2. Dealing
with It
*No! Stop! Please stop! Spike, what are you doing?*
He awoke with a start, suddenly and completely, his eyes wide with
panic. His momentary relief that it had been only a dream was
immediately shattered by his memory – it was *not* "only a dream".
It had happened. It was real.
With a weary sigh of resignation, he tried to rise up to take stock of
his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was the dark van bearing
down on him. How had he gotten here? And where exactly *was* here?
Beneath him he felt soft carpeting; a glance around at the room
revealed that he was lying on the floor in a bedroom of some kind.
It was when he tried to rise up that he noticed the most disturbing
detail so far. His arms were stretched out to either side and
restrained by chains, wrapping around – whatever it was he was leaning
against. He craned his neck to look around and see; it was an
old-fashioned metal radiator – which fortunately was turned off at the
moment, he thought with the first feeling of fear he had had since
waking. Although the heating device was turned off, he tried to pull
his body up away from it, but found that the position he was in kept
him from getting any decent leverage. His shoulders and arms remained
in contact with the thankfully cool metal.
*What the bloody hell?* he wondered. He tested his strength against the
heavy iron chain that held him, but it was firm. He should have been
able to break it, he knew. Why wasn't he stronger? He tried to move his
legs, wondering if they were restrained as well. But as his attempt
failed, the downward glance that accompanied it showed him that it was
not because they were restrained. His legs were free.
He just couldn't move them.
He suddenly felt very sick, remembering months spent in a wheelchair.
*Not again,* he thought desperately, pulling at the chains again, his
mind racing.
Okay. So someone had found him after the accident and brought him –
here. Their intentions could not be good if he was chained up like this
– could they? Unless it was someone who knew he was a vampire and was
afraid of him...but in that case why was he not dust?
He tried again to move his legs, but the effort only caused an intense,
tearing pain to shoot through them. Ironically he felt a sense of
relief. *At least I can feel them,* he thought. So chances were that he
was not truly paralyzed then; his legs were badly injured from the
accident, but they would heal, and he would be able to walk again.
But for healing, he needed blood. That reminded him. He was absolutely
ravenous. How long had he been here? he wondered. How long had it been
since he'd eaten?
The sudden sound of footsteps on the stairs brought his attention to
alert, as his eyes shot toward the door. The thought crossed his mind
that he needed to be prepared to face whoever or whatever came through
the door, before he realized that that was impossible. Chained up and
unable to move – he had to face it, he was pretty much helpless.
He felt an oddly mingled sense of relief and annoyance when he saw
Warren Meers in the doorway. Relief, because he had not fallen into the
hands of a more dangerous person; and annoyance because, well, *Warren*.
"Oh, so it's you!" he said with obvious disdain. "Just my luck, innit?"
Warren smiled, a cool, composed smile that was somehow a little
frightening. "You haven't got a lot of that these days, have you?"
Spike glared at him, beginning to feel angry. "What would you know
about it, Robot Boy?" He glanced up at the chains that bound him before
looking up at the boy, who was slowly approaching him, and snarling in
his most menacing voice, "I would suggest you unlock these chains –
before I start to get upset."
Warren laughed. "And how exactly would you show me how upset you are?"
he scoffed. "Glare at me? You're already doing that." He shook his head
slightly. "Not very effective."
"Look, you insolent little ponce," Spike ground out the words, the
threat in his voice no longer put on. "I won't be injured like this
forever. And the moment I get my strength back I'm gonna start tearing
things apart – starting with these chains, and ending with you!"
Warren laughed again, softly, but there was a glint of anger in his
eyes. Still, his voice as calm, conversational, as he asked, "Oh, yeah.
How exactly were you planning on going about that? The whole strength
getting back thing?"
Spike froze. The thought had not occurred to him. But the miserable
little wanker was right. He could not get back his strength or heal at
all without blood. And he couldn't break the chains, as weak as he was
right now. The sick feeling in his stomach grew stronger.
The expression on his face was enough response for Warren, whose smile
widened smugly. "Oh, don't worry. I've got a whole refrigerator
downstairs stocked with blood, just for you. And you'll get it –
eventually. But – even when *I* decide to give it to you, even when you
get your strength back up – like I said – what are you gonna do...glare
at me?"
Spike swallowed hard. The expression in Warren's eyes had darkened to
something hard and cruel and – knowing. Spike realized the truth before
Warren spoke it.
"I know what that little piece of hardware in your head is for, Spike.
To think that whole time you were in my basement, being mister big bad
vampire, shoving us around, I could have kicked your butt right then."
