Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It's OC, so deal with it or bail now. J

Timeline: Selfless

Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

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~+~

He had come to fear the dark.

Spike sat, back pressed deep into a far corner of the new Sunnydale High basement, staring into the blackness around him. Knees drawn to his chest, body scrunched as small as he could make it, he tried to melt into the freshly-cured concrete wall, to become invisible, to hide. Surely, The Other wouldn't find him - this time.

The Other. The thing that stalked and tormented him every hour of every day since… how long had it been, since his return? Weeks for sure. Months, maybe? Not that it mattered. A day, a week, or a month - torment was torment and he was reaching his breaking point. Fast.

He snickered at that. Breaking point. He'd careened over that a long time ago. The best he could hope for now was bits of lucidity, some clarity of mind for when she'd come to him, seek him out and ask for his help. His glowing prize. His darling. His judge. His Slayer. She was his all, now. He had nothing left. The Other - and the fright it instilled - had drained him of everything else, leaving him a hollow shell, a ghost of what he'd started to become. Spike. The Big Bad. Vampire of the Line of Aurelius, slayer of Slayers, survivor of apocalypses and all-consuming love, reduced to a cellar rat, cowering from things that rattled in the dark, fearing the realm that should have been his demon's playground.

Nothing of him left. Nothing worthwhile, at least.

Not quite true.

There was always the soul, his ethereal self, for which he'd fought to be restored. For her. For Buffy. It was meant to be his gift to her, an offering to demonstrate his love and humanity, to make him be someone worthy of her. He still had It, sullen and fractured as It was, picking at him from the inside, with guilt and self-loathing. It had reason to hate him. It didn't want to be here. It hadn't chosen this. It hadn't wanted to be gifted to someone It didn't love, to someone who didn't care for It or Its existence. This wasn't home. This wasn't peace. Its counterpart was responsible for Its suffering. The demon had crushed Its haven in its jaws and there was no going back.

His eyes started to burn, his vision blurring as they began to water. He resisted the urge to blink, unwilling to take his attention off the shadows, which might allow The Other the chance to pounce. He rocked gently on his heels, the rhythm taking his mind off the discomfort, letting him focus on the task at hand. Be alert. Be safe. Get through the night.

A rustling came from the shadows. Spike snapped to attention, seeking the source of the sound. It wasn't The Other. The Other made no noise, but simply appeared. This was something else. He sniffed the air, then crept forward, on hands and knees, into the darkness. A rat. He hadn't seen - or smelled - one in days. The Other had driven most of them away, taking glee in finding yet another way to cause Spike misery. Hunger gnawed at his gut as he slunk towards his prey. Stacks of freshly milled wood and sacks of concrete were scattered throughout the basement, sharing space with boxes of books, desks and other needs for the resurrected Sunnydale High School. Rounding a pile of discarded packing crates, he located his target. Slowly, he inched his way closer. He could almost taste the animal's sour blood… just two more steps and…

"SPARKY!"

Spike gasped as The Other snapped into being, the rat forgotten even as he listened to it scuttle away. Spike retreated into the nest of boxes, guarding his back as he forced himself to look up at his tormentor. 'Warren' again.

'Warren' smirked at the vampire huddled at his feet.

"What is it with you and rats, man? It's just… ew, you know? Gross. Can't understand why you're sucking on the squeakers when there's tastier meat outside… and in the girls' locker room."

"Not real," Spike muttered, willing some anger into his bloodshot eyes. "Not here."

"Aw, I'm hurt, man. And, real enough, too, so show some respect." 'Warren' shot a fist out at Spike, laughing as the vampire flinched at the phantom blow.

"Gotcha!" he cackled. His twisted smile reverted to a frown as Spike collected himself. "But, seriously, the rat diet's gotta stop. I can't have my best toy chowing down on fucking vermin. You need your strength, dude. You're no good to me weak. Well, weaker at least. Wouldn't do if you started bucking the training too much."

Spike tried to sink further into the stack of crates, wincing as a loose board jammed his shoulder. 'Warren' tsked and knelt next to him.

"I know what you're thinking. No money for blood, too soft on the felines to go hunting for them, so the rats will do. But, I'm trying to tell ya, there's a world of flesh out there just waiting for you. Okay, so you're still all 'chips ahoy' in the brain pan, but, Spikey… I can help you with that."

"S… Sod off," Spike whispered, trying his best to attempt a glare.

