What's Good for the Soul

Chapter 1

Something was wrong with the ship.

Spike could feel the vessel pitch and toss beneath his feet as waves pounded it from all sides. He moved back unsteadily, farther into the mass of containers that crammed the hold. The cargo bay was filled with them, stacked tightly together, with only tiny narrow walkways between the rows. Water was pouring through a cracked seam in the bulkhead, soaking him up to the cuffs of his torn pants, numbing his already cold feet. Slipping around one tight corner, he stumbled over the body of one of the crew. The man had been sent below, when the storm started, to check that the containers were well secured. They weren't. Loose rigging had slipped from one of the containers, the steel stays striking him in the head, killing him instantly. No one had missed him. Yet. Spike regarded the body with a mixture of fear and guilt. It wasn't his fault - the man's death. He had seen it happen, heard the wet thud of steel meeting flesh and bone, saw him crumple to the flooded deck. The smell of blood had pulled him closer. He had been so hungry, he couldn't help himself. He fed off the fresh kill until the pangs subsided, the headiness of feeding on human blood after so long fogging his brain. He hated that he still felt the need to feed on people and was ashamed of his actions.

A loud crack echoed through the hold and the water began to pour in more quickly. Spike could hear the panicked shouts of the crew above, but didn't understand what they were saying. The ship lurched starboard and he was slammed into a set of containers. Fastenings snapped around him and the loads began to shift, further stricturing the narrow passages. Being discovered by the crew was now the least of his worries; if he didn't get out of the cargo hold, he would die.

Scrambling as fast as the cold water would allow him, he made his way out of the belly of the ship to the deck above. It was chaos. Rain and waves beat down on the deck, the wind whipping all unsecured equipment around and making movement even more difficult. Men ran, yelling to one another, skidding on the slick decking as they piled into lifeboats. Spike watched one crewman fight another for a lifejacket. The larger man viciously beat the other to the deck, then ripped the device off his victim's body before jumping into a lifeboat. He looked around for a way to escape the ship, but there was no way he could slip into a lifeboat without being noticed; he'd be tossed overboard like the stowaway he was.

With a loud groan the ship listed further to starboard, the deck tilting under his feet, making him scrabble for balance, but the deck was too slick and he fell, slamming his head on the boards, sliding towards the open rails. Dazed, he flailed his arms until they connected with something solid, and he grabbed hold. He stopped short of going overboard and pulled on whatever had kept him from going off. It was one of the deck ties used to secure crates above board, and it was still fastened to the toggle. He hauled himself up from the edge and wrapped the tie around his arm, settling by the mooring.

That was when he heard it, above the wail of the storm; a low, steady thrumming, and it was close. He squinted up into the rain to see the source, and was blinded as a bright searchlight flooded his position on the deck. The Search and Rescue helicopter hovered over him, static from the rotors flashing blue jets of light into the stormy sky. Spike watched as a rope was thrown from the side door and a figure emerged, in uniform, rappelling down to him. He felt a harness secured around his body and he and the rescue worker were pulled back to the chopper.

"You're gonna be okay, buddy. Just stay with me now."

Blankets were wrapped around him as he was placed into a stretcher berth. His head throbbed and he was painfully cold. The rescue worker gave him a tight smile as the flight paramedic began his assessment. Spike was dazed, but had enough sense to push the medic away when he tried to take his blood pressure.

"Relax, sir, I just need to get a few vitals. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I… I'm fine," Spike muttered, withdrawing from the medic. God knows what they'd do if they found out he was a talking corpse.

The medic sighed, but didn't press the issue. Retrieving some telfa from his kit, he showed Spike the bandage and tried another approach.

"You got quite the whack on the head. Just let me clean it up a little before we get to the hospital, okay? As long as you stay conscious I'll leave you be, but I can't have you bleeding all over the chopper."

The medic's attempt at humour earned a grunt from the rescue worker, but Spike simply shifted forward to allow the man access to his wound.

A hospital would complicate things, but not by much, if he was careful. He had survived the ship, Africa, and the burning lump of desolation that the demon had dumped into his chest. A couple of doctors and nurses should be easy to deal with after that.

