrangements for you by the end of the day.” As he spoke, he rose and moved toward the door.

“Giles,” Spike stopped him, and the Watcher turned to look at him expectantly. “I -- I’m not sure I’m ready yet -- to fight again. Might -- might take a while. What I really want right now, it to just -- just…”

“Just what, Spike?” Giles gently pressed him, a concerned frown creasing his brow.

Spike was silent for a moment, before the word fell from his lips in an anguished, desolate whisper.

“*Disappear*.”

Giles studied his expression, his own face softening with compassion. “Don’t worry, Spike,” he assured him quietly. “That can be arranged.”

************************************

Andrew made his way down the hallway toward Spike’s room, wanting to look in on his friend and see if he had awakened yet. The powerful sedatives they had used to make his flight more comfortable had yet to wear off, and Andrew’s own flight back to L.A. to supervise the Slayers in the clean-up following Siron’s defeat was scheduled for that night.

He would be returning to London within a few days, if all went according to plan, but he still wanted to see his friend before he left, to offer his support. Spike could use all the support he could get right now, of that much Andrew was sure.

As soon as they had arrived at Council headquarters, the staff physicians, skilled in dealing with the supernatural, had examined Spike thoroughly -- and the nature of many of his injuries had left Andrew horrified. He had been grateful for his friend’s sake that he had been unconscious throughout the exam, and had made sure as soon as it was finished that the wretched, insulting clothes he had been wearing were thrown out and replaced with clean, comfortable jeans. Spike’s chest had still been too badly injured -- from multiple recent beatings, apparently -- to be covered, for the time being.

As he neared the door to Spike’s room, Andrew began to feel nervous. What exactly did one say to comfort a friend who had been raped and tortured and treated as a slave? How could he express his sympathy, his concern, without further humiliating the ex-Big Bad vampire, the one who had been his hero for the past three years?

He was both relieved and disappointed to find Spike still and silent, lying down in the bed. His back was facing the door, so Andrew could not see his face, but he appeared to be asleep.

With a regretful sigh, Andrew turned and made his way back down the hall.

He slowed down as he neared Giles’ office, wanting to speak with the new head of the Council, who had been keeping watch over the invalid vampire for the past few hours. Perhaps Spike had awakened already and had simply gone back to a much more natural, non-drug-induced sleep.

As he reached the door, Andrew saw that it was open a crack, and the light inside was on. He paused before opening it the rest of the way, when he heard Giles’ quiet voice inside. He was apparently on the phone, so Andrew waited politely outside for him to hang up before entering.

He wasn’t trying to listen in -- he really wasn’t.

But the hall was quiet, and the door was cracked, and Mr. Giles’ voice just carried through it, clear and quiet, yet plainly audible.

“Yes, he’s just regained consciousness. He’s not very strong at the moment, hasn’t fed in a couple of days, but he’s awake. You can come for him whenever you’re able -- the sooner the better.”

Andrew found his interest piqued by those words and smiled. It sounded as if Buffy would be making a trip to London soon.

“Yes, I’m quite certain, you stupid git!” The Watcher’s voice sounded irritable and exasperated as he spoke again, and Andrew’s smile faded. It did not sound as if he was talking to his Slayer. “I’ve spent nearly six unfortunate years with the creature. I would think I should know. I assure you. We are speaking of William the Bloody.”

Andrew felt a sick sensation beginning low in his stomach, and found himself nervously listening more closely to the conversation. Who was Mr. Giles talking to?

“I assure you that he will be no trouble whatsoever. He’s been quite thoroughly -- broken, recently, and quite frankly, I don’t believe he has the strength of will left to resist.”

Andrew was feeling worse with every word. Whomever Giles was talking to, whatever he was planning, it did not sound particularly good for Spike.

“No, she believes him to be dead in the recent battle with Wolfram and Hart, as did we. As it turns out, he was merely captured and enslaved. Yes, by a rather brutal demon general, as I understand, who seems to have done your work for you. He’ll be coming to you already trained and unresisting to whatever his lot might be.”

“What lot?” Andrew whispered under his breath, almost frantic. “What is he *doing*?”

“How soon can you be here? I’d very much like to have him out of my life for good. Yes, of course, hers too. Naturally. The farther he is from Buffy, the better I will feel.” Giles’ voice was filled with disgust and resentment, and Andrew thought that he had never heard it sound quite so ugly -- except perhaps once before.

*He’s tried to hurt Spike before,* he reminded himself uneasily. *For Buffy’s good, he thought. Is that what he’s doing now? Trying to keep Spike out of her life? Surely he wouldn’t do anything to really *hurt* him -- would he? Not after everything that’s happened? Not after all Spike’s already been through, after he sacrificed himself to save the world?*

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon, Ethan.”

The click of the receiver being set down sounded impossibly loud in the sudden stillness of the hallway, and Andrew stumbled backward in his haste to get away before Giles caught him eavesdropping, catching himself against the wall on the opposite side of the hall, before he could fall and make a noise to betray his presence.

Hurriedly regaining his balance, he quickly moved down the hall and into an alcove, leaning against the wall and trying to catch his breath.

*Mr. Giles wouldn’t -- he wouldn’t do anything like…*

He swore he could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest as he heard Giles locking his office door and hoped desperately that he would go the opposite direction down the hall.

He breathed a very quiet sigh of relief as he heard the older man’s slow footsteps going back in the direction of Spike’s room. His heart sank at that thought, and Andrew leaned his head forward into his hands, trying to compose his thoughts, to make sense of what he had heard. Only one thought seemed to continue to run through his mind again and again.

*What am I going to do?*