"I don't like it one bit. I mean, she's supposed to be looking out for our well-being, and this seems pretty anti-our-well-being if you ask me."

"Exactly. He could snap at any time, and someone might end up dead next time, instead of just bloody."

"You guys are overreacting. He's chained to the wall down there."

"You really think chains are gonna stop him if he decides he wants a tasty human snack?"

Three Potentials huddled together in a corner of the kitchen, speaking in hushed tones about the vamp of the hour. No one had spoken of anything but him since The Incident the previous day, and the fact that their fearless leader had yet to address what had happened with any of them just added to the collective unease that hovered over the Summers camp. The troops were shaken.

Vi, a cute redhead with a perpetually worried expression, glanced down at her Ace-bandage-wrapped wrist and frowned. "Well I'll tell you one thing," she said, "I'm not getting near him again. Ever. I don't care why he flipped out; I'm not going to stick around and wait for the next time."

Rona nodded. "And what about Dawn? I mean, he backhanded her clear across the room. Could have killed her. If Buffy wasn't around to keep him in line, he'd make his way through us one by one, and finish us off, or even worse, make us like him. The second she drops her guard, or those chains break, we're all screwed."

"No."

The three looked up sharply at the new arrival. Dawn stood in the doorway, battered face looking no worse for the wear after a day's healing, but also no better. Her blue eyes were narrowed, her cracked, scabbed-over lips pressed together, her jaw set. The expression gave her an air every bit as commanding as the Slayer's.

"Hi, Dawn," Chloe said brightly. "We were just—"

"I heard you," Dawn interrupted, her voice icy. "And you're wrong. He wouldn't hurt us, not if he could help it."

"Say you're right," Rona said slowly. "Does it really matter? When he snaps somebody's neck, or sucks their blood, are we gonna sit around talking about how he didn't mean to do it? Nah. I think we'd just dust him. Isn't that what Slayers do?"

Dawn stepped forward, her gaze holding Rona's steadily, challenging. "You're not a Slayer," she said, her voice deceptively even.

"Why do you care anyway?" Rona asked. "I thought you hated him. Didn't you tell us when we first got here that he was nothing but your sister's reformed evil lap dog? And that when she wised up he'd be dust? Why do you suddenly care, after what he did to you?"

Dawn reached forward purposefully. Rona flinched and backed away as Dawn moved around her to place her hand firmly on the basement doorknob.

"You don't know Spike."

As Dawn stepped into the darkened stairwell, Vi spoke up nervously. "Dawn, I don't think we're supposed to go down there. Buffy said—"

The door shut behind her with a harsh, stubborn click, cutting off the rest of Vi's empty warning. She took the stairs less determinedly, uncertainty creeping in now that the others were behind her. And then she reached the bottom, and saw him.

Chained to the wall like a volatile dog. Like a prisoner. Like an enemy. He was slumped over on the cot, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, defeated. Just defeated. Dawn's heart jolted painfully in her chest. This is what love does to you.

It was so silent down here. Oppressive. She wished he would look at her. She tried to say his name, but a lump rose in her throat and she found she couldn't speak. So she started toward the cot, toward him.

His whole body lurched violently at the sound of her approaching footsteps. "Stay back!" he shouted, and she was so surprised that she froze midstep, rooted to the spot and staring at him with her mouth hanging open slightly. His voice softened. "Stay away from me. Go back upstairs." He still wasn't looking at her.

She licked her cracked lips nervously. "I just wanted to—"

"I don't bloody care what you wanted, now get out."

Stung, Dawn stood her ground, watching him refuse to look at her. She tried again. "Spike, listen to me."

"Don't."

"I know you didn't—"

"Don't!"

She raised her voice over his. "I know you didn't mean to do this!"

He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound, noting but hopelessness, harsh and bitter. Eyes still fixed on the floor between his feet. "You … you and your bitch of a sister both think you know everything. Well how 'bout this. Could be I did mean to. Could be I got sick and tired of being your punching bag and her fucking slave and decided to put an end to it. Was going to do her in next. How's that? Not so bright anymore, are you?"

"Oh, Spike, that's crap," Dawn said disdainfully. "Listen, I don't know what happened to make you—freak out—like that, but I know it was out of your control. I know you wouldn't do this to me on purpose. Look at my face and tell me you did this on purpose."

He didn't move, and it was Dawn's turn to laugh. "You're so proud of your work that you can't even look at it, huh? Yeah, you're such a monster."

"It's what you've been telling me all along, right? Evil, unworthy, unforgivable, irredeemable. So, I agree, and then you go changing the rules? Sorry pet. Doesn't work that way."

"Will you stop feeling sorry for yourself and look at me?"

Slowly, seemingly against his will, Spike raised his head from his hands and let his eyes come to rest on Dawn, taking in the mass of bruises and the caked remnants of blood. His face remained expressionless, but his jaw tightened and his hands clenched together viciously in his lap.

"You didn't mean to," she said. "Something is wrong with you. We want to help."

When he finally spoke, after what seemed an eternal silence, his voice was strained and husky, as if it took great effort to form the words. "Might want to take a poll on that, love, before you go enlisting the help of the Scoobies without their permission." He almost smiled, but didn't quite succeed. "It's bound to be an unpopular undertaking."

Dawn let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Buffy and I want to help you. Screw everyone else."

This time he did achieve a smile, cracked and weak, carrying more than a touch of sadness, but a smile nonetheless. Dawn's heart swelled at the sight of it. Without thinking, she started forward, intending to throw her arms around him for a long-denied embrace.

"No Bit!" he warned sharply, raising his hand to halt her again. She stopped short, but reluctantly, because suddenly she ached to be enveloped in his familiar arms, leather and peroxide and cigarette smoke mingling in a scent that had long since come to mean protection and love and devotion—Spike.

"I won't risk it," he said, and his eyes plead for understanding. "Back upstairs with you, now."

She considered refusing out of habit, but in the end she didn't. When the door shut behind her, he sagged back on his cot, emotions not befitting a demon flooding through him and making his heart heavy. They would help him, he knew. They would find a way to fix this.

He could always count on his girls.

xXxXx

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