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.

~+~

Spike rolled over, stretching out across the bed. Casting an eye to the alarm clock, he saw that it was late, nearly nine PM. Lying there a moment, he sighed in relief. Another day without a nightmare. That made three in a row so far.

It had been humiliating last week, waking up to find himself clinging to the stranger who had so decently taken him into her home. The dream. He had remembered it all – Nikki beating him down, Buffy walking away as the dead Slayer sent the stake towards his chest – and then, it had faded away, the cold fear replaced by warmth and security. He was safe. In her sleep, Isobelle had curled around him, becoming his comfort. Her T-shirt had been damp under his cheek, still wet from his tears. He had left her sleeping there that morning, retreating to the kitchen to wait out the embarrassment of discussing the incident with her.

When Isobelle finally joined him, she didn't mention what had taken place, nor did she avoid him. She sat next to him at the island, sipping coffee and sifting through the mail, asking what he needed to do that day. It was another example of her generous spirit.

A loud scratching drew his attention to the bedroom door. Pulling on his pants, he opened it a crack. Miranda butted it open the rest of the way and stalked into the room with a miaow. She wove herself around Spike's calves, her tortoiseshell fur sticking to the black fabric. Leaning down, he ruffled the back of her neck. She purred, green eyes blinking at him.

"C'mon then, supper time."

The cat followed Spike's heels closely all the way to the kitchen, chattering the whole time at the mention of supper. After putting his own meal in the microwave to heat, he filled Miranda's dish.

"Doesn't look too appetizing," he commented, watching the cat sniff the kibble. Rooting through the refrigerator, he found some chicken. Miranda jumped to the counter, eagerly taking the treat from Spike's hand.

"Don't tell your mistress."

"Don't tell me what?"

Miranda vacated the counter at the sound of Isobelle's voice, taking off up the stairs. Spike broke the rest of the meat into the cat's dish, then retrieved his mug from the microwave.

"You're gonna spoil her," she admonished, dropping her gym bag by the back door. Spike got her a bottle of water and they sat at the island. Isobelle twisted uncomfortably on the hard chair. She rubbed a spot on her hip, groaning slightly.

"Those university girls really know how to kick," she said, shifting off the sore side. "Half of them don't need to take a self-defense class."

"You were taking a class? Is that why you're so late?" Spike asked, concern colouring his voice. Seeing her in pain bothered him.

"Not taking. Helping out a friend. We used to teach sessions together a long time ago. Kept it up during university. Looked great on the med school application, but I doubt I could kick my way out of a wet paper sack today. This little blonde thing half my size dropped me like a bag of cement, right on my butt."

Spike cast his eyes to the area in question, then quickly looked away. None of that, he chastised.

"Never figured you for the sparring sort," he said, hoping she hadn't noticed his wayward glance.

"Not so much with the trading blows than the 'kick him in the head, get away' school of self-protection." She swirled her water bottle around, watching the mini water funnel churn inside. "So," she continued. "How was your sleep?"

Spike set his mug down. "Good."

Isobelle studied him for a moment. A lot had occurred in the past week. She had come home from work one day to find a completely different person waiting for her. The nest-like two-toned hair had been subtly trimmed and bleached. Dressed in something other than the rumpled blues, her houseguest had cut a neat and attractive figure in black jeans and a T-shirt. His burn had healed completely, as had the other injuries she had seen on his body, all without scarring his pale, delicate skin.

"Really?" she prodded. "Not even…"

"Not a one."

She smiled at him. "I'm glad."

And she was glad. Thinking about that morning - after witnessing the night terror - she still wasn't sure what troubled him the most: the dream or his reaction to it. After waking alone in his bed, she had pulled herself together and found him hunched over the breakfast island. She had felt his self-consciousness; it had matched hers. Not wanting to make an awkward situation worse, she had let the matter go. It was something they could talk over another time. No harm had been done, except for maybe bruising his ego.

Spike stood and rinsed his mug in the sink before putting it in the dishwasher. Feeling for the set of keys in his pocket, he turned to Isobelle.

"I'm going out for awhile. Getting the whole 'day/night' thing sorted out. Walk might do me good." He went to the back door, then glanced back over to Isobelle.

"You… want to join me?"

She considered the invitation, but the now throbbing pain in her hip made her decline.

"Not tonight. I have some stuff to do here. Go on, it's a nice night. I won't wait up."

With a nod he left, locking the door behind him. Stiffly, Isobelle got up from the chair and walked to the sitting room. It served as a reading room/office and it was where her computer was set up. Easing into her chair, she called up the desktop files. Selecting one titled "V1", she clicked it open. Numerous folders appeared on the screen, all containing information she had found on the Internet about vampires.