He laughed and shook his head. "You know, you really shouldn't have
left all the research I'd done on your chip whenever you took off out
of there. Wasn't very smart. But ya know," he went on with a casual
shrug, "guess you thought you had nothing to worry about...what's a dumb
kid like me gonna do to a powerful master vampire like you, right?
Except...you're not so powerful after all, are you?" His mocking tone
changed to a chillingly soft, menacing one as he added, "And I'm not so
dumb."
Spike just stared at him, as a cold, creeping feeling started at his
spine and slowly spread throughout his body. He tried to shake it off.
*Come on! This is Robot-Boy! Annoying, right, but not dangerous!* he
reminded himself.
"Yeah. Got your attention now, don't I?" Warren sneered. As quickly as
it had appeared, his smile vanished into a hard line. "Ok, here's the
rules, Sparky. You don't try anything. You make too much noise up here
– banging around, screaming, stupid crap like that – no one can hear
you out here, so it won't do you any good. It'll just make me
incredibly pissed off with you. And you *really* don't want that."
Spike couldn't help the slow smirk that took over his face, despite his
situation. Just the thought of this pathetic kid, a loser even by human
standards, thinking to threaten him was hilarious. "Oh, no!" he echoed
with mock fear. "Don't want *that*!"
Before he had time to prepare for it, to dodge the blow, Warren had
aimed a savage, startlingly powerful kick to his face, slamming his
head back hard against the radiator behind him and splitting his lip.
Stunned by the blow, he struggled against the blackness that threatened
to overtake him, realizing that somehow, Warren had given himself a
violent shove from annoying into dangerous. He could taste his own
blood in his mouth as the spots in front of his eyes slowly began to
fade. How had the little nerd gotten so strong? he wondered with rising
apprehension.
"No. You don't," Warren repeated with cold satisfaction in his hard
eyes as he glared down at his captive. "If you don't get it yet, Spike,
you will soon. I'm in control here. Not you. Those chains'll come off
when I say they will. You'll eat when I say you will. So unless you
wanna just lie there and waste away, you'll start showing a little bit
of respect." And he started toward the door.
Warren stopped in the doorway, his back to Spike, his head turned just
slightly back in a nasty smile. "It's a little chilly in here," he
observed casually. "Think I might have to turn the heat up."
The words made Spike's stomach do an odd little flip of fear. Surely he
wouldn't...
After Warren went downstairs, he waited in fearful anticipation,
straining against the chains at his wrists, struggling to put a little
bit of distance between his very heat-sensitive flesh and the metal
radiator. But nothing happened; the radiator did not come on.
Spike realized with resentment that the little wanker had been
bluffing. Well, not bluffing exactly, he admitted uneasily to himself.
Bluffing would imply that he didn't actually have the power to do as
he'd subtlely threatened. And he did. Spike almost laughed at the
thought of Warren Meers having any sort of power over him. It was
almost funny.
Almost. If it hadn't been reality.
Over the next several hours, spent alone in the bedroom, he had a lot
of time to think about his situation, and any possible ways to get out
of it. He really didn't have much to work with. He was weak from hunger
and the pain of his injuries, so breaking the chains was not an option
at this point. And he couldn't get any stronger as long as he went
hungry.
Bored, he began to study his surroundings – a very small, bare bedroom
with minimal furnishings. He wondered where he was; the boy had said no
one could hear him "out here" so he guessed they were not at Warren's
house, which was in the middle of a subdivision. They had to be
someplace fairly deserted, out in the desert perhaps. His eyes found
the digital clock on the nightstand, and began to track the time since
Warren's little visit to his prisoner.
As he lay there with nothing to do but think and worry, a memory came
to him from his visit to Warren's basement a couple of months earlier.
A large, dark van parked outside Warren's house.
So the accident was no accident then. Warren hadn't just come across
the injured vampire lying by the side of the road and decided to take
him home as a pet. He had deliberately run him off the road that night.
How many nights had passed since then? How long had he been
unconscious? Several days would not be an extreme assumption,
considering his injuries, and his intense state of hunger. But he
really had no way of knowing how long he had been there, or even what
day it was.
So obviously the little wanker had to have some sort of plan for him –
some reason for what he was doing. But he had no way of knowing what,
until the boy decided to tell him.
At a time like this, he really needed Buffy.
And at that thought, his stomach lurched again. *No! Don't think about
it!* a desperate, defensive part of his brain screamed. It did no good
to think about it. Buffy wouldn't want to help him now; she'd probably
be glad if Warren killed him. And it simply hurt too bad to think about
her. Better to think of the situation at hand, and how to get out of it.
That didn't make him feel much better.
