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.

~+~

Isobelle kicked off her shoes and stepped into the surf. The cold waves numbed her feet as she walked in the foam and silt. She had been cheated out of seeing the sunrise by the clouds that covered the horizon. She loved the beach at dawn; watching the pinks and yellows flicker across the breakers and creep over the sand. But this morning, the hazy sky overhead made everything dull and grey. She cast a glance to a rise in the distance. A knot formed inside her stomach.

Bringing Spike here was a mistake.

She had never invited anyone to the cottage before. This was a private place. Things not fit to share with others occupied her whenever she came; yet every year, she forced herself to make the trip. It got harder and harder every summer.

Guilt nipped at her. She wasn't being fair. Spike was here for her convenience. With him around, she could pretend this was a vacation, and ignore the ghosts around her.

"Thinking of taking a swim?"

A voice from behind made her jump.

"What? N… no, I'm… " She turned to see Spike standing there. "Hey, what… what are you doing? It's daytime!"

"And not a sunbeam in the sky. Shouldn't get too toasty unless the wind picks up."

It was unsettling to see him outside in the middle of the morning.

"That's brave of you," she commented, sending him a weak smile.

"I have my moments," he replied. He fingered a blanket that was slung over his shoulder. "But it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

Spike studied her as they made their way along the shoreline. She didn't look right. Her face was drawn and pale, set with a grimness he hadn't seen before. The ease with which she usually carried herself was gone; she walked rigidly beside him, shoulders slumped, hands jammed deep into sweater pockets.

"You alright?" Spike asked.

"I'm fine," she answered.

" 'belle, I can tell… "

She glanced over at him, bemusement adding some light to her features.

"Sorry," he said, realizing his slip.

"Don't be. No one's called me that in a long time. It's kind of nice to hear it again."

"Since we're being all open and sharing pet names, there's one more thing I want to say. But first, are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

Her jaw tightened into a poor facsimile of a smile.

"I'm sure. Nothing's wrong."

"I think you're lying."

She stopped and faced him.

"That's a pretty bold statement to make. Should I be offended?"

"Be what you want, but be truthful. I may be the one with the fucked-up psyche, but even I can tell something isn't right."

"Well, aren't you just Sigmund Freud this morning."

"Freud was a nit, though he had an idea or two. More of a Jungian myself."

"Whatever."

"Last night you were all about happy family memories and great, great granddad this and that. Now you look like you expect the world to end. Did I miss something, or is this how you are on all your holidays?"

"You're imagining things, Spike. I'm fine, really."

"Then why are you walking towards that hill like there's some Big Bad, waiting to pound on you?"

She cast a glance over her shoulder, towards the rise. It was always there.

"Not all memories are happy ones," she said softly.

"Well, I've shared. Want a turn?"

Isobelle started to reply when something caught her attention. Faint shadows started to appear across the sand. She looked upward. The clouds were starting to thin, rays of sunlight filtering through the haze.

"Bloody hell!" Spike spat out, whipping the blanket over his head. They sprinted back to the cottage, barely making it through the door in time. Rich, yellow light flooded the beach as the clouds retreated over the water.

"Are you burned?" she asked. She ran her hands over his face and arms, checking for wounds.

Spike tossed the smoldering blanket aside. "No, I'm good. Stings a bit, but no damage."

He could feel her hands tremble, gliding feather-light on his skin, before stopping at his chest. Worried eyes found his as she assured herself he was in one piece. He moved them away, pressing her hands between his own.

"I'm fine," he repeated. She stiffened slightly in his grasp, then stepped back. Concern faded from her eyes. They became clear, unreadable.

"Good," she said. She turned away and started to clean up the bedding. Spike withdrew to the sofa, keeping out of her way. He could tell something was hurting her, but he indulged her silence, unwilling to strain the fragile familiarity that was developing between them. Trust was still new to them; she had his and in time, he was sure he would earn hers.

~+~

The sun remained in the sky all day, forcing Spike to stay inside. While Isobelle ran errands in town, he poured over the books he had noticed the night before. Someone in her family had loved poetry. Collections by Donne, Shelley and the other Romantics dominated the shelves. The name Seaton Jones was scrawled in every book. Shelley had been an obvious favourite. He selected a volume and settled into a chair. The book fell open to a poem Spike remembered from his past.

