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 jumped the fence that surrounded Isobelle's back yard, his boots hitting the grass with a muffled thud. He swore under his breath as pain lanced through his right leg. Ignoring the blood that dripped down his calf, he concentrated on making it inside the house. He limped up the porch stairs, wincing as the boards creaked under his weight. He hoped she wasn't up yet. He didn't want Isobelle to see him like this.

He slunk through the dark house up to the bathroom. He wedged a towel under the door, hoping it would muffle the sound of the shower and not wake the woman in the next room. He stripped down, dropping torn, slime-and-blood-smeared clothes onto the tile floor. "For fuck's sake," he hissed, examining the gash near his knee. A five-centimetre strip of flesh had been ripped away. Strap-like bruises spiraled around the rest of his leg, where the greasy tentacle of - whatever the hell it had been - had grabbed hold.

He hadn't gone out spoiling for a fight; all he'd wanted was a quiet stroll on the docks. The fight had come to him. Word of the graveyard incident had worked its way through the demon community. It was the second time this week Spike had had to fend off an attacker; saving the lovers had been the right thing to do, but he was being made to pay for it with his blood and skin.

Spike stepped into the shower, letting the hot water dissolve the blood and grime away. When the last pink-stained drops had been sucked down the drain, he dried off, gathered the soiled towels and shoved them down to the bottom of the hamper. He hid his ruined clothes in his closet. He would deal with them when Isobelle was out of the house.

Dressing in his room, Spike noticed a warm yellow glow glinting through a gap in the curtains. The sun was rising. It was later than he'd thought. Checking the bedside clock, he saw it was nearly six AM. He had been so preoccupied with not waking her that he forgot she needed to be up by now, anyway.

He knocked on her door with a few gentle raps, to stir her. He leaned into the frame and listened. He heard breathing, the rustle of bed linen, but nothing more. He knocked again, waiting a moment before going in.

"Hello?" Spike said softly. He hesitated in the doorway. Slipping into her room while she slept seemed like trespassing. There were some boundaries, a few decencies, which Spike strove to respect within the closeness and emotional intimacy of their relationship. Respecting her privacy was one he didn't want to cross.

He went to the side of the bed. Isobelle was nestled under a thick duvet, one leg curled delicately over the top of the cover. A blemish on the pale skin of her calf caught his attention. Leaning in closer, he saw a tattoo, just above her right ankle. A small caduceus, with the year 1996 beneath it, marked her. The tattoo surprised him; he hadn't thought her the type. Pulling his eyes from her leg, he tapped the sleeping woman's shoulder. Isobelle squirmed and sank deeper under the covers.

"Isobelle? Wake up. You're going to be late."

"Mmm, five more minutes," she mumbled into the pillow.

Spike tugged back the duvet and tossed it to the foot of the bed. "You don't have five more minutes. It's almost six o'clock. Your alarm didn't ring. You have to get up now."

Isobelle opened a tired eye and focused on the clock on her bedside table. Red numerals glowed mockingly at her: 5:52 AM.

"Oh dammit, I'm late," she groaned.

"That's what I said," Spike commented as Isobelle dragged herself out of bed. Unsteady on her feet and still half-asleep, she headed for the shower. Spike stepped out of her way, casting his eyes down. An old pair of cutoff sweatpants and a tank top served as her sleepwear. Not the most attractive set of clothes, but they fit close to her curves, detailing the softness of her body. Recently, Spike had been noticing small things like that about her. The fit of her clothes, the lightness of her voice when she talked to her cat, the way she always burned her fingers trying to wring out her teabag… little elements of her that would stick in his brain, keeping her in his thoughts longer than he felt was appropriate.

Hastily pulling the comforter back over the bed, he left her room and headed down the stairs. Steam leaked from under the bathroom door, and Spike drew in a deep breath. Vanilla, from her body wash. Another element to file away in his mind.

He was sipping a bedtime snack when Isobelle blew through the kitchen, towards the laundry room. Her hair was damp, making her usually loose curls springy and wild. The barest hint of eyeliner had been applied. A backpack was slung over one shoulder, her lab coat threaded through the strap. In her free hand she carried a laundry sack, which he heard dropped on the floor with a wet thud.

"There were no towels in the bathroom," she said flatly, returning to the kitchen.

"Were none or are none?" Spike asked. He couldn't remember if he had used them all, cleaning up the blood from his wound. He shouldn't have asked. She looked mad.