She scrolled through article after article. Most were about vampire demonology and included all the tips and tricks to avoid becoming one of their victims. History, rumour, myth, folklore – it all ran together, making it difficult to determine what was relatively factual and what was fiction. She had even stumbled across some site, based in the States, which claimed the US DOD had experimented on vampires and demons. Very X-File-ish, but she had saved it anyway; it was the only site that claimed to have any information on vampire physiology. Spike's healing abilities amazed the scientist in her and she wanted to know more about how it worked. How he worked.

After an hour, she closed her files and headed for the shower. She hadn't learned anything new. What she had discovered from all her research was this; compared to what was known about vampires, Spike didn't seem to be your typical creature of the night.

The hot water relaxed her sore muscles. Checking out her injury, she was chagrined to see a large, dark bruise over the fair skin on her left hip. Be feeling that one for awhile, she thought. Toweling off, she climbed into her nightshirt and prepared for bed. Miranda padded down the hall and into the bathroom, rubbing against her mistress' legs with a loud purr.

"Suck up," Isobelle scolded softly. "Won't work with me. No more chicken for you."

Miranda miaowed once, then preceded her owner to the bedroom, claiming the very centre of the queen size bed for herself. Sighing, Isobelle fit herself in under the sheets, and turned out the light. She fell asleep, thoughts of Spike and vampires still weaving through her mind.

~+~

Spike left the bar around one AM, before the patrons around the pool table lost their good humour over his 'incredible' lucky streak. A couple of hundred dollars that had once belonged to his opponents was shoved in his pocket. He'd won it honestly; Spike was a sharp, but not a hustler. He beat each eager loser fairly. It made winning all the more satisfying.

This wasn't a bad little city. A bit bigger than Sunnydale, there were lots of clubs and bars that creatures of the night could frequent. He had his suspicions confirmed, that he wasn't the only demon around, when Isobelle had mentioned how easy it was to buy blood from the butcher. The large port and dockyards provided easy admission to the city - lots of nasties could slip in undetected from cargo vessels.

The crowds on the street began to thin as it got later. As Spike made his way from downtown to the residential area, it became close to deserted. He discovered a lovely thing about the walk; it led to a shortcut, through a huge graveyard, back to Isobelle's. He was the only one on the street when he reached the cemetery gates. He slipped through them easily, the chain locking them together incredibly slack. It was odd how the gravestones comforted him, the cemetery itself a respite from the hell his unlife had become in the past few months.

He read the headstones as he walked. Most of them were old, commemorating people who had died before William had even been born. There were several family plots with good British names like Keith, Windsor, Howe and MacDonald. There were even more, marked only by tiny white crosses. Infants' graves. Those made him pause. He blinked hard, long-forgotten memories of hunts and kills trying to push to the surface. He willed them to stay buried. Angelus had always liked the small ones, and there was a time that Spike had eagerly played along with his grandsire's games in order to keep in his favour.

Spike moved on, deeper into the cemetery. More recent markers dotted the landscape near the centre of the graveyard. Seeing freshly turned dirt, Spike went to the grave. He looked closely at the wet earth. Crouching down, he ran a hand over the soil. Listened hard.

Nothing.

Idiot, he chastised. Were you hoping someone was home? He straightened up and brushed the dirt from his hands. The last thing he needed was to run into… what the hell?

Twenty metres away, tucked against the trunk of a chestnut tree, he saw them. A young couple - looking for privacy - going at it like they were the only ones around. Only they weren't as alone as they thought. Two vamps, in full stalker mode, bore down on the lovers.

"Goddammit," he mumbled. "Careful what you look for, Spikey boy." Scanning for a weapon, he noticed a shovel that had been forgotten near the new grave. Picking it up, he silently made his way towards the vamps and their meal.

Either he was stealthier than he thought, or the vamps were too focused on dinner, because he was only a few paces from them when they set upon the couple, seemingly unaware of Spike's presence. The larger of the two vampires grabbed the boyfriend by his collar and hauled him off his date. The girl started to scream as the other vamp made his move on her. Spike raised the shovel high and slammed it into the back of the larger vampire's head, crashing him to the ground.

"Now, now, boys. I don't think they wanted to be disturbed."

The vamp sprawled in the dirt glared up at him. "Who the fuck are you, man?"

Spike smiled. "Just a bloke lookin' for a pool to piss in."

The smaller vamp twitched, hovering off to the side, still holding tightly to his prize. The girl had stopped screaming, her terrified eyes flying between her date, laid out on the ground and Spike. Spike gave the fallen vamp a hard kick in the ribs, rolling him away from the boyfriend. The man scrabbled to his feet, standing there, unsure of what to do.

Spike's opponent sprang to his feet with a growl and charged. Again, Spike swung hard with the shovel, catching the vamp broadside, with enough force to snap the wooden handle mid-shaft and send the metal trowel end flying.