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden,

Thou needest not fear mine;

My spirit is too deeply laden

Ever to burden thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,

Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion

With which I worship thine.

It was a sad set of verses, prettily written, but morose. Those words stayed with him the rest of the evening.

Isobelle returned from town with a smile on her face. Her mood was lighter, quite different from the morning. After sunset, they went to the beach. A nearly full moon illuminated the sand, making it glow against the dark water. Stars dotted the sky, the wind was calm and the air was warm and moist. It was the perfect summer night.

Isobelle set a small backpack down and spread a blanket over the sand. "Care to do the honours?" she asked, handing Spike a corkscrew and a bottle of wine. He complied, looking on as she sat down, digging her bare toes into the sand.

"Feeling better then?" he asked, filling her glass.

"Was I not before?"

"Your little moodfest this morning had me wondering. Granted, we haven't known each other that long, but the big stare-down you were giving the sea didn't send out any cheery vibes. Didn't seem right."

She accepted the wine. Out of habit, she tapped the bowl of her glass against his before taking a sip.

"You've never woken up on the wrong side of the casket before?"

"Only once. And I've avoided coffins ever since. Nasty cliché anyway."

They sat together on the blanket, listening to the surf churn in the dark. Once or twice, out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw her turn his way, the hint of a question on her lips. She chased it away with a swallow of wine each time. Her glass was empty now, so he waited for her to try again.

"Spike?" she said, breaking the quiet.

"Mm?"

"Do you remember… " she trailed off, hunting for words.

"Remember what?"

"What it was like? To die?"

The question caught him off guard. "You mean… to be turned?"

"Not exactly. I mean, when it happened. You had to die, right?"

'That's how it works."

Her eyes searched his for a moment before she looked back over the water.

"Never mind. Forget I asked," she mumbled, resting her head on her knees. Her breath hitched in her throat, and Spike thought he saw a fine tremor go through her shoulders. But when she raised her head, her eyes were dry. She passed her glass over to him and he refilled it. She took a long sip, her attention returning to the water.

"I don't remember dying," he started. "Not in the sense you mean. I wasn't aware of my heart stopping, my flesh going cold. When Dru drained me, all I felt was pleasure. And pain. It was euphoric. A new existence to explore. I felt – vital. Conceived and reborn in a filthy London alley."

"Reborn?"

"It was a new me. I had power. I was strong. Exempt from the social order, from the rules and customs that held me down during my human life."

"You didn't regret it?"

"No. I reveled in it."

"Why?"

Good question. What was the good answer?

"Over time, I felt I made a better demon than a man."

Isobelle blinked and turned back to him. This time he saw her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears.

"I've never heard anything so sad. Was your life so terrible? Your soul so lost that death was a choice?"

"I didn't choose it," he said, a hard, defensive edge creeping into his voice. "But I didn't reject what I was offered. It was what I needed then."

"And now?"

"And now what?" he said flatly, draining his glass, then refilling it to the rim.

"What do you need now?"

Isobelle moved up on her knees and sat directly in front of Spike. She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Her whole body was wound tight, her eyes bright and intense as they stared into his.

" 'belle…" he said, softening his tone, letting his guard drop.

"When death isn't enough anymore, what keeps you here? What makes it worth living?"

He moved to brush a tear off her cheek, but withdrew his hand before he touched her. He watched the silvery drop course over her skin, then disappear down her neck.

"Love," he answered. "That's what it's supposed to be about, isn't it?"

She pressed her lids together, ridding her eyes of their extra tears.

"It took losing your soul to learn that?" she wavered, wiping the wetness from her cheeks.

"No, but I understood it better. After, that is."

She was still as stone, hearing his words, letting their meaning sink in. With a start she pulled away, her feet seeking purchase in the soft sand.

"Oh, God, I… I'm sorry," she stammered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to… " She backpedaled from him. "I'm sorry I made you come here."

"Isobelle, wait… " he said. Getting up, he moved towards her.

"No… just stay there. I need to be by myself. Spike… I'm sorry I did this."

She turned away and headed down the shoreline. He let her go, keeping her in his sight as long as he could, before the darkness swallowed her. Every impulse he had told him to go after her. It was dark. She was alone and upset. But he waited. A breeze eased down the coast, blowing the curls off his forehead. He closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. He smelled the salt off the water, the sweetness of the long grasses behind the rise… and the barest hint of vanilla. He could find her when he wanted to. He would give her time.

