“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean really, *really* want to do this, Xander?” Anya asked him, her troubled eyes showing how deeply concerned she was by his decision. “I mean – you’re talking about watching something that – well, it’s gonna be very disturbing, for you especially, and…and well, just *weird*. And that’s putting it mildly.”

“I have to know, Anya. I have to see for myself,” he insisted. “I have to – I have to face up to this.” He paused before going on, softer, “And then – try to find a way to make it right again. With Spike – and with Buffy.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment; Anya had as many doubts as he did about the likelihood of finding Buffy’s forgiveness. She would probably have a very difficult time accepting that his change of heart was genuine – especially considering that his extreme betrayal of her trust had immediately followed his last such heart-felt apology.

Still, no matter what followed it, even if he could never convince Buffy or Spike to forgive him, Xander had to see for himself exactly what he had done. If he was truly going to take responsibility for his poor attitudes and behavior before, he had to face up to his own guilt. As far as he was concerned, there was no other way.

Reluctantly, unsure of the effect that this particular recreation would have on the man she loved, but seeing that his mind was firmly set, Anya stretched out her hand and sent Xander back to the moment he had requested to see through Spike’s eyes.

The moment of his own cruel attack.

He found himself suddenly standing in Buffy’s living room, near the window, staring anxiously out into the street. He felt nervous and uncertain as he waited for Dawn to return.

In Spike’s emotions, Xander could feel the terrible fear, the raw vulnerability of his insecurity, that he had carried with him when they had brought him here. Even in Buffy’s house, far from the huge house of horrors in the country and Warren’s brutal clutches, Spike had not felt safe.

It was as if a part of him expected it to all turn out to be some kind of trick – a trap – expected to at any moment be “caught” and punished for daring to enjoy such luxuries as rest and freedom.

Now, he stood in the empty room, felt Spike’s terror to be alone and desperate desire for the safety of the companionship of the only person in all of this that he had fully trusted at that time. He was counting the moments until she returned, bringing with her the measure of security she had taken with her when she had left.

The door opened, and he felt a sense of relief. *Good, she’s back!*

But the relief was gone a moment later when he saw…*himself*…walk through the door.

*Anya was right,* Xander realized, feeling a little sick. *Too weird for words.*

He cringed at the vicious look he had given Spike, and the sick little stomach-turning twist of fear that went through him at that look. Memories assaulted his mind of the same look on another face, always mere moments before vicious, merciless pain.

Xander wanted to crawl through the floor, to disappear, with the shame of the horrifying realization that in that moment, he had brought the image of Warren and his abuse to Spike’s mind…that the menace on his face had matched that of the sadistic, evil torturer he had seen mere hours before.

While he waited for the other him to come back downstairs, he felt a churning tumult of uneasiness and fear, not having any idea what the boy intended, if he even intended *anything*, only knowing that Xander hated him, and he was alone in this house with him, physically weak and incapable of defending himself, and with no friend in sight to defend him.

Then he watched as Xander came back down the stairs, an odd sort of self-satisfied smile on his face – again, a painfully familiar expression. And as he advanced on him, mercilessly doing his best to intimidate and frighten him, driving him without pity into a corner and throwing every vicious word and menacing gesture he could into the mix, Xander felt more ashamed than he ever had in his life.

And even worse than the physical threat, the intimidating stance he had taken over Spike, reminding him in every way of how helpless he was, how Xander could hurt him badly any time he wanted to – was the things he had said.

The cruel accusations, telling over again how unforgivable his crime was, how undeserving he was of Buffy’s mercy and forgiveness – when Spike had already believed those things to be true, deep down, before Xander ever said a word.

But now he understood that the forgiveness had to go both ways. Spike had been hurt by Buffy at least as badly as he had ever hurt her. How could he have done this to someone already so broken and wounded? How could he have ever thought that Spike, in this condition, posed any threat whatsoever to Buffy?

*You weren’t worried about the threat he posed to Buffy,* he suddenly told himself, in yet another moment of clarity. *You were worried about the threat he posed to you.*

It was the truth, though he was ashamed to admit it. Now that all the barriers of his illusions had been stripped away, the facts seemed so much clearer, and he could see the painful truth.

The reason that he had been so intent on stealing Buffy’s good graces from Spike, on destroying the last remaining vestiges of his courage and self-confidence, was not truly motivated by a desire to protect Buffy, though he had honestly believed that it was at the time.