"Well! A backbone! Good for you! I thought the Slayer had that in her panty drawer, along with your balls. No, wait, the other one holds the ticket on those."

Spike eyed the apparition warily. 'Warren's' smirk returned. "What? Don't you think I know about her? The little girl you Ma Bell-ed, all weepy and scared, begging her to come for you? You know, when you're asleep, getting all twitchy with the dreams and the guilt, it's not that bitch Buffy you call out for."

"Isobelle," Spike breathed. 'Warren' nodded. "She must've been something else, to be taking the Slayer's place in your dreams. What was it about her made her so special? She a really good fuck, or what?"

"She… she was… nice to me."

The misery of Africa, the soul and his outcast state had found mitigation over the summer, when a chance encounter with Isobelle Jones had given him the chance to see what life could be like when one led with an open hand instead of a fist. Spike had found a safe haven in her home, her friendship and, later, her heart. For the first time since William had become part of his past, Spike had experienced passion, based on tenderness and desire rather than strength and dominance. She had given of her home, of herself and her life without expecting something in return. At last, he'd been on the receiving end of another's affection and regard, with no demands for reciprocation of anything more than respect.

It had been so easy to fall in love with her.

'Warren' stood up, hovering over Spike. "How screwed up is your unlife? You get your soul back - pain, pain, torment, torment, the usual shit - and It goes and gets all drippy over the wrong girl! Now - stupid vamp trash that you are - you managed to screw up that sweet situation by nearly sucking dry the first person who didn't want you dead - well, deader - at first sight. Not a wise move. So, you come back here - run into ME - and start to dodder and drool over the Slayer, who - it seems - doesn't give two hoots about you, your soul, or your pain." 'Warren' chuckled. "And people thought I had problems with women."

"Fuck off," Spike muttered.

'Warren' sighed. "Face it, boy. No one is coming to help you. No one ever will. I'm all you got. The sooner you realize that, the easier things will be, I promise."

"Sh… she loves m… me. She loves me."

"And look what it got her. Wonder what her scars look like?"

Spike didn't respond. 'Warren' shrugged. "Fine. The hard way it is. Just means more fun for me." He turned on his heel and walked away, feet falling with eerie silence on the concrete floor.

"Oh, Spike, by the way," he called, over his shoulder, "Remember, you love something, you've got something to lose. You better hope that sweet little girl of yours isn't looking for you. You may think she loves you, but I know who you love, and, she ain't the only one. You got twice the stuff to lose, my friend. Think about that, before you hurt them both. Because, I promise, you will hurt them. I'll see to it."

Spike shivered as 'Warren' dissolved into the darkness. The Other was gone.

He sat, still wedged within the cobble of crates, trying to erase The Other's words from his mind.

Buffy.

Isobelle.

He couldn't hurt them again. He hugged his knees to his chest, hiding his face in the hollow, and prayed.

"Don't come for me… don't come for me… don't… " A sob hitched his voice. "Don't come… for … me… "

~+~

Sunrise.

Unbelievably warm reddish-gold rays of light shone through the gaps in the hotel room curtains, falling across the bed in jagged lines, highlighting the imperfections that years of wear and tear had inflicted on the cotton coverlet. Isobelle Jones frowned. On the surface, the hotel seemed nice, almost posh; at least it had when she'd arrived from the airport a few hours ago. Brass and marble in the reception area, rich wood and wool carpeting throughout the halls and in her room, plush furnishings and polite staff; that made it all the more disconcerting, seeing the shoddiness of the linen under which she'd slept.

Pushing the coverlet to the floor, she rose and went to the shower. She inspected the towels before stripping down, satisfied they looked passable for use. She stood under the hot jets of water, hoping the spray would pound some of the tension out of her tired body. Ten hours on a plane and her late-night check-in had taken their toll; each muscle felt riddled with knots that twitched and ached with every move. But, the pain in her body was the least of her concerns. Why she was here, in the small coastal burg of Sunnydale, California, was at the forefront of her consciousness.

Spike.

Five months ago, her world had been so simple. She'd been just another junior MD, looking to survive residency and stay in the good graces of her supervisors. It was on her last nightshift, in a backwater ER, that she'd met him.

Nothing had been the same since.

Her worldview had been altered. She'd learned that things really did go bump in the night. Monsters did exist and vampires were real.

