Warren was furious with Spike for using the phone, and he was already seriously pissed off from his encounter with the Slayer, though Spike had no way of knowing that. He had immediately taken the phone back and taken out his rage on his slave, beating him savagely with his fists, and finally taking out the control device.

It was the worst he had ever been punished. Warren set the thing higher than he ever had before, and didn’t stop until Spike was barely conscious and unable to move on the living room floor.

The entire time, he kept going on about how stupid, pathetic, worthless he was. Demeaning him, insulting him, reminding him of just how far beneath the human race he was. He mocked him, reminding him that his little conversation had been useless, as he had not known where to tell Dawn to send the Slayer. She might know that he was in trouble, but she had no idea where to find him.

“And her kid sister might have a soft spot for you,” Warren sneered. “Like, you know, a favorite pet that got hit by a car or something.” He paused, laughing derisively. “You look more like it was a train…but I ran into the Slayer tonight, Spike.” His tone was mild, conversational.

By this point, Spike could not even raise his head, but his heart leapt at the words in a combination of fear and hope. He wondered if Buffy was looking for him, but was also afraid for her. Had Warren done something to her?

Warren didn’t volunteer that information, leaving Spike to wonder anxiously how the encounter had gone. “She didn’t even mention you, Spike. Not once. She’s glad you’re out of her life.”

The words hit him like another blow. Warren was right; the cell phone on the floor had given him a deceptive sense of hope – but Buffy would never help him now, even if she could. And there was nothing Dawn could do to help him with the little bit of information he had been able to give her. As Spike pulled himself painfully up, hours later when he could find the strength to move, he thought with a dull sense of despair that he had gone as low as there was to go.

He was wrong.

The lowest point came several days later.

Warren had gone out for the evening. Judging by the way he had prepared for going out, wearing his nicest clothes and wearing cologne, Spike got the impression that he was trying to pick up a girl. He felt nauseated at the thought, wondering if this night would be the night that Warren would choose to carry out his plan.

Apparantly, things did not go well.

Warren came back furious, slamming the door on his way into the house, causing Spike to jump, his eyes darting toward his master with fear. This particular mood of Warren’s never boded well for him.

Of course, that was true of all Warren’s moods.

While Warren stormed about the house, knocking things around, muttering in anger the whole time, things like, “Stupid slut!” and “I’ll kill the little bitch!” Obviously the girl Warren had attempted to pick up had wanted nothing to do with him. Spike just tried to stay out of his way, to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible, hoping against hope that Warren wouldn’t notice his favorite stress reliever, crouched on the floor in the corner of the room.

Although it was all he wanted to do, he knew better than to try to hide himself away somewhere. Not being available if Warren needed him for something was just the sort of excuse Warren would use for beating him senseless. So he just stayed there, at a sort of miserable attention, waiting.

Warren had gone to his room for a few minutes, and when he returned, Spike felt his stomach do an odd little twist. In his hand was his latest favorite toy. It was an expensive hunting knife that he had recently purchased. Objectively speaking, even Spike had to recognize that it was a beautiful piece of work. It had a carved handle of ivory, with intricate patterns engraved into it, and the blade swooped into a upward curve at the tip.

Beautiful…but deadly.

Spike stayed still in the corner, trying to avoid attracting Warren’s attention, keeping his eyes carefully diverted, not wanting to be accused of staring…another of Warren’s punishable offenses.

Warren simply sat there on the sofa, his dark eyes smoldering with fury as he stared at the shiny blade in his hand, turning it slowly as it reflected the glow from the fireplace – the only light in the room at the moment.

Spike could see the hatred and resentment in his face. He had been insulted tonight – rejected by some girl – and to Warren that was unbearable. His controlling, possessive nature would not allow him to tolerate it. He was still muttering to himself occasionally as he sat there staring at the knife in his hand, mostly chilling threats of what he wanted to do to the girl who had unknowingly caused this dangerous mood. As Spike glanced down toward the knife in Warren’s hand, he was stunned and disturbed to see that Warren appeared to be becoming aroused -- by the sight and feel of the weapon, or his violent fantasies, Spike couldn’t tell. Probably the combination of the two.

Suddenly, Warren’s eyes were on him, flames of rage and accusation. He quickly averted his eyes, but it was too late.

“What are you staring at, you little freak?” he demanded. He glanced down, a slow sneer of derision on his face as he realized where Spike had been looking. “Huh? You little faggot! What are you *looking at*?” He practically roared the last two words, his smile fading quickly as ever, as he stood up.