Isobelle Jones stared at the clock. This can't be right, she thought, blinking at the offending object nailed to the wall in front of her. It's only one AM. Tiredly, she turned and surveyed the nearly empty emergency room and sighed. Maybe once and for all man would have the answer to the question 'Is it possible to be bored to death?' She felt close to a breakthrough on that topic as she hopefully scanned the intake board for new charts. Nothing. Damn. She hated the sticks.

The small regional hospital was something all residents had to endure if they ever hoped to crawl up the medical ladder; do well in here; a coveted fellowship might be in your future. Trauma was the prestige award Isobelle wanted, and sticking it out here was a step in that direction. And after tonight, she was done. In eight hours she would hand the reins over to the next eager recruit, and five minutes after that, she'd be headed home. If boredom didn't kill her first.

She made an unnecessary circuit around the treatment area, checking on the two lone patients she had cared for so far, just to keep herself occupied. The nurses would get her if she was needed, but they were pretty self-sufficient and knew patient care protocols better than she did.

Settling into a chair that allowed her to see the whole treatment and triage area, she propped her feet up on a desk and pretended to study, leafing through the latest CMAJ. She read the same paragraph on – what the hell was this article about? - four times before she gave up. She had just thrown the journal to the desk when the paramedic working the triage desk handed her a phone-in consult.

"Don't say I never gave you anything," Walter said, handing her the clipboard.

"Finally!" she replied, taking it eagerly. "What's the story?"

"Not a good one. Ship went down in a storm, about 100 kilometres off shore. Most of the crew took to the lifeboats, but this guy got lifted from the deck by S & R."

"Well, that does suck. How many lost?"

Walter shrugged. "Dunno. The survivors who speak English are asking for lawyers, apparently. Cutters picked them up and they all seem relatively fine, so S & R is taking them to the naval base for assessment and investigation."

Isobelle tapped the clipboard with her pen. "And this guy? What's his problem?"

"Air lifted off the deck, possible head injury, but stable enough, they guess, to be dealt with here instead of the city."

"What do you mean by 'They guess'? Either he is or he isn't." Isabelle frowned, looking over the triage consult. S & R medics were consummate pros. She didn't like the sound of them transporting a potential head injury without having done a proper assessment.

"Again, I don't know. I wasn't there. Apparently he's awake and talking and has refused all attempts to even get a set of vitals. They said he wasn't combative…"

"Yet," she said cynically.

"But wasn't keen on being touched."

"So he's all mine."

"Looks that way." Walter retrieved the report and went to prepare the paperwork. "They land in twenty and I'll direct them to the trauma room."

"Do what you do, Walt. I'll be here, regardless."

Hauling herself out of the chair, she made her way to the back of the ward, toward the trauma room. It was the most private area of the ward and since it was slow in the ER tonight, it was the best place to put a potentially aggressive head injury patient. She went to the sink in the room and ran the cold water. Waiting until it was chilled enough that it numbed her fingers, she cupped some in her hands and splashed it on her face. She peered into the small mirror above the sink. Tired blue eyes reflected back at her, looking deep set due to the dark circles rimmed there against her naturally pale skin. She ran damp fingers through her short dark hair, willing some body back into the lifeless curls that had been such a curse as a child. Turning her attention to the room, she satisfied herself that everything was in its proper place, and settled on a stool to wait for her patient to arrive. Absently, she looked at the clock on the wall. One twenty AM.

Seven hours, forty minutes to go.

They wheeled him into a room at the back, sliding him effortlessly from one stretcher to another. If his head didn't hurt so badly he would have made a show of how embarrassing it was to be carted around like a weakling. Unpleasant memories of his time confined to a wheelchair sprang to mind, his humiliation made worse by the behaviour of his lover and her sire. He endured the attentions of a nurse, while the medics who had brought him in went to speak to the young woman at the foot of the stretcher. She listened intently to their report, casting Spike the occasional glance as one medic brought her up to date.

"You're slipping Darren," she said dryly, signing his transfer log, accepting responsibility for the patient's care. "Since when can't you get so much as a pulse on a patient? Or a name? Maybe it's time to consider that switch to paediatrics."

