Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!
Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.
Thanks to my wonderful Betas Kristen and Sylvia, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.
~+~
It was late afternoon when Isobelle pulled into her driveway. Home at last. She turned off the ignition and leaned back into the driver's seat with a sigh. She glanced into the rearview mirror and saw only a lumpy blanket and shaded windows. Suppressing a shiver, she turned in her seat to look again. A tangle of frosty blond curls now came into view near the fringe of the blanket.
There was a vampire in her car.
What part of that sentence sounded wrong?
If she hadn't seen him change with her own eyes, she'd have never believed it. Vampires were real and she had willingly brought one home. She definitely needed her head examined. Read 'Beauty and The Beast' too often as a child, she lectured herself. Shoulda read more Gothic. Developed a healthier sense of fear.
Explaining the missing patient to her supervisor had not been easy. She hated having to lie to her superior, but knew he would never believe the true story.
She endured his hour-long lecture, standing there quietly, as he accused her of failing in her professional obligations. She didn't bother defending her actions; it wouldn't have helped her case. Patients walked out of emergency rooms every day without the benefit of care; what happened was not unique, but it did require her to take responsibility for the occurrence.
She leaned over the seat and cautiously tugged the blanket back. He looked so normal. She had to pay attention to note that he didn't breathe as he slept, his stillness that of a dead man. She touched a finger to his cheek, inwardly intrigued by the chill of his skin… and nearly jumped out of hers when he opened his eyes.
"Damn!" she gasped, jerking her hand away. "You could give some warning before doing that."
Spike sat up, drawing the blanket around his shoulders. "Sorry."
His apology made her feel bad; wasn't his fault. She was the jumpy one. Looking out the windshield, she checked the depth of the shadows that the trees were casting on the pathway to the house. A large porch stretched the length of the home and offered a good deal of shade from the sun.
"It's not that far to the door, and the walk is pretty shady. Do you think you can make it to the house?"
Spike peeled back a corner of the fabric they had used to cover one of the rear seat windows. "Yeah, shouldn't be a problem."
Isobelle exited the car and readied the house key. Spike ducked his head under the blanket and together they made straight for the covered porch. Isobelle unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. Spike halted on the threshold; safe from the sun, but unable to go any further. Realizing he wasn't following her, she turned around.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Uh, I can't come in."
"Why not?"
"I wasn't invited." She gave him a confused look. "I can't come in unless you invite me. That's how it works."
She paused, considering his words. He saw the hesitation on her face. This is her out, he thought. Just as well. He could wait until dark and take his leave. He was about to tell her that when she spoke up.
"You mean that's a real thing? The whole invitation deal?"
"Yeah, it's one of the rules. Pesky at times."
"So, I just have to ask you in?"
"Simple as that."
"Well, come in. Will that do?"
Spike took the blanket off and stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Isobelle watched him for a second, then continued down the hallway. Spike surveyed his surroundings. The house was larger than he expected, considering she told him she lived alone. To right of the entry was the living room, which connected farther down to another sitting area. A wooden staircase bracketed the wall on the left, the other side of which was the dining room. At the end of the hallway he could see the kitchen. Tall stacks of mail were sitting on the side table in the hall. He perused the pile, seeing only her name on the envelopes.
"When I said you could come in, I meant all the way into the house," she said, returning to him. She scooped the mail off the table and held it to her chest. Now that he was actually here, she was at a loss for what to do next.
"You really live in this place by yourself?" he asked, venturing further down the hall.
"Well, I have a cat, if that helps you."
Her bit of attitude made him smile. "Not quite what I meant. Seems big for one person."
"It is," she agreed, pushing open the glass French doors to the living room. "Didn't buy it. Inherited it. I grew up here with my grandparents and when they died, well… here I am."
The living room was decorated simply. Dark, rich green paint covered the walls, with the moldings done in cream. A fireplace dominated the outside wall, flanked by overstuffed cream-coloured chairs and with a matching sofa against the inner wall. The theme carried through to the adjoining sitting room, which held a computer desk, a full wall of bookshelving and more overstuffed reading chairs. Isobelle settled on the sofa, mail still in hand. Spike started to take the spot next to her, then thought better of it, going instead to one of the chairs by the fireplace.