“N-nothing!” Spike whispered, trembling, terrified, not daring to look up again. He had never seen Warren quite like this before, out of control, controlled by his rage at yet another in a lifetime of rejections.

He could feel Warren’s scalding glare on him, though he couldn’t see it, his eyes downcast, breathing hard by now with fear.

“Come here.”

Weighed down by dread, a subconscious part of him already knowing what Warren intended, he slowly rose and obeyed, still not looking up, stopping a few feet in front of where Warren stood.

He could hear the smirk in Warren’s voice as he ordered coldly, “Get on your knees.”

Spike’s eyes shot up to his for just an instant, and the menace he saw there made him quickly drop them again.

“I – I – please…” he stammered, sick with fear. *Oh God, no…no…*

“You need some help?” Warren asked softly, threateningly.

Immediately Spike dropped to his knees in front of him. Warren set the knife down on the sofa beside him and reached to unbutton his pants with one hand, while putting his other hand behind Spike’s head.

Panicked, no doubt in his mind now as to his intentions, Spike pulled back against him, desperate to get away. “Please!” he gasped, his voice almost a sob. “No! Don’t, please!” as he struggled uselessly against the powerful hand that held him. It was the first resistance he had shown in weeks.

Warren was not pleased. In an instant the knife was back in his hand, and before Spike knew what had happened, Warren had slipped the vicious blade between his parted, trembling lips, the curved tip of it pressing painfully against the roof of his mouth.

“Shut up,” Warren ordered, and Spike immediately froze, silent, not daring to move or make a sound, shaking violently in terror.

Enjoying his power, Warren drew his hand just slightly back, forcing Spike to move forward a little with the blade, or have his mouth cut to pieces. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak,” Warren said softly. “And I sure as hell didn’t tell you you could move.”

Spike wanted to apologize, to beg him not to do this, but didn’t dare, couldn’t anyway with the cool blade in his mouth, menacing him so cruelly.

“You’re gonna do what I tell you,” Warren went on, smiling now. “And if you’ve got a problem with that – well…” His voice lowered to a near-whisper as he pressed the blade further, almost to the back of his throat, choking him. “You can suck this instead.” His smile, his tone, were mocking, patronizing, as if he was giving him a genuine option.

Spike shook his head, almost beside himself with fear by this point.

“No? Okay then,” Warren sounded satisfied, as he withdrew the weapon smoothly and quickly, and Spike let out a cry more of fear than of pain, leaning down and covering his mouth with his hand, gasping for breath. He had not been cut too badly, but he could taste the blood in his mouth where the blade had sliced into the top of his mouth on the way out.

Warren grabbed him around the back of the neck, pressing the blade against his lips in an afterthought of a threat, as he added menacingly, “And if you even *think* of biting me, you little faggot slut, I’ll cut those fangs of yours right out of your stupid mouth, do you understand me?”

Spike nodded quickly, desperately, resigning himself to what he was about to be forced to do. And he submitted to the assault, as the sadistic boy rammed himself down his throat again and again, all the while talking to him. His words were as bad as the act itself, as he told him again and again how pathetic he was, good only for this, useless and low, stupid and helpless.

He called him a slut, a whore, a bitch, all insults usually reserved for women, and Spike knew that this was not about him at all, really. It was not even about sex. It was Warren’s attempt at regaining the power he felt had been stolen from him by some random girl at some random bar who had exercised her own power and decided that he was not her type.

But although he knew the words aimed at him were really meant for someone else, every one struck home in his wounded heart. After all, he had heard it all before. He knew it was true. And as the cruel violation went on, another piece of his ravaged heart, his brutalized spirit, was shattered in Warren’s merciless hands.

When it was over, and he knelt there on the floor, trembling, choking back sobs of pain and humiliation, Warren crouched beside him, smiling, forcing him to meet the eyes of his abuser. And he still had the knife, though this time it didn’t touch him. Warren held it just a fraction of an inch away from his face, as he said softly, calmly, “If you ever say a word about this to anyone...” He paused, considering, then shrugged and said, “which means basically, my friends, since they’re the only people you ever see…” His expression hardened as he said, “Everything you’ve been through so far…all my research…every time I’ve ever punished you…this…” He leaned in closer and said in a near-whisper by his ear, “Nothing. It’ll all seem like nothing compared to what I’ll do to you. Am I making myself clear, Spike?”

He nodded, his head down, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs, and Warren got up and simply walked away, leaving him there on his knees on the floor, sobbing in hopeless, desolate misery.


“Buffy, I just don’t get it.” There was definite disapproval in Xander’s voice.