The medic raised his hands in mock surrender. "So fire me. Wasn't getting into a fight in the back of a helicopter just to get a set of vitals. If we were luckier, he woulda passed out. But he stayed awake and pretty lucid. Wouldn't give a name. The gash on his head doesn't even look as bad as it did when we picked him up." He accepted his paper work back and shot her a grin. "Consider this a going away present from Search and Rescue."

"Thanks. And I didn't get you anything."

Spike watched the exchange quietly while trying to get the nurse to leave him the hell alone. When she tried a second time to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm, he grabbed her wrist and pulled it off his arm. Hot pain ripped through his head as the chip fired, making him dizzy and sick to his stomach. "Just… leave me be," he muttered thickly, cradling his aching head in his hands. Isobelle moved back to the side of the stretcher and quietly signaled the nurse to leave. She did, drawing the curtain behind her, leaving Isobelle to deal with the stranger on her own.

"My name is Isobelle Jones. I'm the doctor on call here tonight. Can you tell me your name?"

Spike didn't look up. He kept rubbing his temples in a futile effort to make the pain go away. Maybe if he ignored her, she would leave and he could sneak out before they figured out what he was – or more precisely, what he wasn't. A minute passed and the woman hadn't left. She stood there silently, watching him, waiting for an answer.

"I just need a name for the chart," she continued. "If you are going to refuse care, I at least need to know who you are. They said you had no ID on you."

He still didn't answer. Isobelle tried a different approach.

"Do you remember your name?" she asked gently. "Do you know who you are?"

Spike raised his head from his hands and looked at her. That was a good question. Who was he? Who did that demon drive into his body? William, right? Was he back to that?

Dammit, he thought. The simplest of things had become difficult. Do you know who you are? No. Bloody hell. No, I don't.

"Spike," he answered quietly, his accent thickening his speech. He dipped his head back in his hands. She dutifully recorded his response.

"Is that a nickname?" she asked. "Can you tell me your given name please?"

He sighed. "William." Again she wrote. As an afterthought he added, "Sutton."

A small smile played on her lips. "That's a nice name." She added a few more notes to her chart, then set it aside. Pulling up a stool, she sat next to the stretcher. Spike could tell by the way she settled in beside him that she wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon.

"Mr. Sutton," she began, her voice quiet and gentle, " I really don't care how it is you came to be here tonight. I have no need to know what you were doing on that ship, why you weren't in a lifeboat with the rest of the survivors, or why you are reluctant to accept treatment for your injuries. You have a cut on the back of your head, maybe a concussion, I don't know. And you are obviously in pain. Whatever secret you have, you can keep it. I just want to make sure you are okay."

"I will be," he answered. "I just need some rest and I'll be fine. Give me whatever paper I need to sign to get out of here and you can be off the hook."

Isobelle looked him over. He was soaked to the skin with a mixture of seawater and what smelled like diesel fuel. His hair was long and wild, frosty blond at the ends, warm wavy brown growing out beneath. Even wrapped in a blanket she knew his clothes were torn and dirty, and he was unnaturally pale, as though he hadn't seen the sun in years. He looked like a pathetic wretch, sitting there, dripping on her stretcher, head ducked to avoid her gaze. She was a sucker for the lost ones, which was trouble in her chosen profession. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He raised his head again in acknowledgement. Something inside her jumped as his eyes locked onto hers. He had deep blue eyes, the saddest eyes she'd ever seen. Dark brows accented the paleness of his skin, the one on the left bearing a small scar, quirking the perfection of his angular features.

So not the details to be noticing, she admonished herself. She cleared her throat, composing her thoughts.

"Where are you going to go? It's nearly two-thirty in the morning, you have no ID, no money, and you're hurt. So, let's compromise. Stay here, let me clean that cut on your head and in return, I'll get you into a hot shower and dry clothes and you can sleep here tonight. If you're still sure you're all right in the morning, I'll discharge you myself. Deal?"

Spike considered her offer. She was right. Where would he go at this hour? He didn't even know where he was.

