Spike just stared at her for a long moment as the impact of what she had just said hit him. After so long under the cruel control of someone else, powerless to make even the smallest change in his situation, he couldn’t make the concept of having that much power seem real to him.

Vengeance.

To think that with a simple wish, he could make Warren pay for the last five months of hell he had put him through! But – with what consequences?

*You deserved it…he’ll find you if you do it…he’ll make you pay for it…* His doubts and fears circled around in his mind, warning him away from taking the opportunity she was offering.

“No, thanks, pet,” he sighed wearily, trying to keep his voice casual. “I’ve seen how your wishes usually turn out, and I think I’d rather not.”

“The problem with a lot of wishes is that people are too vague about what they want,” Anya dismissed his excuse with a wave of her hand. “You’d just need to be very specific about exactly what you want to happen to whoever hurt you.”

“I don’t know, Anya.” His eyes were uncertain as he looked at her, then away quickly before she could read too much of the emotions in his eyes. “I – I wouldn’t even know what to wish for, really. I could wish him dead, but – but that wouldn’t really change anything that’s happened, would it?”

“Spike,” Anya cut him off, but her voice was kind. “You don’t have to be afraid of him.”

Spike immediately dropped his eyes, ashamed that his fear was so obvious, that she had been able to read him so easily. “I – I’m not,” he argued quietly, pointlessly, he knew. The words sounded hollow, empty, and he knew she did not believe him.

“If you want it, you can make him pay for what he did to you, and do it in a way so that there’s no chance he could ever hurt you again,” Anya pointed out, thoughtfully ignoring his obvious lie.

“I – I don’t know,” he stammered weakly. He knew in his head that she was right, that he could wish Warren dead in whatever bloody, painful way he desired if he chose, and be rid of the fear of him forever.

But would he be, really? Because his heart wasn’t getting the same message. There was a part of him that was still terrified of brutal retribution even for escaping Warren in the first place. If he should dare to actually strike out against the one who had all but destroyed him before…

He knew it was irrational, that Warren would not be able to touch him again if he made the right wish, but the consistent lesson that had been mercilessly imprinted in his mind – that resistance, defiance, disobedience, could only result in suffering – was so powerful.

Anya was silent for a moment, watching him with serious eyes. “My God, Spike,” she said softly. “What did he do to you?”

His head bowed lower as his tears began to escape again, and he silently derided himself again for his weakness. “It’d be easier to tell you what he didn’t do, love,” he replied finally, his voice low and thick with tears. “Can’t think of anything you could do to him that would begin to make up for it.”

“Maybe I could help you come up with something…appropriate,” Anya suggested, then added softly. “*Try* to tell me. Maybe it’ll help. What happened?”

*Nothing can help. Ever.*

Spike took a deep, shaky breath, still staring down at the couch between them, picking at it nervously as he tried to find the words to describe what had been done to him.

“Got taken prisoner. The boy’s some sort of computer genius, figured out how to make my chip fire whenever he bloody wanted it to. Made me his – his slave.” The words were spoken just barely above a whisper. “For the past five months.”

Gently, Anya touched his scarred, bruised arm. “He did all this?” she asked, moving her hand to gesture upward toward his battered face.

Spike nodded without looking up. “I’m such a soddin’ idiot,” he spoke in a tone of bitter self-loathing. “Was always doing stupid things, getting myself beat, or – or worse. He told me I wasn’t to speak, wasn’t even to move half the time, ‘less he allowed it.” He paused, taking in a deep shaky breath before letting it out in a sigh. “Never was too good at taking orders. Brought a lot of suffering on myself.”

Anya was silent for a moment, taking in what he was telling her. Then she said softly, “There’s more. Isn’t there?”

“What more could there be?” There was a fearful note in his defensive voice.

“Spike,” Anya began, choosing her words cautiously. “I’ve spent over a thousand years literally listening to the pain of all kinds of people, who’ve been done all kinds of wrong. I know what the cries of a battered wife sound like; I know when I hear a parent who’s lost their child to a violent crime. Every type of pain has its own specific sound.”

She paused, then added gently, “I heard it, Spike. That sort of thing,” and for him there was no mistaking what “sort of thing” she was referring to, “that’s a – a different kind of pain, Spike. There’s nothing else that sounds like that.”

His throat was constricted with overwhelming emotion, and his shame was like a physical weight, preventing him from lifting his head, driving his shoulders down in a defeated, humiliated slump.

Anya could almost physically feel his pain, a tangible presence in the room with them. She had never been very good at dealing with human emotions, her own or those of others. But the agony Spike had been through, was still going through, tore at her heart. Instinctively she reached out and took his hand, encouraging him with her wordless support.

“I couldn’t stop him,” the plea for her understanding came out in a sob. “He – he…I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t…”

“I know,” Anya replied simply.

“Please,” he begged her brokenly. “Please don’t tell them! They don’t know! I couldn’t – I couldn’t bear it if they did!”

“Of course I won’t,” Anya assured him. “This is just between us, I won’t say a word.” She waited a moment, before adding gently, “It wasn’t your fault. He controlled your chip, so you were helpless against him, Spike. But you can have *him* at *your* mercy, if you want to. All you’ve got to do is wish it.”

He thought about it for a moment, before shaking his head sadly, wistfully. “I can’t. I don’t even know what I’d wish for, love. And – and nothing I could ask could ever make it right again. It’s done.” He hesitated for a moment, before looking up at her hopefully through tearful eyes. “Could I – can I wish it’d never happened? Can I wish to go back?”