Almost a week had passed since the bank robbery and – and everything
else that had happened that night, and there had been no sign of the
Trio at all. With the money they had gotten away with, they could be
anywhere by now. Their hideout had been deserted, and Buffy had no idea
where else to begin looking for them, so she had given up for the time
being, until they decided to show themselves again. Besides – at the
moment she really couldn't bring herself to care.
The day after, she had been filled with a rage born of hurt and
betrayal. She had stormed off to Spike's crypt, in a
more-justified-than-usual fury, ready to beat the crap out of him, to
tell him just what she thought of him, to forbid him to ever come near
her or Dawn again, on pain of slow, painful death.
And then – just maybe – ask him – why. How he could have done that to
her. Demand the explanation that her heart cried for.
But when she got there, he was gone, along with everything he possessed
of any value to him. He had left town then. He had run away. She felt
somehow cheated – betrayed, again. He had denied her even the
confrontation she so desperately needed, deserved.
Since that point she had avoided her friends and her sister, working
doubles at the Doublemeat Palace, spending time holed away in her room,
staring into space. This afternoon, Dawn was at school, and she was at
home alone.
She heard the doorbell ring, and automatically went to answer it. It
was Xander.
He strode quickly into the living room, all fired up about something.
It didn't take long to find out what.
"Spike's left town," he announced, turning to face her and crossing his
arms over his chest expectantly.
"How do you know?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion; she
already knew the answer.
"That doesn't matter," Xander dismissed the words with a wave of his
hand. "We need to find him and end this, Buffy. He may have left town,
but you know he'll be back. He's obsessed with you, and he can hurt
you. If he could do what he did, he's capable of anything, Buff. We
have to do it. We have to stake him."
"No," she answered immediately, surprising even herself at how quickly
she responded.
Xander's eyebrows shot up. "Buffy..." he began, and she could see anger
rising in his eyes. "After what he did..."
"I said no, Xander, and that's it. We're not going after him. Just let
it go." She turned slightly away from her friend, not wanting him to
see the pain and confusion in her eyes.
He didn't. All he saw was her refusal to punish the *thing* that had
hurt her – out of some twisted affection she still held for it. "I
can't believe you're still willing to defend him!" Xander exploded.
"Why can't you do it, Buffy? He tried to rape you, for God's sake!
Buffy, why can't you just stake him?"
Buffy did not respond. She didn't know the answer herself. It was all
so painful and mixed up and she just wanted him to leave her alone.
"It's none of your business, Xander," she said quietly, not looking at
him.
His eyes widened in stunned hurt. "Not my business? Buffy, you are my
best friend! This – this creep almost rapes you, and you *defend him*
and tell *me* that it's 'none of my business'?"
She did not respond.
He stood there for a moment, staring at her in disbelief. Then he threw
up his hands in anger and nearly shouted, "You know what? Fine! Fine,
Buffy, whatever! If you want to just let yourself be victimized and
then just smooth it over and act like he did nothing wrong, if you
wanna defend your freakin' *rapist*, Buffy...and say that I have nothing
to say about it...fine."
"Xander," she began quietly, feeling the tears rising in her throat,
choking them back.
"No! I'm out of here, Buffy! If that's the way you want it, fine! Just
don't come crying to me when he comes back for seconds!" And with those
hurtful words, a verbal slap in her face, he was out the door, slamming
it behind him.
She stood there in shock for a moment, staring at the door. She didn't
know how she felt – what to feel. All she felt was numb, just as she
had felt since it had happened. She slowly walked to the couch and sat
down, leaning her head back against it in utter emotional exhaustion.
Not five minutes later, the doorbell rang again. She rose automatically
to answer it – and saw her friend standing there with tearful,
guilt-stricken brown eyes searching hers – for forgiveness.
"God, Buffy, I'm sorry!" he whispered, stepping forward to enfold her
in his warm, strong arms. "I'm so sorry!"
And for the first time in a week, Buffy felt *safe* again. This was
Xander; practically her brother for six years now. Savior of her life,
at least once, probably more. Her rock through so many of the painful
moments of her life.
Through this one.
And suddenly, the Slayer became the broken girl, sobbing in the arms of
her best friend, clinging to him desperately as she poured out her
confusion and anguish. And he just walked her slowly to the couch, sat
with her and held her, and for once said nothing.
When her tears and words finally seemed spent, he said softly. "I'm not
gonna try to tell you how you have to deal with this, Buffy. Whatever
you need. I shouldn't have pushed you. Whatever way you need to deal
with this to be okay, that's what you need to do. Just tell me what I
can do to help you, Buffy, and I'll do it."
She snuggled closer into his arms, sniffing back the last of her tears,
and whispered, "Just what you're doing, Xander. That's all I need you
to do. Just be here."