More than real. They were undead entities, with no heartbeat, no body heat and no need to breathe. But hers - she grimaced; even now, she still thought of him as her vampire - he lived. Fully. He was sentient, sensitive, stubborn and sweet. She'd watched - and felt - his suffering, his despair and later, his contentment. He'd cried, he'd laughed, teased and comforted. The coolness of his flesh had belied the warmth in his actual touch, his smile, and his eyes.

I see a man…

She remembered saying that to him, during one of his darker moments. It was something she'd wanted him to believe, because it was how she'd started to see him. She knew there was a demon lurking inside. She'd met it more than once and, thinking the man was now stronger than the monster within, she'd allowed it to get too close. And it had ruined them both.

She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Wiping condensation off the mirror with the heel of her palm, she groaned at the reflection cast back at her. She'd hardly slept since he'd left, almost two months ago. Then, last week, there had been the call. He'd sounded desperate, fearful, begging her for help and babbling apologies for what he'd done.

She tilted her head to the side and examined the pale expanse of flesh on the left side of her neck. She had to squint to make out the scars: two silvery puncture marks joined by twin crescents, the remnants of his bite, her reward for reaching out to his demon, for wanting to accept him.

All of him.

She ran her fingers over the slick tissue. It felt - odd. Not painful, but - sensitive. Whenever she touched it, it was like his hands were on her, stroking her skin. She could feel his arms, holding her close. Sometimes, the scar would burn, making her flush and tingle. His mark. His brand, rent into her flesh, binding her to someone - something, she thought sadly - that she probably would never get to have. She stared at it and caressed it again. His hands, again. She trembled slightly, savouring the sensation, then pulled her fingers away. That wasn't why she was here. He'd asked for help. She'd given it before and she was willing to do so again. Things were unfinished between them and hopefully, in the course of helping him, she would find resolution, some closure of her own, to whatever it was she'd allowed to develop between them over the summer.

A lump formed in the pit of her stomach at the thought. Closure. Resolution. That was the way it had to be. Instead of staying, facing what he'd done, he'd left. She'd woken up weak, sick and alone, which, she'd discovered, had hurt her far worse than the realization that he'd seemingly lost control and had come close to…

Enough, she chastised. Pulling a brush through her still-wet hair, she smoothed out the worst of the knots in the wavy curls and went to get dressed. She had one clue, one piece of real information, linking her to where he was, or more precisely, where he'd been when he'd called her. A phone number and an address, scrawled on a scrap of paper, securely tucked away in her wallet. She had to remind herself it was a start.

She'd find him.

She had to.

~+~

It had to be neat. It had to be tidy. A place for everything and everything in its place. He was where he was supposed to be - in the basement, with the bugs, the vermin and The Other. This was where he belonged and here he would stay. But sometimes, she would come here, down into the dark, to find him, search him out and ask for his help. And he would - he was happy to. He owed her nothing less than his penance, his servitude. She was due things from him and he would oblige her every need. Her Willing Slave. He'd meant that. Now, he was living it. All for her.

He looked sadly upon the packing crates before him. He'd collected what he could find and brought them to one end of the storage area. They were arranged kitty-corner, facing the fencing, his attempt at making a seating area for her, if she visited again. Someone had removed the rest of the office chairs yesterday, leaving him with only the rough wooden boxes and cinderblocks to work with.

"Won't do," he muttered, whipping a hand through his greasy curls. "Won't do at all. Not right. Better… needs to be better." He cast a wild eye to his surroundings before trotting down one of the dimly lit hallways. His footfalls echoed in the gloom and it made him feel secure. He made noise. That meant he was real. He existed. The days were always better when he could convince himself of that. He was flesh and bone and blood and soul… not that he could feel the soul like that. At least when he smashed his fist into the meat of his thigh, it bruised. That was real. Or pounded on the cinderblock walls until his fingers cracked and twisted. That was real.

The soul, he couldn't touch. It wouldn't sing to him now, only coming to the fore when he was in pain. It took dark satisfaction in Spike's misery. It wouldn't nurse him after the torments of The Other, nor give him pride when he'd helped his Slayer. As battered and bruised as Its vessel, the soul had curled in upon itself, denying Spike his awareness of It unless It needed to lash out, to hurt him.

It remembered why It was sought out, had seen to whom It was meant to be gifted. It remained silent and sullen in the face of Its duty: to be for her, for the Slayer. It refused to capitulate to that destiny. Spike had been taught once that It was not to be denied Its wants. He would learn that lesson again. It was only a matter of time before It would bend Spike back to Its will and fulfill Its needs.

"Nothing," Spike moaned, rifling through another pile of discarded crates and boxes. "Got to be something… need to find something… "

"There you are."

