“You guys *so* need a hobby,” Dawn muttered as she strolled in the door after school, dropping her backpack onto the coffee table and rolling her eyes dramatically at the hopelessly entangled couple on the couch.

“Mmm,” Buffy murmured contentedly, pulling reluctantly out of their latest slow, languorous kiss. “I like *this* hobby.”

“Me, too,” Spike whispered, pulling her down into another kiss.

“Don’t mind me,” Dawn said dryly. “I’m just going to go get a very sharp pair of scissors and run with it outside to talk to the nearest stranger and ask them for drugs and alcohol. Then I’m going to go get drunk and find some random boy I hardly know to sleep with.”

“Sounds good,” Buffy mumbled.

Spike added, “Have fun,” with a listless wave of his hand from where he lay on the couch, under the comfortable, warm weight of his Slayer’s body.

Dawn stopped, turning to give them an incredulous look. She had at least expected *some* kind of reaction.

Buffy pulled away from Spike long enough to roll her eyes at her sister and say in a slightly defensive voice, “What? *Kidding!*”

Dawn looked expectantly at Spike, who was growling softly in protest and trying to pull Buffy’s lips back down to his. When he failed to respond to Dawn as Buffy had, Buffy gave him a questioning look to match her sister’s.

“What?” he said, confused, glancing between them as he tried to focus on something not-Buffy for a few moments. “Did I miss…What did you say, Bit?” he asked finally, catching on.

“Nothing important,” she sighed in good-natured annoyance as she continued to the kitchen. Whatever had happened last night after she had gone to bed, Spike and Buffy both seemed to be in dramatically better moods than they had been at that point. She grimaced slightly in distaste and decided she really didn’t want to know what had happened; she had a good enough idea already without getting into the specifics of her sister’s love life.

Once Dawn had gone, Spike and Buffy resumed their warm snuggling and kissing on the sofa. Something *had* changed the night before, something that neither of them could really put words to. Something about the complete openness they had shared with each other, pouring out the fears and other emotions they had been keeping secret from each other for so long, made Buffy feel better about the past, certain that it was truly behind them now, and made Spike feel safer in the future that lay ahead of them.

With a sigh, Buffy once again lifted her head. “I don’t wanna go to work,” she muttered in a pouty tone.

“Then we’re agreed,” he murmured with a lazy, suggestive grin, laying his head back on the sofa. “You’re staying.”

She groaned as she raised herself up on her arms and sat down on the far end of the couch, her knees tucked up under her. She pulled him up with her, not willing to relinquish contact yet. “No,” she whimpered petulantly. “I have to go. Bills to pay, kid to feed, all that crap.” She smiled again as she leaned in for that one last kiss that she just couldn’t resist. “But we can just – you know – sort of put the afternoon on pause? Pick up right here when I get home?”

He kissed her back, murmuring with a sigh of resignation as he pulled away, “Sounds good, love.”

As Buffy rose reluctantly to her feet and reached for her jacket, slung haphazard over the chair opposite them, Spike watched her in silence, his mood becoming more serious.

“So…about our little problem, pet…” he began reluctantly, hesitant to bring it up and spoil the very-pleasant mood.

“We have a *little* problem?” she said with a pointed but humorous look at him. “I thought all our problems just automatically came in super-size.”

He laughed softly. “Right, then. About our great big – Warren-shaped – problem, pet…” His voice trailed off, and when she turned to look at him there was a certain apprehensively questioning look in his eyes.

She sighed, looking at the floor. “I’m just not sure what to do,” she confessed quietly. “I couldn’t kill him. I really thought I could. I mean, I *hate* him for what he did to you. And he deserves to die…but…”

“But you wouldn’t be you if you could do it, love,” he finished for her, understanding in his soft voice as he rose to stand behind her, his gentle arms sliding around her waist.

“I guess you’re right. But we can’t exactly just let him go either. Because the chances of his keeping his mouth shut about being kidnapped and beaten up and all that are about zero,” she pointed out with a grimace. “So that would mean getting the authorities involved and we *so* don’t need that. I’m just not sure what to do.”