"If this is too… inconvenient for you, I can leave when the sun goes down. You're not obliged for anything."
She looked hard at him. He looked - to be honest - ridiculous. Wild two-toned hair, black boots and hospital scrubs. Not a pretty sight.
"No offense, but if you went anywhere in this city looking like that, you'd wind up either back in the hospital or in jail. I said I would help you out, however I could, and I meant it. Like it or not, you've kind of become my responsibility…"
"Like Hell!" he retorted. "I don't need a sodding keeper, you know. I can take care of myself…"
"Hold on there," she interrupted. "I got you out of that hospital, lied to my supervisor, covering for you. Like it or not, I'm in it up to my neck. Besides, you're still in the same position you were last night – no money, no clothes… "
"Okay, okay, I get it. You're right."
"Immediate concerns. Food, clothes…" she said, then checked her watch. "Dammit, I forgot about Miranda."
"Who?"
"My cat," she said, jumping off the sofa. "The kennel closes soon. I guess I can get her tomorrow morning."
She looked at Spike, another realization coming to her. "Uh, the whole food thing… blood, right?"
He flashed a tight smile. "Blood. But you're safe."
She took that bit of information to heart. "Good to know. Now, where would I…"
"The butchers' where I'm from are very accommodating with that kind of thing. That'd be the place to go."
Isobelle started to turn away when she noticed Spike cradling his burned arm to his chest. She went over and knelt down. "Let me see your arm."
"Don't worry about it. It'll be better in the morning."
She pulled back a bit of the kling wrap, checking the layers of a hastily applied burn dressing. He hissed in pain as a strip of skin slaked off with the gauze.
"Sorry," she said. She dug into her handbag and tipped three ibuprofen tablets into his uninjured hand. "Do pain relievers work on vampires?" she asked. He popped the tablets in his mouth and swallowed. "Won't hurt," he replied.
Standing, she gestured to the staircase. "The bedrooms are upstairs. Choose whichever one you like, except for the yellow room, that's mine. There's a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Get in the shower and soak that dressing off. I'll replace it when I get back."
Without argument he headed up the stairs. Isobelle didn't leave until she heard the water running in the shower. Locking the door behind her, she hoped, for the thousandth time, that this wasn't the stupidest mistake of her life.
~+~
The hot water felt good. Spike stayed in the shower as long as he could. This was a luxury he wasn't about to waste. The dressing she had applied to his arm came off easily under the spray. With mild satisfaction, he noticed the burn was starting to heal. He would need to feed in order to accelerate the process. Putting the scrubs back on, he wrapped a clean towel around the burn and made his way around the second floor of the house. Her bedroom was easy to find, being right across from the bath. Warm buttery yellow walls, dark wood accents, the carpet, soft and inviting under his bare feet. A large sleigh bed cornered off the inner walls, to the right of the door. Armoire, dressers, vanity – the appointments were simple; feminine without being frilly. There were three other bedrooms down the hall, all with double beds and utilitarian furniture, made up, ready and waiting for the houseguests he sensed she didn't often entertain. He chose the room farthest from hers, checking that there were thick curtains on the window and a sturdy lock on the door.
He wandered through the rest of the house. For an old childhood home it seemed to lack in personal detail. There were few family pictures on the walls. The ones he found were old, most being of a cheery grey couple and a pretty little girl. He studied one image of the girl, knowing by the intense blue eyes that stared out at him that it was Isobelle, not some other forgotten relative. She looked to be about ten years old, her face lit by a huge smile. The girl had her arms thrown around the neck of an impossibly large white dog, her dark Shirley Temple-like curls contrasting with the animal's fur. He wondered what it would take to make her smile like that now.
Distracted by that thought, he pulled his eyes from the picture and continued to look around. He checked the fridge to see if there was anything in there to dull the hunger that was starting to gnaw at his stomach. Nothing. He went through the cupboards one by one, finding only a sack of Hills cat food and a few canned items.