"Promise you'll keep Florence bloody Nightingale away from me? No tests, no machines?"

Success. "I promise. It's a pretty slow night. I will look in on you myself."

"Fine," he replied. Anything to get a little peace.

True to her word, when Spike stepped out of the small shower stall, he found a clean set of blue scrubs, waiting for him on a chair. Dressed, he ran his hands through his wet hair, cursing when he irritated the laceration on the back of his head. Pulling his fingers out of the tangle of hair, he noticed blood was still seeping from the wound. Checking to make sure there was no one else in the locker room, he quickly licked the blood from his fingers and grimaced. How low had he sunk, that he had to do that? This whole thing had not turned out the way he had planned; granted, he got what he was after, his soul back, something he could throw in Buffy's face, removing the last obstacle to her smartening up and admitting she loved him the way he loved her. If she wouldn't join him in the dark, he'd force himself as far into the light as he could and make her choke on his gesture.

Exiting the locker room, he nearly tripped over Isobelle Jones, who was seated on the floor by the doorway.

"Making sure I don't bolt?" he asked flatly, watching her push herself to her feet.

"No, making sure you didn't pass out and go splat in the shower and drown. Wouldn't look good."

They walked back to the trauma room and she had him sit back up on the stretcher. On a table beside her was a dressing and suture tray, open and ready for her use. He scowled at her as she drew up lidocaine in a small syringe.

"You promised to let me fix up that cut," she reminded him. "Can you lie down for me? Just on your side."

He silently complied. He felt her gloved fingers on his hair, moving the damp curls aside to expose the wound. She was good; it hardly hurt at all.

"Wow," she said, "this doesn't look as bad as they thought. It's still going to need about three or four stitches. You okay with me going on?"

"Just do what you need to. Get this done."

She continued, with a minimum of conversation, only warning him before she injected the lidocaine into the wound margins. Cleaned and sutured, she led him out of the treatment area to a small room off the back hallway. It was furnished with a small cot, desk and lamp.

"This is the on call room. Ignore the stuff at the foot of the bed, it's mine. The sheets are clean and the mattress is pretty comfortable. No one will bother you in here and I'll check on you from time to time." She pointed to the phone. "The extension to the exam area is on the receiver. Call me if you need anything."

She was halfway out the door when Spike's voice pulled her back in.

"Dr. Jones?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

She sent him a small smile. "You're welcome."

By six AM Isobelle had all her paperwork done and the ER was empty, except for the mystery man sleeping in her call room. She dutifully checked on him every hour or so, amazed by how dead to the world he was, when asleep. She had actually started to panic the first time she looked in on him, certain that he wasn't breathing, but as she started toward the side of the bed, he stirred in his sleep and curled onto his side. And he had to have been breathing, she reasoned, because more than once she heard him talking in his sleep; about what, she couldn't tell. It must have been nightmares about the ship sinking, causing him to murmur in agitation as he slept.

She stared hard at his chart, at the glaring lack of detail on the H & P and diagnostics sections. Her supervisor would be pissed, considering the potential seriousness of what had brought this patient to the ER. Dropping the chart on the desk she rubbed the fatigue from her eyes and sighed. She could talk her way around her lack of stellar documentation and she knew she had done the best she could to keep this man safe. But, with less than three hours to go before she could say goodbye to this little ER, she started to wonder what Mr. Sutton would do if she kept her word and allowed him to leave. Guilt started to gnaw at her. Maybe she hadn't helped him out at all.

She made her way once again down the back hall to check on him, when she heard what sounded like an argument coming from the call room.

"Just bloody well leave me alone!" a now familiar British voice growled. She rounded through the door to see that her patient had backed up to one end of the bed, pressing his back against the wall, yelling at one of the maintenance workers. Her "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door had been ignored and he had entered to clean.

"What's going on?" Isobelle asked, looking from her agitated patient to the cleaner.

"Damned if I know," the worker said defensively. "All I did was come in to empty the trash and this guy is freaking out, talking to people who ain't here. So I go 'Hey, what's the problem?' and he goes ballistic."

"Mr. Sutton? William?" she said, slowly approaching the side of the bed.

