Pain saturates Spike's skin, licks bones, reforges marrow. Pain is the next door neighbor with an ever-ready cup of molasses and whirling ginsu knives, more familiar and as odd as carmine refreshment.
But pain can only delimit the lines he paints within. It cannot plot past tricky watchers or gaggles of girls.
He thought it would win her heart, if he gave her all of himself. It's ironic that she does take it all, but not for herself.
With his first mistress, he wasn't enough. He isn't enough this time either.
Failure is never new. Being considered a hero? Is.