“Well…put off the decision long enough and it’ll solve itself,” Spike said, then paused for a moment before asking in a voice of grim humor. “If he starves or dies of thirst, you didn’t technically kill him, right, love?”

She laughed in spite of herself, her eyes widening at the casual way in which they were discussing this, even laughing about it. Only a couple of months ago the situation would have been so clear – black and white – and she would probably have been ready to stake Spike for even suggesting what he just had. But she knew better now.

Nothing was that simple.

“I took some food and water down there this morning,” she admitted, sounding almost guilty for the small humane gesture toward Warren. “while you were still asleep. I don’t want him dying on us before we’ve decided what to do. Like you said…it would kind of remove the element of choice, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded silently, his arms tightening unconsciously around her at the emotions that always accompanied the thought of Warren, even if he *was* a helpless prisoner at this point, and utterly incapable of harming him.

Buffy’s arms came to rest on top of the strong arms encircling her, and she leaned her head back against his chest, closing her eyes for a moment. Just trying to work all this out made her feel exhausted. “I don’t know…maybe we should get the others in on this…see if anybody’s got any ideas.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” he shrugged. “Maybe Red or Tara’s got some spell they could do to keep the wanker from talking…or…or make him so bloody weak that he can’t ever hurt anyone again…no, can’t ever *move* again, or…or remove his manly bits…”

Buffy turned and gave him an odd look, eyebrows raised questioningly.

He shrugged again. “Just a bit of venting, love. Wishful thinking.”

She smiled, her eyes softening as she looked at him. “You’re entitled,” she said reassuringly, her fingers absently stroking his arm around her. She sighed as she gently disentangled herself from his embrace. “Do me a favor and give everybody a call. We’ll meet over here tonight after I get off work. Should be about ten. Okay?”

He nodded without a word as she turned to face him, reaching a tender hand up to caress his cheek, as she sought his eyes. “We’re gonna figure something out. I promise,” she assured him, giving him one last brief but intimate kiss before heading out the door.

After she left, he thought about going upstairs to check on Dawn, but then changed his mind, not really feeling in the mood for cheery conversation. He sat down on the couch and turned the television on, but nothing seemed to catch his interest. He felt restless and unsettled and anxious, but wasn’t really sure exactly why.

Warren was a prisoner, bound, chipped, and helpless in the basement of his crypt. Shouldn’t he feel safe? Content? Elated, even?

But the reality of knowing that he was *there*, even if he was no longer a threat, just brought back the memories of his time under Warren’s control, stronger than ever. He tried to think about the television program, but all he could see in his mind were repeating images of the abuses he had suffered, the cruel insults and degradations Warren had subjected him to, over and over again.

He tried to remind himself that Warren would never be able to do those things again, that Warren had been rendered essentially harmless to him, but he just couldn’t seem to make that concept real in his mind. Every time he thought of Warren, that all-consuming fear began to come over him again.

But by now, the fear that had saturated his existence for so long was mingled with a slowly building rage, growing in strength with his growing understanding that he had *not* deserved what was done to him. In his slowly but steadily strengthening heart, a faint plea for justice had been gradually growing in volume and intensity until now it was an urgent cry, refusing to be silenced.

He thought again of that fateful moment when he had discovered Dawn’s secret, learned that she was holding his former captor prisoner in his crypt. He remembered the moment vividly, when he had considered going down there and confronting the one who had abused him so mercilessly, some deep part of him crying out even then to face the one who had wronged him.

But even then, his fear had overwhelmed him, refusing to allow him to accept that he was truly free from Warren’s power, forever. In his mind’s eye, the concept was firmly rooted: he was weak; Warren was strong. Any conflict between them could never come out in his favor. So, he had decided to go without the confrontation that his deepest being craved desperately, needed to fulfill his healing -- for the simple reason that he just couldn’t fathom the idea of Warren, at *his* mercy.

Not without seeing it for himself, at any rate.