"Need to work on your approach, mate," Spike goaded, easily ducking the right cross aimed at his head. "Lacks poetry. You're heart isn't in it. Need to love what you do." More punches flew harmlessly by. The twitchy vamp finally surrendered his victim and went to his partner's aid. Unseen by Spike, Twitchy landed a hard kick to his back. Spike stumbled forward, knocking into the larger vamp, sending him back to the ground, unmoving.

"Sorry Bert," Twitchy moaned. Regaining his balance, Spike pivoted around and caught him under the chin with the end of the handle.

"Now THAT'S more like it!" Spike enthused. With a grin, he twirled the handle in his fingers like a staff. Twitchy tried to avoid the sharp wooden end, squealing when Spike used it to rain blow after blow on his body. Twitchy didn't put up much of a fight - or much of a defense. With every thwack of the staff, Spike pulled a little more of the vamp apart, leaving him a whining bloody mess.

"Well, this is getting boring," Spike sighed. He had backed Twitchy up against the tree the lovers had been using. "Say goodnight." With one thrust he staked the vamp, using so much force that the handle became embedded in the tree trunk. A cloud of dank dust burst through the air, tumbling to the earth with a hiss. He turned in time to see the other vamp stagger to his feet and run off. "Sissy," he mumbled. His attention fell on the couple, huddled behind a large statue. "You can get up now. It's over," He walked to their hiding spot. "You should be more careful where you…"

Spike never finished the sentence. The boyfriend had found the trowel end of the shovel and swung it towards Spike's temple, hitting him hard, dropping him to the earth. Spike lay there stunned as the couple took off. Minutes passed as he fought the dizziness that kept him down. Easing to his elbows, he groaned. Nausea rippled through him as he hefted himself into a sitting position. Goddamn humans. He had been on their side. Gingerly, he probed the wound. He felt a gash on his left temple, not too far from the scar in his eyebrow. He felt something else, too. Bugger it all. Forehead ridges. He had vamped out during the fight and didn't even realize it. No wonder they'd dropped him and run away.

He got unsteadily to his feet and continued back to Isobelle's. Whatever thrill or satisfaction he had gotten from the fight faded fast. Dejected, he walked quickly, looking out for the demon dangers he now knew lurked in the city. It wasn't fair. The fractured, burning soul that sat inside him had pushed him to help and he had. And where had it gotten him? Beaten down, in spite of his assistance. He had staked one useless vamp good and proper and enjoyed that somewhat, but his partner had escaped. No doubt he'd tell his pals about a new rogue vamp in town, monitoring the lunch line, mucking up their fun. Soon all the other dark forces here would know to watch out for him. He'd be a target. Christ, it was just like Sunnydale all over again. But this time, there was no Slayer for reluctant backup. And the soul. It made everything feel – more, just more. It complicated things. Again, he couldn't be a monster, and the soul had yet to help him be a man.

With each step he took, his spirits sank lower. Fear frayed his thoughts. Maybe this is what it was going to be like. Forever. It would never get better, never get easier. How long was it that his bastard grandsire moped and moaned after his curse? Decades? He didn't have that kind of time; what he wanted wouldn't wait. Great, another one of his faults – impatience. Give her what she deserves, what a bloody joke. It was a joke – just on him. He wanted the soul back to gain love and acceptance, but it had made him more of an outsider than ever. He had turned himself into something to be rejected by both humanity and darkness.

He had never felt so alone.

~+~

Isobelle woke to find Spike sitting on the side of her bed. His eyes were barely visible in the low light of the room and they were fixed on her.

"Spike?" she asked sleepily, pushing herself up into a sitting position against the headboard. Even in the dimness she noticed the wound on his head. Carefully she touched his temple. It wasn't bleeding. "Are you okay? Who did this to you?"

Spike removed her hand and held it between his. It felt hot and soft in his own cool palms.

"Spike, tell me what's wrong."

He thought that over for a minute.

"Do you know what I am?" he asked.

His question was unexpected. She didn't know what to say. He was a vampire; he had told her that. But there was something more, something underneath it all she couldn't identify. All the research she had done on vampires and darkness had so far been unable to fully explain Spike. He was different. She could feel it. She had nothing except her intuition to go on; whatever set him apart from the vampire paradigm, it was deep and substantial. It was something he was holding close. The importance of this, the obvious agony of it, was what urged her to help him.

She shook her head. "No," she said honestly.

"That is the problem." Spike's voice was low, harsh. "I don't know either."

"I don't understand."

"We are memory. It's all memory, innit? What you are, who you are, created and passed on, by record of word, thought and deed. Your prize to build on, or your curse to live down. But when you change, when you try to be different, it is still there. You are no longer the same inside, no longer the legacy you've begotten, but that doesn't seem to change what you are seen as. When that happens, then, you're nothing. You've stopped… being," he choked out the last word, emotion thickening his voice.

