Anya watched as Xander vanished from her sight – then sank to her knees on the cold concrete of the crypt and broke down in tears. She had had no idea how badly it would hurt her to see him in this much suffering. She almost couldn’t bear it. She desperately wanted to call the whole thing off, but it simply wasn’t an option.

The vengeance wish had to be fulfilled.

She dreaded having to see what he was going to have to go through next. For indeed, she would see it. The true torment was in *believing* himself to be completely alone in his ordeal; therefore Xander had to believe that she had left him. But in reality, she was going to be there, only veiled to his sight.

She planned on keeping a close eye on what went on, and not letting it go too far, not letting him get to his actual breaking point. There were certain things that Spike had experienced that she would not allow Xander to go through. Even if she could have stood the thought of letting the worst of the abuse Spike had endured happen to Xander – which she simply couldn’t – she would not have done it, out of respect for Spike.

She had promised him that she would not reveal his secret, and it would be simply wrong to break that trust, no matter for what purpose it was broken. Xander could not return from this journey knowing things about Spike’s painful past that she had promised not to reveal.

But there were many other horrible torments that Spike had been subjected to, of a much less personal nature, and those, Xander would have to see, feel, for himself. Anya took a deep breath and shakily rose to her feet, preparing herself to join Xander. Though he would not know she was there, she would be, ready and waiting to end the punishment the moment the wish had truly been fulfilled.


Buffy lay on the bed beside Spike, idly stroking her fingers down his still, peaceful face, staring at him through wide, solemn eyes. He had not awakened, even for a few moments, since she and Tara had discovered the problem with the healing spell. She was terribly afraid for him, wondering if he was going to wake up at all, if he even had the will left to go on.

She had really thought that he was getting better, physically and emotionally. He had seemed to be growing stronger, becoming a little more like his old self.

Had it all been just an act, another attempt just to please her, to give her what she wanted to see? Was this really what he wanted – to just fade away into peaceful oblivion?

She was startled when he suddenly stirred under her hand, leaning slightly into her touch, then turned his head toward her and opened sleepy eyes, blinking as he tried to focus on her.

“Buffy,” he murmured, seeming as if he was about to drift back into sleep.

“Spike! Spike, wait, Baby, stay awake for a minute, okay?” she said urgently. “I need to talk to you.”

Groggily he shook his head a little, looking back up at her, trying to force himself to focus. “What is it, love?” he whispered, frowning a little. “What’s wrong?”

“Spike, something went wrong with the spell,” she told him gently, running her fingerly lightly down his face again, meeting his eyes with a desperate urgency in her own. She had to be honest with him about this. He had to know just how serious the problem was.

Alarm flashed in those deep blue eyes, as he replied softly, “W-what is it? What happened?”

“It took all your strength to fix your legs. So now, the rest of you’s not getting better at all,” she said simply. “You don’t even have enough energy left to function, Baby, and its not gonna get better on its own.”

He looked at her for a moment, trying to take in and comprehend her words through the haze of sleep that still beckoned to him. Finally it seemed to click, and he leaned his head back on the pillow again, closing his eyes, with an ironic sort of half-smile. He was silent for a moment, and she almost thought he had fallen back asleep.

But then he spoke quietly, no resentment in his tone, just simple honesty, “Knew it was too good to be true, love.”

“No, Spike,” she argued firmly. “You’re gonna get better. There *is* a way.”

He opened his eyes again, looking at her expectantly, not saying a word.

Buffy reached into the pocket of her jeans and took out a small pocketknife. He frowned in confusion, not understanding what she was doing, until she made a neat slice across her arm and held it out to him, a fiery determination in her eyes as they boldly met his.

His eyes widened in an almost panicked dismay, and he shook his head. “No, Buffy…no…” He started to protest again, just as the heady, rich scent of her blood filled his nostrils, taking his words. He closed his eyes, pulling back away from her, shaking his head emphatically.

“I w-won’t do this to you, Buffy!” he protested weakly, and she could hear his determination faltering under what would have before been an irresistible temptation to him.

“You’re not doing anything *to* me, Spike. I’m giving this to you. Because I want you to have it,” she said softly, reaching her other hand to turn his face back toward her, holding her wounded arm closer to him, as the blood ran in a thin trickle down her arm, staining the sheets beneath it.