"Were. Are. Both," she replied testily. "No, wait, I take that back. There was one towel. One wet one, on the floor."

"Oh, sorry…" he began, but she cut him off.

"Don't be sorry, just be more helpful. Throw that load of laundry in at least." She spoke quickly as she searched the kitchen for her watch. Finding it, she slipped it on and headed for the door. "I'm so screwed," she muttered. Not bothering to look at him, she called over her shoulder, "I'll be late. Feed the cat for me." The back door slammed as she left.

Spike watched the doorway for a while, after she'd gone. She had never spoken to him like that before. She had always been nice and understanding. One wet towel and she got upset. Maybe it was more than the towel she was mad about. Maybe she didn't like him anymore. Why should she like me, anyway? A bleeding, weeping loser - that's all I've been since she found me.

What if she wanted him gone? The thought caused a cold lump to settle in his stomach. He could go. He could do that, start heading for home. He was ready.

The lump grew colder.

Like hell.

Setting his mug aside, he went to the laundry room.

~+~

It was almost midnight when Isobelle pulled into her driveway. She rested her head on the steering wheel, trying to muster the energy to go inside. She had made it just in time for morning rounds, and had gotten through the cases acceptably well. At least she hadn't fumbled for answers in front of the house staff.

She had also drawn her service match - orthopaedics. That brought her one step closer to qualifying for the fellowship.

Pushing the front door open, she paused. Something was different.

Lemons.

An antiseptic, lemony scent filled the air. She placed the smell – household cleaner. Well, that's good, she thought, satisfied. A little help was all she wanted. She looked around the hallway. The wood floors had been cleaned and polished, the side table dusted and the mail neatly filed on the tray, instead of dumped in a pile. Taking the mail, she proceeded through the living room towards her office. She stopped halfway there, taking in the state of the room. It, too, had been tidied up.

But something wasn't right.

She frowned, scanning the details of the room. It wasn't just tidy; it was perfect. Throw pillows were arranged symmetrically on the sofa. Candlesticks were placed (with near mathematical precision) next to one another, on the mantle, over the fireplace. Not a speck of dirt or a stray cat hair could be found on the carpet. Nothing in the room was even slightly out of place. It was unsettling. Warily, she proceeded through to the office.

Books had been rearranged on freshly dusted shelves. Papers, journals and articles were stacked on the computer desk. Nothing was like the way she had left it the night before. Kitchen, dining room, bathroom – everywhere in her home, the lived-in feeling was gone. The place was pristine. Everything was in order, scrubbed to within an inch of perfection.

Why had he done all of this? It was unreal.

She found Spike in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands looked sore, red and abraded. He wrung them nervously as she approached. A sick feeling settled in her stomach at the sight of him.

"Spike," she started to say, pulling his hands apart to examine the harm he had done to himself.

"Is it right?" His voice was low. "Are you still mad? Did I do it wrong?"

"No, it's fine – you did fine… " she stammered. His hands were cracked and had bled. How had he gotten it in his head that this was what she wanted? She looked briefly into his eyes, which were wide and dark, watching her passively. He had seemed stable these past few days, yet somehow, she had misread him. Snapping at him this morning must have set him off.

"I'll be right back," she said. She retrieved a soft, wet cloth and some lanolin from the bathroom. Kneeling in front of him, she wiped his hands free of the dried blood. He flinched once, but didn't move his hands away.

Spike watched quietly as she worked. She bit her lip as she cleansed his hands, brow knit in concentration. She still didn't look happy. He must have missed something.

"Tell me what I need to fix to make you not hate me anymore."

Isobelle swallowed hard and dropped the cloth onto the carpet. She had no clue he was still so mentally fragile. She dared to look up and saw those eyes staring back at her. All this because she wanted a stupid dry towel.

"Please don't hate me."

"I don't, Spike. I promise, I don't," she replied shakily. She squeezed some lanolin into her palms and started to massage it into his hands. He simply nodded. She kept applying the lotion until his damaged skin wouldn't soak up any more. Collecting the discarded cloth, she wiped her own hands.

"Come on," she said, patting his knee as she climbed to her feet. "Let's get something to drink."

Spike settled in one of the kitchen chairs as Isobelle prepared water for tea. Getting some blood out of the fridge for him, she went to retrieve a couple of mugs from the cupboard. Her throat tightened as she saw every mug and teacup lined up in precise rows. All the handles pointed in the same direction.