~+~

It was a small family cemetery, most of the markers old and pitted with age. Names of relatives she never knew graced most of the monuments; she made sure they were maintained, but paid them only passing attention. They were not the reason she was there.

Isobelle sat in the damp grass, contemplating the stone marker in front of her. Her eyes traced over each character engraved on its polished surface:

Seaton Alexander Jones

1943 ~ 1982

Every year, she would come, sit here, and try to forgive him. Every year she failed. She would cry in the dark until the tears would no longer fall, but it was useless. Nothing helped. It got harder and harder, but she still made herself return, to try again.

She heard Spike walk up behind her. Wordlessly, he eased down beside her, close enough that his elbow brushed hers as he settled on the grass. The silence lasted a while longer, until Isobelle trusted her voice enough to start.

"My mother died when I was two years old. I don't remember her at all. I looked at the pictures, and the family would tell me stories, but she wasn't a real person to me. No one would tell me how she died. She had been ill, that's all I could figure out. That, and something happened, something that made her sicker, then she died. It was like this big secret that I had to be protected from. People around here are big on tragedy. Sympathy is a hobby. You can't feel good about yourself unless you're feeling badly for someone else.

"After my mother died, it was just my father and I. He was a doctor too. A surgeon. He worked long hours and we didn't see a lot of each other, but when we did, we made the most of it. Weekends here in the summer, Christmas vacations. I lived for every minute we were together. He was all I had left, and he made me feel like I was the centre of the universe. I knew I was loved. He would show me every day, even if we never saw each other, that he loved me. At least, that's what I thought.

"When I was eight, a partner in his practice started going on about this boarding school in Quebec that he was sending his daughter to. Raved about it - the curriculum, the faculty and how much his daughter loved it there. Next thing I know, fall comes and I get shipped off, away from my home, away from the only family I have. I spent the first months there hating him. I didn't call, didn't return his letters. Christmas break, I stalked around the house, complaining when he was kept late at work, and ignoring him when he was home. I resented being taken out of my life, angry that he wouldn't bring me back. He was my whole world, and he sent me away."

Spike remained still, at her side. He laced his fingers together, squeezing his hands tight, trying to quell the need to put his arms around her. She needed to finish.

"It only got worse when I went back to school. I still wouldn't call home, but he stopped calling, too. The letters got less frequent, and even when I caved in and wrote, it seemed like forever before I got a reply. By the time Easter came, I was desperate to see him. I may have only been eight, but I knew how to hold a grudge. I also knew when it had gone on too long. He had taken the weekend off, just for me. We made up for months of lost time. I had my dad back. I was the centre of the universe again. For three days, things were back to normal, like it was before he sent me away. He even got me a puppy for Easter, which was kind of stupid, because I was not going to be around until the summer and he worked sixteen hours a day. But he was trying to make it perfect. For three days - it was.

"The last time I talked to him was on my birthday. Nine years old, far from home. He called just before bed check. Apologized for not calling earlier, but he was working… I knew the story by heart. He said my present was in the mail and that he loved me. And that he was proud of me. That sounded weird. He had never told me he was proud of me before. Then he said goodbye. He hung up before I could say goodbye to him.

"Almost a week went by before I realised I hadn't gotten the package from him, or any other phone calls. I didn't think anything was wrong. Not until the headmistress came to my classroom door. I can still see her walk over to the teacher, whisper something in her ear. They both looked at me. I knew then."

She stopped speaking for a long moment, replaying the event in her head. After a beat, she continued.

"One of his partners found him slumped over his office desk. The needle was still in his arm. Photos of my mother were all over the place. He left a note, which was good. At least then, nobody would think he'd died because he was sampling. He killed himself because he couldn't go on without my mother. Seven years had been too long and hard for him to be alone. He went quickly. Potassium chloride and morphine were in the syringe. Poetic, really. Potassium to kill the heart, morphine to kill the pain.

"In the end, I wasn't enough for him. He chose death over me. I was nine years old, and he chose to kill himself rather than be here for me."

Spike felt a cold lump settle in his stomach. Fragments of their conversation on the beach echoed in his brain.

"When death isn't enough anymore, what keeps you here? What makes it worth living?"

"God, Isobelle, no. Don't think that. Believe that he loved you. The pain may have beaten him, but that doesn't mean he didn't love you."