He knew, if he really thought about it, that Buffy was perfectly capable of defending herself against Spike at his full strength, let alone the pitifully weakened version of the vampire that had returned to them.

His true motivation had nothing to do with protecting Buffy, and everything to do with protecting his own elevated but fragile status with her. Just when he had started to get so much closer to her, just when he had begun to feel that maybe, just maybe, she was starting to see him as more than a friend…Spike had come back.

Oh, badly damaged and a shadow of his former self, but still able to steal all of Buffy’s attention away from him – the attention he subconsciously had come to view as his right. After all, who had been there for her, when she was struggling with the pain and confusion following the incident in the bathroom? Who had held her while she cried for hours at a time?

Now, he understood that there had been more behind those tears than the pain of being victimized.

There had also been the guilt of an abuser. Very much like the guilt he was feeling now.

All of these thoughts were intermingled with the desperate panic that Spike had felt as Xander had gotten right in his face, leaving him no room to move away, closing him in so that he could feel nothing but threatened, cornered and helpless. Then, the fear intensified in an explosion of terror when the control device came into view.

The overwhelming, uncontrollable panic that came over him at the sight of it left Xander breathless. A feeling of familiar dread, as if he knew exactly what was coming, had known that it was only a matter of time before the false sense of safety vanished and the familiar pattern of suffering came back into play.

Xander’s heart froze in him with the realization that in that moment, Spike had completely and totally believed, beyond all doubt, that Xander was going to activate the chip – that he was going to use the dreadful device against him.

Though he honestly had never intended to actually push the button or cause Spike any real physical pain, Xander now knew that the anticipation was at least as painful for Spike as the shock itself would have been – and probably more emotionally devastating.

*God, how could I be such a monster?* he wondered, his heart breaking under the weight of truly understanding his own guilt.

If he could only make it right again, somehow, he thought desperately. But now, he realized with a building sense of despair, he might never be allowed to.

The next moment, the world began to swirl and fade around him, just before everything went dark.


“Please,” Buffy whispered, her tears streaking her sorrowful face as she searched his eyes, desperately hoping that he would see the necessity of it and give in to her pleas.

“Buffy,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly, hurting to see her so distraught, but terrified of the line it would be crossing to do as she asked – especially after the one he had so violently crossed last fall. “I just…I just can’t!”

The taking of blood was the only thing he had ever experienced that was more personal than sex, more intimate and requiring of more trust. Being human, Buffy couldn’t possibly understand it in the way that he could. He just couldn’t bring himself to take something like that from her, after the violation of her trust he had already committed.

“Spike,” Buffy argued, and there was a hint of anger in her trembling voice as she went on. “If you *don’t* do this…you’re not going to get better. You’re going to just…fade away. And I can’t….” She paused, her voice breaking with the tears she was struggling to control. She had to keep enough composure to get her point across to him. “I don’t want to live without you, Spike. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Buffy,” he said in a voice of quiet desperation, wide blue eyes pleading with hers, willing her to see what he was trying to tell her without words. “That’s why I can’t do this…I can’t hurt you, Buffy…I can’t take that from you…not after…” He couldn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

“Oh, Spike,” she whispered, her soft voice revealing her heartache at the guilt he still felt for a crime he had never truly committed, and which she had long since forgiven. She knew now that she had forgiven it long before she had found him in Warren’s house.

She reached a gentle hand to tenderly touch his face, as she went on in a quiet, firm voice that left no room for doubt. “Baby, it’s *nothing* like that! You’re not taking anything from me. You’re not taking it because you *can’t* take it – because I’m *giving* it to you. Spike – I love you so much…I’m yours, Baby. My heart…my blood…everything that’s *me*… already belongs to you.” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper as she leaned in closer, holding his eyes with an intense gaze. “You can’t take what’s already yours.”

The unnecessary breath that he always drew anyway, a remnant of his humanity that he had never been able to shake, was stolen away in that moment, as the depth of her love, of her willingness to sacrifice for him, was revealed to him in the simple words, in the undeniable evidence of the bleeding flesh she slowly raised before his lips. His damaged heart, so afraid to believe that such love could actually be his, slowly processed the meaning of what it was exactly that she was giving him.