"I can't think… I… I c… can't make them stop talking to me…"

"Do you want me to get security?" the maintenance worker asked, clearly hoping for any excuse to leave.

"No," Isobelle said, with more conviction than she felt. "He just talks in his sleep, I don't think he's quite awake yet. Forget about this, it'll be fine."

Now, left alone with him, Isobelle cautiously sat on the edge of the bed. Her brow furrowed in concern – did she miss a serious injury by not pushing to fully assess him?

"William? Can you hear me?"

"What? Yes, you and all of it… "

"Do you hear voices… other than mine?"

"Yes! I mean, no… no… it's just the past… won't leave me alone…"

Isobelle sat quietly, debating her next move. Spike made it for her.

"Is it morning yet? You said you'd release me in the morning."

"It's a little after six. Are you sure you want to leave? I can do more for you, if you'll let me…"

"I'm not crazy," he said, as calmly as he could. At least, not yet, he thought bitterly. The soul didn't just burn, it tormented. Flashes of things he had done in the past, cries of his victims – images and sounds ricocheted around his brain. He almost had sympathy for Angel, knowing now what it was like to deal with your conscience after a hundred years.

"I didn't say you were."

"I just have a lot on my mind and I need to get out of here."

Jumping off the bed, he moved past her and gathered his boots off the floor, pulling them on over bare feet.

"Mr. Sutton… William, just hold on a moment… " Isobelle began, placing a light yet restraining hand on his arm.

Lightening quick, Spike's hands shot up and grabbed her arms. Hard. He cringed in pain as the chip fired.

"You…you promised me… " he said hoarsely, through the misery in his head.

The door to the call room opened at that moment and a security guard appeared. The maintenance worker hovered nervously behind him in the hall

"What's going on? Get your hands off her, pal."

"No, there's no problem… " Isobelle began, trying to loosen Spike's grip on her arms.

The guard moved forward and grabbed one of Spike's wrists in an attempt to break his hold on the woman. With a snarl, Spike abruptly released Isobelle and shoved the guard back out the door, crashing him into the maintenance worker. Both fell to the floor in a heap. Spike howled as the chip fired again, then bolted from the room.

Isobelle pounced on the men still sprawled on the floor. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" she yelled. The guard attempted to answer but was cut off as she continued to rage. "I didn't call for help! Things were under control until you… never mind! Just go back to triage and see if he's there. DON'T touch him. Page me if you find him."

Sheepishly, the guard went to do as he was told. Isobelle glared at the cleaner, who also decided that leaving was the best plan. Heading away from the ER, she made her way down the hall, further into the inpatient areas of the facility. Morning staff were just arriving and all seemed as it should. Ducking into the stairwell, she went to the basement. Unshielded fluorescent bulbs lit the halls. She walked carefully, checking every corridor she passed, testing each doorknob to see if any were unlocked. She approached a junction in the hall and stopped to get her bearings. One way led back into the service area of the hospital – laundry, physical plant, sterile processing – the other went to a loading bay. Well, he wanted to get out of here, she thought, moving towards the exit.

The smart thing would have been to call that stupid security guard back and not go into a dark and secluded area of the basement by herself, but Isobelle did not feel threatened by the man she was looking for. Strange as it sounded, even when he had grabbed her, she hadn't felt scared. He'd looked more scared than her. She moved as quietly as she could, not wanting to miss a sound. A cool breeze drifted up the corridor, telling her she was near the outer doors of the bay. Walking a bit further, she saw him as she entered the loading area.

Spike sat with his knees drawn to his chest, resting his head on his folded arms. He was so tired, and his head still throbbed from the incident upstairs. The pain was worth tossing those two idiots to the floor, but he never meant to hurt the woman. She had been nice to him, even when he hadn't made it easy. Good job, Spike, the voice inside – his conscience? – jeered at him, slap away the one kind hand offered to you… He pressed his forehead harder into his arms, trying to drive the ache and voice out of his head. It didn't work. It never worked.

Stupid sod, he berated himself, forgot that 'morning equals sun', didn't you? Where the hell did he think he was going to go with the sun up?