Spike made his way back to the living room and stretched out on the sofa. The sun was down now, the room dark. The emptiness of the large house sent a strange ripple of apprehension through him. This whole situation was a disruption of his grand plan, of getting back to the damned Slayer. Closing his eyes, he settled into the cushions and let his thoughts drift…
~+~
Spike was walking down a cobblestone street. It was night, rain pattering down on the uneven surface, small rivers splashing under the impact of his boots. It seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember where it was. His gaze shifted down each alley that branched off the deserted street, looking for clues to his whereabouts. Pale gaslight from overhead lanterns leaked from the far corner of one alleyway, drawing Spike into the narrow passage. He made his way slowly, anxiety rising in his chest. Shadows flickered like phantoms against a stained brick wall. The fear was growing stronger, making each step forward an effort, as he fought the dread welling up inside. Then he heard the sounds that went with the shadows – sliding, scuffling, grunting. A sharp cry echoed off the walls, making him freeze in panic. He huddled behind a pile of crates and listened to the struggle continue down the alley.
It became quiet.
Summoning his courage, he crept out from his hiding place. He hesitated, torn between running back to the street or continuing down the alley. Shadows no longer flitted on the brick wall. The smell of blood, hot and metallic, filled the air. The rain absorbed the heady scent and soaked him with it through to his skin. Steeling himself, he went further into the dark passage, approaching the corner where - whatever - struggle had taken place.
It was horrible.
The bodies of two young adults, a man and a woman, were thrown over piles of refuse. Their throats were ripped open, blood and shredded muscle dark red against their drained flesh. He gaped at the sight. He'd seen this before. He'd been here before. Vienna. Early 1900s. He knew this because he had done this. He crashed to his knees, his stomach heaving, as memories rolled back into his brain. He pressed his head to the wet alley floor and willed the sights and smells away. Would this ever stop?
"You did this to us."
Spike whipped his head up, staring in fright as the body of the mutilated man stood over him, dripping blood and filthy rainwater.
"You took our lives. Our futures. Our destinies away from us. You are an evil, remorseless creature who preyed on the weak and the innocent. You don't deserve that soul. It's damned for what you have done. Burn in Hell, monster. You and all you ever hold dear."
"No!" Spike choked, waking with a start.
It was just a dream. Another in a long string of nightmares that he'd endured since Africa.
It took him a minute to remember where he was; the dream had been so vivid that he imagined he could still feel the chilled raindrops running over his skin. It made him shiver.
The sound of a key in the door pulled his attention back to the present. Spike pushed himself up off the sofa and went to the hall, just in time to see Isobelle plow through the door, hands full, with bags from many different shops.
"Little help?" she asked, letting her handbag slide from under her arm to the floor. Spike gathered some of the load and followed her into the kitchen. It took another trip to the car to deliver all the packages to the house.
"Well, I have to say, going to a butcher and asking for blood? That's a first," she said, settling into a chair around the island. Spike took a seat across from her. "But what I didn't expect was being asked if I preferred cow's blood or pig's blood." She pulled four one-litre containers from a brown bag. "Uh, I didn't know, so I got both."
Conscious of her attention, he made quick work of preparing his meal. Isobelle was only mildly surprised when he didn't ask where things were kept in her kitchen. He had apparently made himself at home while she was out.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
The hum of the microwave filled the silence between them. Isobelle started sorting the groceries while he waited for the blood to heat. He noticed her jump when the timer beeped. He retrieved the mug and swirled the red liquid inside. Feeding on animal blood had not kept him from craving human blood. These days, the chip prevented him from hunting, but the urge to do so had remained. Until now. The soul had ground out that last desire. He inhaled the scented steam. He brought the mug to his lips, casting her a glance over the rim, feeling a little guilty at the grim look of fascination she wore, watching him drink. Hungry as he was, he tried not to drain the mug in one swallow.
Supplies away, Isobelle retrieved a set of clothing store bags from the floor and set them in front of her houseguest.
"The nurses tried to launder your clothes, but they disintegrated in the washer. We had nothing to replace them with, so I picked up a few things. I hope the sizes are okay. They can be exchanged if they don't fit."