He sat there a little while longer, considering the idea that was slowly forming in his mind. Buffy would be at work until after ten; the sun would go down sometime a little after six. That would leave him plenty of time.

For what? he wondered suddenly in confusion, frowning and shaking his head a little. What did he even want to do? Although they had been furious, still were, over the things Warren had done, neither Buffy nor Dawn had been capable of killing Warren, when it came right down to it. That alone made him feel hesitant to carry out the act as well, for fear of what they would think of him. Would carrying out his own vengeance against Warren be risking his relationships with the ones he loved more than anything in the world?

A good sound beating, while undoubtedly satisfying, would be a bit redundant considering that Buffy had just administered a brutal one the night before. Chances were that the boy might not have even regained consciousness yet, and might not even be aware that he was even there.

Words? He shook his head, closing his eyes. There were no words. What could he possibly say to Warren that would make anything any better, that would even come close to expressing the torment he had been through? As if Warren would care what he *said*, anyway! he thought bitterly.

Every time he thought of what he might do when he saw Warren, nothing he thought of doing felt right, nothing he thought of saying was enough. He really couldn’t seem to come up with a decent plan of action…yet he still found himself rising from the couch and pacing anxiously in anticipation.

He had no idea what he was going to say or do, not really. But his violated heart and spirit cried out in rage for the chance to face down his abuser. Something deep within him knew at a subconscious level that his progress toward becoming himself again could only go so far without this necessary step. No, he didn’t know what he was going to do when he got to the old crypt. There was only one thing he knew for sure.

It was time for him and Warren to have a confrontation.


“Going out for a bit, Niblet,” he called casually up the stairs around six-thirty, shrugging into his duster as he did. “Be back in a couple of hours.”

“Okay,” she called back distractedly. She was on the phone and not too worried about what he was doing.

That was good. He didn’t want her wondering and worrying about him, didn’t want to have to worry about her well-intentioned intrusions on his plan for the evening. He scoffed a little at his own thoughts as he walked out the front door.

What plan?

He really had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He just knew that this was something he had to do. But as he neared the cemetery, every nerve in his body was on high alert; he could feel his hands trembling and his mouth was dry with the terror he tried to quell.

*You’ve got to do this,* he reminded himself firmly. *Can’t let him keep you in fear anymore. He can’t hurt you, and you’ve got to prove that to yourself.*

He reached the crypt door, and paused, his hand trembling on the handle, uncertain. And in that moment, he almost turned around and went back to the house. He took a deep, unnecessary breath, steeling himself, and pushed the door open. He could see the faint glow from the open sarcophagus; the cover had been left off, and the torch in the basement room was still lit.

More accurately, he realized as he neared the opening, the cover was no longer existent. He saw the shattered pieces near the wall, and couldn’t help but smile at the thought of his passionate, powerful girl, rushing in here full of the fire of righteous rage in defense of *him*. Somehow the thought of Buffy and the imagination of *her* encounter with Warren last night made him feel stronger.

Still, he had to force himself to place his feet on the ladder and begin his descent. He was painfully conscious as he did that his back was to Warren as he descended the ladder. He tried to stay calm, remembering that Warren was bound and unable to touch him, but just the thought of the sadistic young man behind him nearly drove him out of his mind with fear.

He tried to control his rising panic; fought the impulse to spin around defensively when he reached the bottom, not wanting to give Warren any indication of just how terrified he still was. As his feet touched the floor, with a forcedly slow movement he turned to face the captor turned prisoner.

And he felt a wave of fearful sickness wash over him at the sight that met his eyes. He fought once more with the panicked sensations that assailed him, trying to control his suddenly rapid, ragged breathing and slow his racing thoughts to comprehend what he was seeing.

Everything was as Buffy described it. The implements of torture, the surgical table, the chains Dawn had used to bind Warren. Only one thing was not as she had described it to him.

On the floor near where the chains met the wall lay a tiny piece of metal, glinting in the firelight; Spike knew immediately that it was a key.

And the chains were empty.