Anya gave an apologetic grimace. “No. It doesn’t really work that way. That kind of wish wouldn’t really hurt him in any way, so it’s not technically vengeance. And – if you go back,” she hesitated, not wanting to upset him any further. “there’s no guarantee it wouldn’t all just…happen again.”

He shuddered at the very thought.

“It has to be something that would punish him for what he did.”

He didn’t speak for a few moments, overwhelmed by all she was telling him. “I don’t know,” he replied finally in a soft voice full of pain and confusion. Reliving the memory of what had been done to him, knowing that Anya knew about it, felt like going through it all over again. “I don’t know what to say, Anya.” He shook his head helplessly.

Anya felt equally helpless, not knowing how to help him. She squeezed his hand gently. “I’m gonna stay around town for a while, Spike. So if you need time to think about it…to decide what you want to do…that’s fine, I’ll be here. You can just let me know later. All you have to do is call, and I’ll hear you and come. Okay?”

He nodded, sniffing back tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” she said firmly as she stood, still holding his hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Spike. You’re not the one who did wrong, here.” She released his hand and headed toward the stairs to get the girls, calling back over her shoulder, “I’m here if you need me.”

*Nothing to be sorry for?* he thought with miserable disbelief at the painful irony. *I’m just glad she’s not here for vengeance for Buffy! If she only knew what I’d done…she wouldn’t want to help me at all!*


Anya felt discouraged by the whole encounter as she climbed the stairs. She should have known from the desperate nature of the cries she had heard that he would be broken, but she had not expected his self-worth and sense of pride to be so utterly shattered that he was unable even to wish for the suffering due his tormentor. Maybe in time, she hoped, he would come to see himself as deserving of vengeance.

“Anya!” Dawn’s voice hissed from right beside her as she reached the top of the stairs.

Never mind the fact that she was a millennium-old vengeance demon and Dawn was only a teenage girl; Anya nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Dawn!” she yelped. “You…”

“Shhh!” Dawn whispered, taking her arm and pulling her toward her room, glancing anxiously down the stairs.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Dawn turned to face her, bracing her back against the door. There was a determination in her eyes that won a little bit of the older woman’s respect. This was not a mere child she was dealing with, Anya realized.

“I need to talk to you, Anya,” Dawn said firmly, meeting her gaze. “Or should I say Anyanka,” she added pointedly, her eyebrows raised challengingly.

Anya felt a little nervous. “Hey! How did you know that? Is it that obvious?” she asked, glancing toward the door as if she thought the Slayer might have heard, even though she was nowhere in sight.

“No,” Dawn admitted with a shrug and a sheepish half-smile. “Never underestimate the power of eavesdropping.”

Anya’s eyes widened. “You were listening to us?”

Dawn nodded, her expression serious and troubled…and not a little angry.

“How – how much did you hear?” Anya asked her, slowly, cautiously.

“Pretty much – well, pretty much everything,” Dawn admitted.

“Look, I’m not trying to cause any trouble while I’m here in town,” Anya began defensively, holding up her hands and shaking her head a little. “I’m only here for Spike because we’re old friends and I think he deserves a little justice for what he’s been through. But if Buffy’s gonna have a problem with this, I can leave, it’s no problem, I just…”

“Buffy’s not gonna know about it, unless you or Spike tell her,” Dawn cut in, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because I’m not saying a word.”

She didn’t say anything else for a moment, and Anya began to understand. “What do you want?” she asked the girl.

Dawn glanced down for a moment before meeting Anya’s eyes unflinchingly, barely bridled fury in her green eyes. “Did I understand that conversation correctly? Did Warren do what I think he did to Spike?”

“*Warren*? Geek Warren? *That’s* who did that to him?” Anya asked incredulously. “Because I never would have thought he could have pulled off something like that, and…”

“Anya.”

Anya sighed heavily, realizing her avoidance of the actual question had been easily seen through. “Maybe you should ask him,” she said quietly. “I think that’s his business.”

Dawn heard the truth in what Anya didn’t say. She nodded slowly, accepting it, the flames of rage in her eyes growing stronger.

“And he wouldn’t wish anything on him? Wouldn’t wish for vengeance?”

Anya shook her head slowly, still meeting Dawn’s eyes.

Dawn was silent for a moment before she said coldly, “Warren Meers deserves to die. Slowly and painfully, and knowing every second that it’s because of what he did to Spike.”

Anya nodded, a slow smile beginning at the corners of her mouth. “I couldn’t agree more,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “Did you have something particular in mind? Because Spike doesn’t have to necessarily make the wish himself.”

Dawn did not reply for a moment. Finally she said in a hard voice, “Give me a couple days. I have an idea. And I really won’t need that much. Just a little help.” She paused before explaining, “I want to do this myself.”

Anya looked dismayed and a little worried. “Dawn, are you sure?” she asked her cautiously. “I mean…vengeance is a time-honored and respected tradition but…it can get a little messy. Are you sure you don’t want me to just do it for you…whatever it is?”

“Positive.” Dawn’s voice was certain, unyielding. “I can handle this. I *want* to handle this. This is personal, Anya. Spike is my best friend, and that creep treated him like – like nothing. Like a – a possession – no, worse, because most people actually take care of their possessions.” She shook her head, the words escaping her. “There are no words for what he did to him,” she finally admitted in a voice of quietly murderous rage.

“And I’m going to make him pay for it.”