They sat together, waiting for the blood to warm and the water to boil. She made small talk about her day. He listened without comment, taking in every word she spoke. He paid such close attention to her that it made her feel even worse, and she was relieved when the microwave signaled its reheat cycle was complete. Setting his mug in front of him, she toyed with her own cup, waiting to perform her own tea-making ritual.

"Spike, I am sorry about this morning. I was late and frustrated, and I took it out on you. And about something that wasn't worth getting mad over. I didn't mean to speak to you that way."

" 's alright. No worries here." He spoke into his cup, not looking at her. "My own fault, really. I deserved it. Not very useful."

"Stop it. That's not true. You didn't deserve to be spoken to that way, especially over something so trite. And you certainly didn't have to do all this," she gestured to the eerie perfection of the house. "This is not what I expect from you."

"I try, but it's never right. Can't seem to get it right…" he muttered.

"I think you're doing fine, Spike."

She still had her suspicions about him and the soul restoration story she'd read. It was something she hadn't wanted to push him into discussing. If her wild theory was correct, Spike's story was one that was worth waiting for.

He quirked a small grin, but it faded fast. She sighed to herself, stirring her tea, watching it bloom darker as the bag swirled around.

This isn't working, she thought, lifting the teabag out of her cup. He wasn't in a place to hear her. She had really underestimated his progress these past weeks. She would have to tread carefully to rebuild his sense of security.

Balancing the hot teabag on the bevel of her spoon, she tried to swirl the string around it to wring out the excess water. She pulled too hard, snapping the string and sending the sodden lump back toward her cup. Without thinking she grabbed for it, yelping as it burned her fingertips.

"Damn." She dropped the bag to the counter, fingers stiff with pain.

Spike reached over and took her hand in his. He looked for a second at the reddened flesh on her fingers, then pressed them to his lips. His kiss was cool and it soothed the hotness of the burn. Isobelle was stunned. Spike sent her another small smile before releasing her hand.

"Better?" he asked.

"Uh huh," she replied, real words failing her.

He sipped in silence as she sat there. Moments ticked by.

"Isobelle?"

"Yes?"

"You really need to be more careful, love."

She took a taste of her own drink and settled a bit closer to him.

"I know."

~+~

"Are you sure you want me along?" Spike asked. He was sitting on the stairs, watching Isobelle sort through suitcases. Miranda purred contently in his lap while he scratched her chin.

Isobelle sent him a patient look. It had been a tense few days. Between work and Spike's erratic sleep cycle, she hadn't spent much time with him, and she felt that wasn't a good thing. He had no one else; at least, no one she knew about. He went out at night, but except for the graveyard incident, he didn't tell her what he did to pass the time. Having the next few days off, she was taking the opportunity to get out of the city and she wanted to include Spike in her plans.

"Of course I want you to come. I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't." She reached over and gave the cat a ruffle behind the ears. "Do you not want to go? Got a better offer I don't know about?"

"No," he replied. "Nothing like that. Just thought…"

She waited him out.

"…you might want a break from all… this." He gestured vaguely around himself. The cat hrrummped in irritation, his attention gone from her, and she jumped out of his lap.

"Definitely, no. Your company is wanted." Then, with added lightness, "Unless you're sick of my company. I'm not much fun to be around sometimes."

"I don't think that would ever be a concern."

"Well, then I think it's settled." She handed him one of the valises. "The kennel will pick up Miranda at noon. We hit the road at sundown."

~+~

It was midnight when Isobelle turned the lock, opening the cottage door. Stale air wafted by her, mixing with the salty sea breeze that blew in off the beach. She shivered slightly, the wind from the water cool, by June standards. By memory, she made her way, in the dark, to the back of the small dwelling. Pushing the pantry curtain aside, she found the generator. It hummed to life quickly, making the microwave clock blink blue in the kitchen.

She flicked on a couple of lamps before returning outside. Spike had unloaded the car and was leaning against the trunk, looking over the place. She sidled up next to him and seated herself on the bumper.

"Well? What do you think?" she asked.

"It's… quaint," he replied, casting her a sideways glance. "Quite charming."

She bit her lip to keep from grinning. "That's very polite of you, Spike. Most people would consider it a wreck."

The little cottage was in fairly good condition, but was old and weathered, having spent its lifetime facing the beach, enduring nature's whims. A low greystone structure, it had withstood over a hundred summers worth of storms, winter gales and thousands of nights of family adventures. Its slate roof was still waterproof, though the edges were flayed and chipped at the eaves. Time had allowed the glass in the windowpanes to run and blur, pulling rainbow colours from the silicates. Ten metres from the drive, a wall, made of the same stone, bordered the beachfront. The cottage was the only one on the shore.