Buffy didn’t quite meet his eyes as she responded. She was sitting beside him on her sofa, surrounded by Dawn and the other Scoobies, who had just been informed of what the Summers sisters had learned.

“Xander…if Warren’s holding him prisoner somewhere…I can’t just leave him there,” she said softly.

“No,” Xander agreed. “You have to stop Warren, I get that. But all Spike deserves from you is to get his ass staked, Buffy!”

Buffy shot him a warning look. As of yet, Xander was still the only one who knew what Spike had done, and she had no intention of telling the others, especially Dawn…who was glaring at Xander with furious eyes.

“How can you say that?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger. “He’s nearly gotten himself killed for Buffy and me more times than we can count! He went through torture for me, Xander! How can you think he doesn’t deserve for us to help him?”

Xander didn’t say anything, not meeting Dawn’s eyes, his mouth working with repressed anger. He wanted to respect Buffy’s wishes about such a personal issue, but found it difficult to take the looks the others were giving him. Dawn was not the only one who thought that they should at least try to help Spike. After all, he *had* done a lot to help them over the last few years.

“Xander, she’s right,” Willow broke in, nodding, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Warren’s a murderer. We can’t just leave Spike there with him!”

“You’re right, Will. Sorry, Dawnie,” he muttered, not saying anything else for a moment. Then he smiled falsely at Buffy and said, “Buff, can I see you in the kitchen for a minute?”

Buffy complied with a weary sigh; she had known it was inevitable.

The moment the kitchen door closed behind them, Xander turned on her, fire in his eyes. “Buffy, after what he did…how can you put yourself at risk for him?”

Still not ready to explain the complex situation to Xander, not sure if she ever would be, Buffy tried to diminish the situation, with a wave of her hand, saying, “What risk? This is *Warren* we’re talking about here!”

“Yeah,” Xander nodded, “and you said he knocked you down in that alley. That he was stronger than normal. So apparently whatever he was on when I had that run-in with him in the bar, he’s still got plenty of it! You ought to be careful about taking him on. And you shouldn’t risk it for *Spike*!” He spat out the word in unmistakable hatred.

“Xander,” Buffy began softly, “you don’t understand.” Ready or not, she had a feeling at least part of the explanation was going to have to come out.

“Yes, I do, Buffy,” he argued, his voice gentler now as he put his hands on her arms in an intimate gesture that he wouldn’t have tried only a couple months before…and Buffy thought nothing of it. “I don’t know what you’re going through,” he clarified, drawing her eyes to his and holding her gaze. “but I know that you’re still feeling to blame, feeling like you’re responsible to save him, somehow. But you’re not, Buffy. You’re not responsible for…”

“I *am* responsible for him, Xander!” Buffy suddenly burst out, pulling away from him, tears shining in her eyes. She paused, trying to gain control of her emotions, before she went on more quietly, her eyes downcast and her tears slipping down her cheeks. “There’s a lot more to the story than what you saw, Xander. There – there was wrong on both our parts…I – I knew he loved me…and I – I hurt him, Xander. I hurt him bad.”

“Doesn’t make it your fault, Buffy,” Xander shook his head again, patient, thinking he knew where she was coming from. “Guys get dumped all the time. That doesn’t make it okay for them to go out and try the caveman approach to getting their girls back. It’s not your fault.”

“Not completely,” Buffy conceded. “But it’s not all his fault, either.” She paused. She knew Xander didn’t agree, but he didn’t say anything else, waiting for her to go on. “We have a lot to work out – me and Spike. A lot to talk about. But – but I can’t just leave him to die, Xander. I have to help him.”

“Personally, Buffy,” Xander said, his voice cooler now, “I don’t think there’s that much to talk about. I think you need to just keep him out of your life. I think this might be a blessing in disguise. But ya know,” he shrugged and turned to leave the room, but not before Buffy saw the anger and hurt in his eyes. “it’s your deal, Buffy. Your decision. And I’m behind you – as always.”

Buffy understood the anger; he was her friend, and had no idea about all the things she had done to Spike before he had ever hurt her once. The hurt she found a little more confusing. It almost looked like Xander was – *jealous*? No, she thought. Couldn’t be.
Xander was like a brother to her; it wouldn’t matter to him who she had feelings for, except in the sense of his wanting to protect her from getting hurt.

She sighed heavily. She didn’t have time to think about it now. She had to find a way to get to Spike. Dawn had been so upset after talking to him on the phone; it sounded like whatever was happening to him was terrible.

She walked purposefully back into the living room to join her friends, and make some plans.