Neither of them cared.

He looked startled by her words, as if something in him still couldn’t believe that she could find him worthy of such a gift, such an act of trust. His wide eyes, full of pain and uncertainty, spoke the volumes for which he couldn’t find the words.

“Spike…you’re not going to hurt me. I trust you,” she assured him, her words slow and sure. “I want you to do this. For me.” Her voice lowered, fighting off the tremors of tears, as she added, “Because if I lost you…I don’t know what I’d do. And if you don’t do this…” She shook her head slowly, the tears falling from her eyes and slipping down her face to mingle with the blood dripping from her arm. “I’m gonna lose you,” she whispered, as if the very words were physically painful to her.

“Please,” she whispered desperately, and the heartrending plea in her voice and in her eyes smote his heart with an agony of indecision.

“Please, Spike…please do this for me.”


When Xander came to this time, the first thing he was aware of was a vicious, searing pain of an intensity like nothing he had ever felt before, tearing through his body without mercy.

*Oh, God!* he thought with a shock of guilty understanding. Was *this* the pain the chip caused Spike? This intense agony beyond description? This was what he had chosen to use to intimidate the already-broken, devastated vampire?

He had never felt so low and ashamed in his life.

Gradually it lessened to the point that he was able to glance around at his surroundings. He was in a dark, cold basement room, set up as an elaborate make-shift lab of sorts. He was on the floor, slumped awkwardly against the leg of some kind of table. He looked up – an operating table.

He suddenly realized with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach exactly where he was – and what was surely about to happen. He wanted to get up, to prepare himself for whatever horrors were coming, to take better stock of his surroundings, but was terribly weak from the pain, and unable to do so.

“Oh, good, you’re finally awake,” a mockingly pleasant voice spoke, and the sense of overwhelming terror that assailed him at the sound of that voice was stunning, even before the voice hardened in menace to add, “It’s about time, you lazy pathetic little loser! Get up!”

*Get up! Get up! Now!* his mind screamed, desperate, knowing somehow that he had to obey, or the consequences would be brutal.

He tried to, he really did, but only managed to pull himself a little ways up before falling back down to the floor, still too weakened by the pain that had not yet left his body. The terror turned to absolute, uncontrollable panic, as Warren advanced on him, a sadistic smile on his face that said he really wasn’t all that upset by his slave’s disobedience.

It gave him an excuse to punish him.

Before he could move at all, the boy had gripped his hair cruelly and yanked him effortlessly to his feet. He was unable to stand of his own strength; Warren’s grip was the only thing holding him up, and it was terribly painful.

“I said get up,” he hissed in his ear, jerking his head back mercilessly. Xander’s natural reaction was to pull away, smack the snot out of the little creep. But Spike’s natural reaction that he felt even more strongly was something very different.

*Don’t fight…do as he says…don’t move…* The thoughts circled around in his head, desperately and hopelessly seeking any means not of escaping, but of calming, his savage tormentor.

Not escaping. By this point, Xander realized, Spike had lost all hope of escape.

The intense, agonizing emotions nearly took Xander’s breath away. Pain, not only of the physical variety, overwhelming fear, helplessness…

The sense of total helplessness was the worst. It was as if he knew, beyond all doubt or hope of any rescue, ever, that Warren held complete power over him, and always would. The only way to even attempt to survive the situation was to submit, and do whatever it took to appease him.

But there was also a feeling of dark despair, because he knew, somehow, that submission would not be enough. This cruel, sadistic boy was determined to find some reason, some justification, for heaping more and more suffering on his prisoner.

Through the pain and terror that nearly consumed him, Xander had a moment of realization. It was this effort of Warren’s to justify what he was doing to Spike, to find *reasons* for the “punishments” he meted out, that had resulted in Spike’s blaming himself for the things he had suffered.

Warren would tell him he was being punished because he was too slow, or because he had spoken out of turn, or forgotten some insignificant detail, or looked at him in a way he found disrespectful…and slowly but surely, Spike had come to connect every hurt, every punishment, with some real or imagined fault or wrong he had committed.

In his mind, it all became his fault.