Spike flung himself around, panic on his face.

"Hey, relax. It's only me."

A wavering smile grew on his face. "Buffy."

"Hi."

She stood a short distance away, hands toying with the hem of her white blouse.

"You… you look very pretty today," he managed.

"Thank you. Spike? What are you doing?"

"Nothing! I'm… I'm being good, I promise."

"I know that. And, you are - being good. I meant, what are you doing, you know, with the boxes and the junk and all…"

"Just looking. I was…" He hesitated. The smile faded from his face. "Is something wrong? Do you… need… me?"

"What? Oh, no. Things are fine - for a place that's all evil and Hellmouth-y."

"Buffy… then, why… why are you here?"

"I… I wanted to see you. To talk to you."

"About?"

It was her turn to smile. Her soft lips curved at the corners and her green eyes sparkled in the faint light.

"You."

"Me?"

"No, the other you! Yes you. I'm worried about you. I… I want to help you."

Spike took a cautious step forward. Buffy held her place, not flinching at his approach.

"Why?" he asked, trying to keep his joy in check. She was here, for him. His Slayer.

Her smile broadened

"Because… I care about you. After everything you've done for us… for me… I want to show you my gratitude and how…" She cast her eyes to the floor briefly, as if collecting her thoughts. "You are important to me and I want to help you. You've earned it, Spike. Its what you deserve."

~+~

"This can't be right…"

Welcome to Sunnydale High School.

Checking the address for the third time, Isobelle scanned the crumpled bit of paper in her hand. She hadn't expected this. Since the night of his call, her imagination had been working overtime, conjuring strange and pathetically sad scenarios regarding where and how she would ultimately find him. Noir-ish images of seedy bars, dank alleys, or grungy motels were always the backdrop, with Spike being even more wretched and broken than when they'd first met. In her mind, it was all about him. Finding him. Helping him. Resolution. Setting him back on his feet - again - so that both could walk their separate paths, on equal ground.

She squinted against the blinding sunlight and surveyed her surroundings. Flagstones were under her feet, not the greasy cobbles of a back alley, serving as courtyard to the gleaming white concrete building before her. Fresh air and the laughing chatter of students filled her ears, not the tinny music and clanking glasses of some rank watering hole.

Shoving the address into the pocket of her jeans, she lowered herself onto one of the benches scattered around the campus, buried her face in her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. It had been too easy. Tracking the call, finding the address and coming here to Sunnydale… small steps, easily taken, on what was turning out to be a monumental quest. Second thoughts had never been entertained, until now, faced with her first real obstacle. Why the hell did she ever think she'd be able to track him down? She was reconciled to her purpose, but was it worth it? If, by some chance, they found one another again, would it be easy to say goodbye?

Sighing, she raised her head and looked at the school.

Obstacle.

Run?

Or overcome?

"Ow…" she mumbled, hand flying to her throat. She loosened the silk wisp of her scarf, exposing the scar. It had started to hurt - not badly, but the feeling was definitely unpleasant: like tiny, fiery sparks prickling over her skin. She massaged her neck, trying to soothe away the sensation, and winced. Touching made it worse. It was nothing like the warm, luxurious tingle of this morning; this time, it ached, evoking a malevolent melancholy that pooled in her belly and made her long for home.

This couldn't be right. She had to leave, regroup and rethink her plan. It had been foolishness, thinking her tragic little rescue fantasies would ever come to pass; a mistake of monumental proportions to have come here at all.

Rising from the bench, she turned her back on the school. Her shoes clacked on the flagstones, the ache in her neck abating a bit more with each step she took. As she approached the campus boundaries, it had faded to a dull throb. She paused and looked once more at the gleaming Sunnydale High. She ran her fingers over the scar, testing the sensitive skin. She swayed slightly as her nerves fired, bringing back a bit of the sting. She took one cautious step forward, then another. Her whole body hummed as she moved towards the school again, the biting heat of his mark eventually melting away to merge with - what, exactly? An emptiness; a feeling of almost panicked yearning, that made her buzz with agitation.

Students milled in the courtyard and crowded the entrance. She wove her way amongst the chatting cliques and eventually reached the main doors.

Obstacle.

Run?

Or overcome?

Rightly or wrongly, she'd been led here. Coming this far, she owed it to herself to see it through. She had to try, or she'd never be able to let it go.

She pulled the door open and slipped inside.

Here we go…

TBC…

~+~