He sensed someone else had entered the bay, but didn't bolt; he knew it was her.

She joined him, sitting on the cold cement. She waited for him to make the first move.

"Not very smart, coming down here by yourself," he said, head still buried in his arms. There was no harshness, no malice in his tone; Isobelle tamped down the small thrill of nerves that rolled in her stomach.

"Are you a threat to me?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

He chuckled. "Once upon a time…"

"Look," he continued, "sorry about that whole… unpleasantness…"

"Not completely your fault," she replied. "It all could have been handled better." She took notice of the unlocked exit. "You wanted to go. Why are you sitting here? Coulda been long gone before I got here."

"Weather didn't suit me."

"You know," Isobelle began, fatigue allowing her impatience with the whole situation to rise, "I've really tried to be accommodating here, but this whole cryptic thing is getting tiresome. If you really want to leave, there's the door. I'll go back upstairs, tell them you left AMA and spend my last couple of hours here explaining it to my supervisor." She got to her feet and went over to the exit. Surprised at her tone, Spike also rose, taking a few steps in her direction.

"I'll even start you on your way," she added, ramming the lever with her hip, throwing the door open wide. Early morning sunlight streamed through the opening, towards Spike, who jumped back a second too late to avoid contact.

"GODDAMMIT!" Spike bellowed, collapsing in pain as the exposed skin of his right hand and arm started to smolder. Isobelle stared, wide eyed, at the wisps of blue smoke that enveloped him.

"Wha… what the hell… " she stammered, edging her way to the man writhing on the concrete. He was cradling his right arm close to his body, back turned to her. She put her hand on his shoulder to turn him towards her. At her touch, he swung his head around savagely and Isobelle nearly fainted at what she saw.

Spike had tried to keep it contained, but the sunlight and burn pushed what little control he had left to the limit and his gameface appeared, his demon loose and raging. Dropping his blistered arm to his side, he advanced on the woman.

Isobelle stared at the sight before her. The man's once smooth features were twisted and hard. Ridges appeared on his forehead and sharp teeth jutted from his mouth. But it was his eyes that made her cold; those sad, deep blue eyes that had struck such a feeling of empathy in her earlier had turned to a hot, feral gold and were fixed on her in a way that made her blood curdle.

Snapped out of her shock, she tried to back away, too afraid to turn and run, to take her eyes off whatever he had become. Not being able to see where she was going, she missed the tangle of packing rope that had been dropped onto the bay floor and she tripped, landing hard on her hip and elbow, sprawling on the concrete.

Spike was by her side in an instant, looming over her. Isobelle uttered a small cry, squeezing her eyes closed.

Nothing happened.

She knew he was there; she didn't hear him move away. Her heart thudded in her chest, and it hurt to breathe.

"I'm sorry."

The voice was gentle, a warm British accent flecked with concern. Hesitantly, Isobelle opened her eyes. Distressed blue eyes met hers.

"Get away from me," she said fearfully, trying to scuttle away from him. The rope that had tripped her caught her ankle, keeping her from getting far. Spike stayed put.

"What… what the hell are you?" she asked, taking in the burns on his arm and his now human face. "You… you looked like… "

"A monster," he finished softly. "That's the word you want."

"There's no such thing… "

"Wrong." He leaned a bit closer to her, and she flinched. "I won't hurt you. I can't hurt you…I don't want to…" He pressed his damaged hand to his chest, eyes closed tightly, tears leaking out between thick black lashes. "Why is this so hard?"

Isobelle watched the man cry silently. Her fear fading, she slid up onto her knees, bringing her within reach of him. Misery came off him in waves and the empathy that she had felt for him earlier, returned.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He choked out a half sob, half laugh. "That's the question. I don't know… don't know anymore. And I did this… I started this, all for…" He shook, trying to regain some control. "And you kept sayin' you could help me. Still think you can?"

Isobelle reached a cautious hand out and brushed the curls from his forehead, tucking stray strands behind his ear, exposing more of his still human face. Unconsciously he leaned into her touch, sighing out another small sob.

"I don't know," she answered, "but I will try."

Spike looked at her, amazed.

Maybe this is what hope felt like.