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.”