She gritted her teeth. He was trying to take it back.

"You said love was what it was all about."

"Don't do this."

"If you love someone enough, isn't the pain worth it?"

The hard answer came easily from him. "Not for everyone. We can only do the best we can. We have to live, or die, with the choices we make. He made a bad choice, love. But he made it in spite of you, not because of you. I thought I understood it well enough, what love can make you do. I'm just figuring it out now; it can twist you into doing the most dreadful things for what seems like the right reasons. Hate, sadness, despair, love – they all have their way with us. Especially love. That's the tricky one. It demands the grandest gestures and in return, gives us the most spectacular misery."

Isobelle gave a small, hard laugh. "You're defending him."

"No, I'm not. But I understand him."

"Of course you do! Because you were just like him, right? When your life got too harsh, when you got your taste of death, you embraced it, too. Only difference, ironic as it is, you got to live through your demise. I was the one who had to live through his."

Spike had no argument against that; it was true. He couldn't tell her to get over it; it was twenty years later and her wounds were still bleeding. He looked at the gravestone in front of him and found himself resenting a man he didn't know. The name gouged in the rock was a taunt; he had had more than Spike could ever hope to possess. And when it had gotten too hard, when part of it had been lost, he had given up on what he had left.

It was pitiable.

"Come on," he said firmly, getting to his feet. She shot him a cold look and stayed on the ground. Undeterred, he pulled her up, out of the dirt.

"I said, get up."

She wrenched her arm out of his grip, rubbing the spot where his fingers had been.

"What the hell is your problem?" she demanded, anger sharpening her tone.

He pointed at the marker. "What he did was abhorrent. You want to hate him, you have every right. Hate him all you need to, but for Christ's sake, stop feeling guilty about it. 'cause that's the problem, innit? He was a bastard and you want the comfort of knowing that, but you can't accept it. Or won't. This," he emphasized, thumping his palm over the centre of her chest. "won't let you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she choked out, shoving his hand away. She took a few steps back and began pacing in front of the gravestone. Tears threatened, but didn't fall, making her eyes glitter in the moonlight.

"Liar. Again. You told me I was just like him, so I ought to have a clue or two about it."

"Must be the salty air here that's making you all insightful. You wouldn't have been this astute two weeks ago."

Spike pressed his lips together in a hard line. She was ravening now, looking to continue the fight. He had had enough. "It's not the air. Believe me."

There It was. In that split second, It had revealed Itself.

And she had seen.

Isobelle slowly walked over to him, her eyes locked on his. His posture crumpled slightly at the deliberateness of her approach. He resisted the urge to retreat as she came near; he wasn't about to run from her now.

She stopped a few centimetres from him, close enough that if he did breath, she would feel it against her cheek.

"I think I do."

That hot weighty pain began to roil in his chest. The soul never rested. Pressure built inside, a real, physical sensation, as It reached out to her. It felt as if It was trying to bore through his flesh in Its effort to make a connection. It was tired of misery. It wanted release.

"Deep thoughts," she said softly, never breaking her gaze. "Complex emotions. Empathy. Not the hallmarks of the soulless. Where's that raging Id I've read so much about?"

"And again with the Freud. Seeing the relevance now."

"I was wrong before. You aren't really like him. I didn't see it then, but he was hollow. He had lost his, long before he killed himself. He lost his when my mother died."

Spike felt himself begin to panic. This wasn't real. She couldn't know, couldn't have guessed at his condition. It was too much. He wasn't ready for this. She slipped her hand up and traced a finger over the scar near his eye. His whole body shook at her touch. Sweet and intimate, it made him howl inside.

"But you... " she continued, moving her hand down to his chest, "you're not empty. I see you."

It battered around inside him, swelling, humming as the smallest bit of Its torment cracked and fell away. It had learned kindness and comfort. Now, It wanted more. It didn't want to be alone.

Isobelle leaned in and pressed her lips against his cheek. "You are brave. You brought yourself back."

She moved away from him. Inside, he protested, wanting to reel her back in to him. Instead, he watched as she sank to her knees in front of the gravestone. She dug her fingers into the letters carved in the marble.

Spike went to her, standing by her side, as she finished her silent goodbye. He offered her his hand and helped her out of the dirt. Giving her hand a squeeze, he led her away through the dark, back towards the shore.

~+~

Poem Credit

To ---

Percy Bysshe Shelley