Spike opened the first bag she handed him. Two pairs of jeans, one black, one dark blue, and a belt. The other bags contained a selection of T-shirts, tanks, and button downs. With some pride, she pulled out a dark, cobalt blue button down shirt, piling it on top of the rest. "I thought this was your colour. Couldn't resist."
"I don't know what to say… this wasn't necessary…" he fumbled out, overwhelmed, self-conscious in the light of her generosity.
"I have to disagree," she replied, casting a glance at the rumpled scrubs. "Blue may be your colour, but you can't make do in those. Besides, we ruined what was left of your stuff." She folded the clothes and set them back in their bags. "Now, if you're done… eating, let me re-dress that burn."
Spike followed Isobelle back up to the bathroom. He watched her carefully cleanse the damaged skin, apply antibacterial ointment and wrap it with gauze.
"Can I ask you a couple of questions?" he asked.
She glanced up from her task. "Sure."
"They may seem… strange."
She sent him a wry grin. "I just rescued - and invited into my home - a wayward vampire, who nearly sank in a shipwreck less than twenty four hours ago. I had to buy blood from a butcher who didn't blink at the request, not to mention trying to decide between boxers or briefs for a man I don't know. Strange is a given in this situation."
"Good point." He cleared his throat, wondering where to begin. "Where am I, exactly?"
"Aside from my bathroom? Where were you aiming for?"
"California."
"Sorry. Wrong country, wrong coast."
"Canada? No wonder you're so helpful."
She smirked, nearly done wrapping his wound. "Next question."
"What's the date?"
"Tomorrow is the first of June."
He thought about that. More than three weeks had passed since… his eyes darted around the bathroom, chest tightening with memory of the Slayer, pinned to the tile floor, crying…
He bolted off the edge of the tub where he'd been sitting, nearly knocking Isobelle over and quickly exited the room. She sat back on her heels, momentarily stunned by his actions. She watched him escape down the hallway, stopping at the farthest bedroom door. He slumped against the wall and slid to the floor.
She carefully approached, kneeling near him on the floor. "Was it something I said?"
He shook his head. "No. I thought it was longer. Feels like it's been forever."
"Forever since what?"
Spike looked at the woman next to him. Intense blue eyes met his. He managed an apologetic smile, reaching out with his uninjured hand and resting it on her shoulder. She didn't flinch at his touch.
"Isn't important right now. I'm just tired."
Isobelle checked her watch. It was after nine. She'd been up for over a day.
"Why don't you get some rest. We can talk more in the morning."
Climbing to her feet, she turned down the hall towards her own room.
"Isobelle?"
She turned back at the sound of Spike's voice.
"Yes?"
"I meant it, you're safe with me here. But, if it makes you feel better, crosses work."
She quickly thought about her grandmother's rosary, tucked away in her jewelry box. She sent him a small smile. "Good night, Spike."
~+~
Somewhere in the house a clock started to chime – one, two, three, four – four resonant bells echoed through the dark halls. Isobelle tossed under the covers, woken again from a fitful sleep by the sound. Keyed up by the strange events of the past day, she had found it hard to relax, every little noise making her start. Sleep eluded her and was not restful when it came. Rubbing her eyes, she slipped out of bed. If she couldn't sleep, then she would study. She was in the hall before she realized how she was dressed – padding around in the middle of the night wearing a tank top and briefs wasn't appropriate with her houseguest down the hall. She would have to be quick.
Retrieving a textbook from downstairs, she headed back to bed, pausing when she heard noises at the end of the hall. She stood quietly in the dark and listened. Was he talking in his sleep again? She crept down the hall, closer to his door.
"No, no more, please… " she heard him moan. She could hear thrashing through the door. A choked cry followed the pleas. She put her hand on the doorknob and twisted. It was locked. She debated whether to just go back to her room or to try to intervene. Her decision was made when a low keening began on the other side of the door. It was a pitiful sound, making her heart drop into her stomach. Retrieving a pen from the hall table, she popped the lock from her side of the knob, opening the door.