"What are you talking about?"

"Those… dreams," he continued, leaving her bed to pace around the room, "the ones that I've been having, they're reminders from the past, of things I have done. Bad things. Evil acts." He ran his hands through his short blonde hair, mussing it to loose curls. "Evil is what I was. I lived it. Reveled in it. It's what I was created for. They come back to me now, those memories, those acts, and they torment. Make me remember what I was, what I was meant to stay, what I will forever pay for…"

He turned back to her, eyes narrowed. Isobelle shivered slightly under the intense gaze. He dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, grabbing her hands tightly in his.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

She didn't know what to say, or what answer would appease him. But staying silent would surely make things worse.

"I see a man…"

"Wrong, wrong, wrong," he moaned, sinking his forehead to the knot of hands between them. "I'm not a man, I can never be that again…"

"Spike, you asked what I see when I look at you. And that is what you have shown me so far."

"You've seen more. You've barely glimpsed the worst of it, but you've had a taste."

"I've seen a different face. We all have different sides to us, Spike. We aren't meant to be just one thing. Humanity, it's not black or white. It's a balance. We - ultimately - are the ones who choose what we project to the world."

Spike listened but didn't reply. He had no response to offer. He couldn't expect her to understand.

"Spike," she continued. "If there is no humanity in you, if you deny the man inside, you will never be able to answer your question."

"You have no clue what's inside me," he mumbled. Red-rimmed, tearless eyes found hers.

"You're right, I don't. But I am willing to put in the time to find out." She cleared her throat. "You should, too. I don't think a vampire would be this moody and self-reflective at three in the morning unless he truly…" she stopped, a random thought entering her mind. Oh my God. Was that the difference?

"What?" Spike asked.

She searched his eyes, the stray thought crystallizing in her consciousness. Was she remembering correctly?

"Come on, let's take this downstairs. For some reason I suddenly want hot chocolate."

Giving her a forlorn smile, Spike released her hands and moved from the side of the bed. He turned his back as she slid into her robe, looking at her only when she threaded her arm through his.

"You wouldn't happen to have any of those little marshmallows, would you?" he asked, as they left her room.

~+~

Isobelle stifled a yawn. It was six thirty in the morning. She and Spike had talked for nearly three hours. He'd told her about the incident in the graveyard; she could understand how that had set him off. He had also told her about the microchip in his brain and how it had gotten there. Thinking back to when she first met him in the ER, she remembered instances where his chip had obviously fired; no wonder he had been adamant about no x-rays.

Despite her prodding, he had revealed little about his past. She didn't push for more. He would tell her what he wanted her to know in his own time, when he was ready. That made her pause; he had been with her for a week, so far, and she hadn't even considered that he might move on soon. Odder still, she wasn't sure how she felt about the idea that he might not be with her much longer.

Sitting at the computer, she quietly sorted through her research files, hunting for one small reference she remembered skimming the night before. She glanced over her shoulder, through the doorway that separated the living room from the sitting room. Spike was asleep on the sofa, Miranda curled on his chest.

"No, no, no," she whispered to herself, clicking through article after article. All the same information – vampire, soulless demon inhabiting the victim's body, victim's memories intact, so on, and so on…

"There you are," she muttered. She opened a small file, which only had a paragraph of text:

SOUL RESTORATION

Anecdotal evidence has been compiled on cases

where the soul of vampyre or other daemon has

been restored to the victim's body. While there has

been no direct evidence of this phenomenon, the last

rumoured soul restoration occurred in the late 19th

Century in Romania, as a punishment to the vampyre

for his crimes. No credible records have been found confirming

this restoration. The return of the soul was viewed as a

curse, meant to torment the daemon by returning the seat

of his conscience and humanity. The purpose of this was

to visit guilt upon the wrongdoer, to cause the daemon his

due of eternal suffering and walking damnation.

Isobelle closed the file. Her hands were shaking. Could this be what was causing Spike's nightmares? She'd sensed there was something more to him than what the standard vampire lore was providing, but from what she could tell, this was monumental. Did someone curse him with the return of his soul? There was so much she needed to learn from him. He seemed to have no one. She was equally alone, her career filling the void that a family never had.

A low growl caught her attention. She left the computer and padded on bare feet to the living room. Miranda's tail twitched. The cat growled again, then slipped off Spike's chest and left the room. Isobelle knelt on the floor, leaning against the arm of the sofa, near Spike's head. His brow furrowed in his sleep, lips moving to silent words. He stiffened slightly, catching an unneeded breath in his throat. He was having another nightmare. Nestling her head near his shoulder, she moved one hand up to hold his. Reflexively, his fingers laced with hers and held them tight.

Maybe this one wouldn't be too bad.

~+~