*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.”