"No, really, it's… " he hunted for the right word. "I'm sure it's lovely on the inside."

"I know it's not much to look at, but when I was little, we used to spend every summer here," she said. "My great, great, great… " she was counting off on her fingers, wanting to get it right. " …Grandfather built it as a wedding present for… "

"Your great, great, great grandmother?" Spike supplied, cocking her a grin. She returned it, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

"Anyway," she continued, "It's a nice little hideaway. Very private, quiet."

"Thinkin' I need that, do you?" he asked.

"I'm thinking, it doesn't hurt anyone to take a break, get a new perspective on things. Change of scenery sometimes helps."

Isobelle shivered again as the wind from the water picked up. "Let's get inside, see if we can get a fire going."

She loaded up her arms with bags and headed for the door, Spike close on her heels. Dropping the gear inside, she held the door open wide.

"Come in, please," she invited.

Spike entered the room, examining it by the yellowed lamplight. His initial prediction was correct; the interior was much more appealing than the outside led one to believe. The living area was one large, stone walled space. An old overstuffed sofa sat in the centre of the floor, angled off a rustic looking fireplace. Chairs of similar fashion were squeezed into corners, surrounded by bookshelves, filled with old novels, framed pictures and the random keepsakes of several lives. Whereas the house in the city was lacking in personal or family details, the cottage was overflowing with remnants of sentiment and history. Thick, faded, brocade curtains hung off openings on the left wall, separating two small bedrooms from the main space. The pantry seemed to be a more recent addition.

"Just stick the whole cooler in the fridge," she directed, opening the flue on the fireplace. "I just turned the power on, so it won't be cold until morning. Nor will the water be hot."

"You have hot water out here?" he asked.

"Sure. It's a cottage, Spike, not a hovel. I can't live without hot showers."

He stowed the cooler as she had asked, then rejoined her in the living room to help with the fire. She surrendered the task to him and busied herself in the bedrooms, putting out fresh linens and making the beds. By the time she was done, Spike had a large fire built in the hearth. She dropped a couple of pallets in front of the fire, along with thick blankets and pillows.

"It's too cold to sleep back there," she said, wrapping one of the blankets around her. "I'm thinking it will be more comfortable camping out here."

Spike regarded the pile of bedding next to her, unsure of what to do.

"Er, where do you want me to… go?" he asked.

"Wherever you want. Bedroom, sofa's pretty comfy. Plenty of room by the fireplace." She looked up from her position on the floor and saw the stricken expression on his face. She couldn't help but laugh. She seized the leg of his jeans and hauled him to the floor next to her.

"For God's sake, we're not in the fifth grade," she teased. "And formality has never been a big part of this… whatever this is."

Relieved to have her make the decision, Spike stretched out beside her, near the fire. The heat seeped into his cool flesh, making it tighten and tingle. This was where he wanted to be anyway.

"I hate the cold," he said absently, rubbing his hands together in front of the flames. "I always liked being warm."

"That's an interesting thing to say," Isobelle commented. She propped her head up on her arm, sending him a thoughtful gaze.

"Why?" he asked. "You like being warm. It's a comfort thing. No reason it would be different for me."

"I mean, have you always… " she hunted for the right words, "preferred, or moreso since you were… "

"Turned?" he supplied. "Killed? Sired?"

"Um, yeah." She reddened slightly. "Is that, like, a stupid question?"

He gave her a patient smile. He'd answer anything she asked. "No. And yes to both." He shifted a bit closer to her. "Anything else you want to know?"

She smiled back. Dozens of other questions rolled around in her head. What else did he miss from his mortal life? Had he ever been happy with his vampire existence? There was so much she wanted to ask. Instead, she handed him one of the blankets. "Everything. But not tonight. I'm too tired right now. I wouldn't want this to degenerate into some foolish Interview With the Vampire thing."

Spike watched as she sank deeper into her swath of blankets and settled into sleep. Carefully, he got up, turned out the lamps and rejoined her in front of the fire. He could tell she had already fallen asleep, her breathing now slow and deep. He pulled his blanket over himself and lay next to her. Heat from the hearth, heat from her, it all melted into him. He held the sensation close, the physical comfort of it lulling him into his own sweet sleep.