Through the intense emotions he was feeling that Spike had experienced, Xander also felt a wave of shame come over him as he thought of the calloused and insensitive way he had behaved toward the traumatized vampire – all the small and not-so-small ways he had reinforced the unhealthy, untrue ideas that had become rooted in his mind. That it was his fault. That he was evil, deserving of what had happened to him. That he didn’t deserve forgiveness, or even rescue…certainly not love.

His moment of self-realization was interrupted as Warren took something from the pocket of the black leather coat he was wearing – a cigarette lighter.

Xander realized with a shock -- *Spike’s* coat, Spike’s lighter.

Warren flicked the lighter, holding the flame terrifyingly near his face, and he flinched. Xander could tell from the dread, the despairing expectation he felt, that Warren would make good on his cruel, wordless threat – that he had countless times before.

“You think you don’t have to what I tell you to? Is that it?” Warren asked in a soft, dangerous tone.

“N-no! No!” he gasped in a pleading tone, his eyes unable to leave the flickering flame, so close to his sensitive flesh. “Please,” he whispered, the word almost a sob. “Please, don’t!”

“Did I tell you to talk?” Warren demanded, yanking hard on his hair, pulling him closer to the flame. “Did I?”

He shook his head, desperately, tears forming in his eyes. Oh God, the shame, the agony of self-hatred that was brought on by this helplessness – making him feel so ashamed, so pathetic and worthless – Xander had never felt so alone, so lost and desolate.

He was at the mercy of someone who enjoyed his fear, his pain, sought every opportunity to dole out more of both, without mercy or the slightest bit of compassion.

And he was utterly, completely alone. No one who even knew what he was going through, or would have cared to help him if they did know – of that he was certain – at least through Spike’s eyes.

The next hour passed in a haze of pain and terror, as Warren sated his twisted desire for power, and Xander got a fair sampling of the many ways he had used to torture Spike. By the time it was over, he could find no words for the anguish of body and spirit that he was feeling – that he now knew that Spike had felt, day after day for Five. Freaking. Months.

Once Warren left the room that served as his torture chamber, leaving him in a pitiful, decimated heap on the floor, he gave vent to the sobs that had risen in his throat long ago, that he had fought back, uselessly. It wasn’t as if he could in any way really hide the effect that Warren had on him.

Xander had sneered at the thought of *Warren* wielding that sort of power over Spike, the former “Big Bad”. He had taken every opportunity to insinuate just how pathetic he thought Spike was for being so “easily” broken by the “pathetic little nerd”.

God, how wrong he had been! About everything!

He sat there, sobbing brokenly, not sure how much longer he would have to stay in this place, a part of him not caring. All he could really think about was how cruelly he had played into the heartless mind games that Warren had played with Spike – how his words and deeds had served to reinforce the pain and shame, rather than to promote his healing in any way.

“Everything looks different now…doesn’t it?”

He did not respond to the gentle, familiar voice at first. Just kept crying, like a child, like the helpless, pathetic creature that he had become over the past few hours.

“You understand now. Don’t you?” Anya prodded gently, coming to kneel down in front of him, her sorrowful green eyes searching his through her own tears which filled them.

He nodded, still unable to speak for a few moments. “Oh, Anya,” he finally sobbed. “What have I done? How could I…after…I had no idea…”

The words made sense in his head, but he couldn’t seem to make them come out right. That was okay. Anya understood what he was trying to say. And she knew that the wish had finally had its intended effect. Xander would return to his normal life, but he would never be the same. He would really and truly understand Spike’s suffering, and it would change his behavior, his thinking, for the better and for good.

She nodded slowly, seeing the genuine change in his stricken eyes when he finally looked up at her. “It’s time to go home now,” she told him softly. “You’ve seen all you need to.”

Gently, with a sense of relief in her heart that both of their ordeals were finally over, she stretched out her hand toward him.

Unexpectedly, he reached up and blocked her touch, catching her hand in his. Her eyes met his, startled by his reaction, and she saw in them a sudden firm resolve.

He looked at her for a moment, swallowed hard, thinking for a moment, as if trying to make a decision. Then he finally spoke, his voice quiet but certain.

“There’s one more thing I want to see.”