The bittersweet irony of it all sang to the poet still within him. He had been a slave, Buffy’s willingly, and then Warren’s by force, his life and his desires meaningless, subservient to the whims of whichever master he had served. Possession of his very self had not been his own.

And once, in a bitter moment of misguided passion, he had sought to take possession of *her*…to make her his own, whether she wanted to be or not. Now, Buffy was relinquishing her heart, her love, her very self to him, in the supreme sacrifice of love. She would be his…not by force, not by fear…but by choice, and love.

And in the offering and receiving of that powerful gift, some part of him, long buried, but struggling weakly back to the surface, knew that they would both find a measure of healing.

“Oh, Buffy…my love,” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers, as he slowly lowered his lips to her arm she held before him. Gently, he lapped the tiny stream of blood that flowed from the cut, back to its source, and the tender touch of his lips, his tongue, to her flesh was a caress, not an intrusion.

She was stunned by the pleasurable sensation of his cool mouth against her skin, the sense of power and connection that came from the force of her life flowing out of her and into him, strengthening and rebuilding him. Without realizing she was doing it she arched her neck back, closing her eyes, releasing a soft little moan.

Suddenly, she made a decision. If she was going to give him her love, her trust, her blood, she was not going to do it only partly. She was going to give herself fully to him.

Her free hand tangled tenderly in his loose blonde curls, and she murmured softly, “Stop. Close it.”

He glanced up at her uncertainly, pulling back a little immediately at her word, though she could feel his instinctive reluctance to relinquish the rich, intoxicating pleasure of her gift. He knew what she meant; knew that she knew that his saliva would close the wound as soon as she was ready to stop. But he had not expected it to be so soon.

Still, obediently, not wanting to take advantage of her gift, he did as she asked, and in moments the bleeding gash was closed and already beginning to heal up. He looked up at her in expectation and a little apprehension. Had she misjudged her own readiness for this step? Had he gone too far, frightened her?

To his surprise, instead of moving away, she leaned slowly down over him, and he lay back beneath her, unafraid, just instinctively retreating as she moved forward. A slow, soft, reassuring smile began on her lips as she wrapped one arm around behind his neck, the other hand lightly running through his soft blonde hair.

“I want you to take me, Spike,” she whispered. She glanced up at the now barely visible spot on her arm where the cut had been and shook her head a little as she looked back at him and clarified, “Not like that.”

She met his eyes for a long moment, wanting to be sure he understood her meaning, before she slowly tilted her head back, exposing her throat to him in a gesture of extreme vulnerability – and trust. “Like this,” she whispered, her hand behind his neck lightly tugging him forward, encouraging him to accept her offer.

His eyes widened in surprised understanding, but there was none of the horrified revulsion that would have come upon him a few minutes before – before he had tasted of her blood, and tasted in it the power of the love and trust she held for him.

He knew that she knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

It had been a very long time since he had allowed his true vampire’s face to show. In the house of his slavery, it would have been an unforgivable offense, a sign of much more confidence and challenge than his master would ever have allowed.

And then there was the memory of the way Buffy had always seen that part of his nature, before. Evil, disgusting, the symbol of everything she hated, everything she stood against. He hesitated to do it, turning uncertain eyes up to hers in an unspoken question.

She knew what was holding him back, and nodded her assent, urging him on to release his true nature, meeting his eyes with no fear – only love. When he managed to shake off the human façade and truly reveal himself to her, he glanced back at her, flinching already on the inside from the revulsion he was certain to see on her face.

But it was not there.

She smiled tenderly into his now gleaming golden eyes, before leaning in to kiss him, slowly and thoroughly. When she pulled back from the kiss, she whispered softly, “I love you, Spike. All of you. Everything that you are. I love you.” She kissed him again before adding in an intense whisper, “Take me, Spike! Do it!” and tugging his head down closer to her throat.

Her tender words and actions were all the more encouragement he needed. Without any further hesitation, he slid his fangs into her throat. Her body arched instantly in a jolt of pain and pleasure so mingled that it was impossible to tell them apart; he felt her pleasure, and it only intensified his own as he both fiercely and tenderly accepted the gift she had given him.

Within moments, both were lost in the ecstasy of the moment, surrounded so completely by the love, the presence of each other, that all the rest of the world faded away into oblivion, and all that existed was the powerful connection of the love that bound them.