The curtains had been tightly closed to block out the sun when it rose. The closet light had been left on and filtered through the gaps in the doorframe, to dimly illuminate the room. Spike was curled in the centre of the bed, a sheet the only piece of linen not kicked off onto the floor. It twisted around his nude body at the waist, leaving the rest of him open and exposed. Isobelle took the time to really look at him. Her stomach lurched as she noticed old wounds on his chest and another nearly healed burn on his right bicep. He trembled in his sleep, fingers worrying the edge of the sheet as he clutched it close. Sad, unintelligible sounds slipped from his lips. Moving to the side of the bed, she took the sheet in hand and tried to disentangle it from his body.
"You're okay," she whispered, smoothing the sheet back over him. He stilled momentarily, hearing her voice. Tentatively, she reached a hand out to brush the hair back off his forehead, making him sigh. He felt cool under her fingertips, but his face was damp. Was it warm in here? A small tear trickled down his cheek. No. He had been crying in his sleep, real tears wetting his cheek and pillow. Isobelle sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to wipe them away. At her touch, he reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her down next to him. She stifled a yelp, panic rolling through her. Spike held her tightly against him, only the sheet between them. He buried his head in her chest and she could feel the tears starting again, cold and relentless, through to her skin. She knew by the mournful mutterings that he was still asleep, still stuck in whatever nightmare was playing out in his mind.
'Pl… pl… please… " Spike begged. "No more, I… I'm so… sor… sorry… "
She let herself relax into him, resting her chin on his head.
"Don't leave me… don't leave me… "
"Shhh," she soothed, trailing her free hand over his back. "It's just a bad dream. It isn't real."
~+~
Spike was pinned to the dirty floor of the subway car, Nikki, a heavy weight on his chest. Blow after blow from her fists connected with his face. A hateful grin twisted the Slayer's mouth, her cloudy dead eyes radiating glee. Spike tried to get up, push her off, only to be slammed back down by her punches. The jerking of the moving car rattled his bruised body against the hard floor. Over the screeching of wheels on the rails, he heard someone laughing. From the corner of his eye he saw Buffy, sitting in one of the seats, watching the fallen Slayer beat Spike to a pulp.
"No, no more, please… " he begged, trying to get Buffy's help.
"Oh c'mon, Spike. You can take it. You deserve it." Buffy slid out of the seat and stood over him. Nikki delivered a backhand to his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His blood dripped onto the subway car floor.
"This is foreplay for you, right? We did more damage to each other when we were screwing. The harder I hit, the hotter you got, remember?" She crouched over him, stopping the next punch Nikki threw. "Maybe she likes you," she said, smiling brightly. "Or maybe she knows what you did to me, tried to do to me. You're a bad vampire. I stopped you. Now it's her turn."
Nikki continued her assault. Spike lost count of how many times she hit him. The dead Slayer never stopped grinning. Buffy leaned against a pole, again watching the onslaught.
"Pl…pl…please, no more…I…I'm so…sor…sorry."
Buffy sighed, pushing herself off the pole and returned to hover over Spike.
"Be as sorry as you like. You're still worthless. Why I ever wasted my time with a pathetic loser like you…"
Buffy reached behind her and pulled out a stake. She tossed it to Nikki. "Bye bye, Spike. Have a nice dusting." Buffy started walking away. Through swollen eyes, Spike looked in terror at the Slayer on top of him.
"Don't leave me… don't leave me… " he begged.
"I can't leave. I was never there," Buffy said. Then she was gone.
Nikki clutched the stake in both hands, holding it high over her head. Spike stared at the whittled point, frozen. With a hard yell, Nikki brought the stake down to his chest…
~+~
"Shh," he heard someone say. The subway car faded around him. The cold hard floor was gone, the shrieking of metal on metal replaced by silence. Wherever he was, it was soft, warm. Someone held him close, a comforting hand on his back. "It's just a bad dream. It isn't real."
Spike could still feel tears spilling down his face. He pressed deeper into the soothing embrace, the heaviness of sleep never lifting, drifting back into a blessedly dreamless nothing.
~+~