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 Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Your kind words and constructive comments mean a great deal to this first-time writer. Thanks, as well, for giving an OC fic the benefit of the doubt. Keep those comments coming. J
~+~
Spike leaned against the tree trunk, fiddling with the stake in his hands. Summer had hit hard for late June and the air was thick with humidity, causing fog to swirl around the headstones. Maybe it was the heat, or the fact that it was the middle of the week, but the streets were deserted. He pulled out a pocketknife and refined the already sharp point of the stake, whittling it out of sheer boredom. This was not the way to spend a hot, sultry night.
Feeling he had wasted enough time, he got to his feet and lazily strolled towards the gates of the cemetery, tapping his weapon against his thigh with each step. No, this was definitely not where he wanted to be tonight, but being in the graveyard, spoiling for a fight, beat sitting in Isobelle's house alone.
A new dynamic had entered their relationship since their trip to the shore. Spike no longer felt as though he were leeching off her empathy and goodwill, or being cast in the role of someone for her to simper over and save. The playing field had been somewhat leveled; he had been witness to her own moment of despair and he had pulled her back. He had become necessary.
And now she knew about the soul. That had been a shock.
He reflected on the rest of that night; they'd spent it in front of the hearth, talking until sunrise. He'd told her about his quest in Africa, but he'd omitted the true reason for seeking his soul. He'd been grateful when she hadn't pushed for details. It wasn't something he had been ready to discuss or examine. The one thing he'd understood that night was the connection they had made at the grave. She had seen him - that deepest, rawest part within - and had not turned away. He was moved by her acceptance; it dulled some of the ache inside.
Swinging the gates open, he decided to take the long way back to the house and make a small sweep of a nearby park. Thick with shrubs and massive oak and chestnut trees, the park had lots of little hiding places that deserved a look before he called it a night.
Like the graveyard and the city streets, the park seemed deserted. Spike stood quietly for a moment. He tilted his head, listening for the slightest sound, any hint that he might not be alone. A low whine off to his left got his attention. Carefully, he made his way to a clump of bushes. The brush rustled. Spike's shoulders tensed as he stalked towards the disturbance. Another whine, then a sharp mewl, followed by a loud crunch. Spike whipped the brush aside, stake held high in his left hand… then he froze.
"Holy sh… " he croaked, barely ducking back in time as a massive arm swung out towards his head. Definitely not a vampire.
"Okay, no problem mate. My bad. I'll just be on my way then," he rambled, backing away from the demon as it broke out of the thicket. A good half metre taller than Spike, it was covered with dark, thick scales. Sharp tusks jutted from a mouth dripping slime and blood. It took another swipe, coming close enough to slash through the cotton of the vampire's shirt.
"No need to get nasty about it," Spike growled, dodging a third blow. Whatever kind of demon it was, it was powerful, but lacked precision in its attack. Spike easily sidestepped the creature's punches and managed to land a few of his own. Strength alone didn't seem to be enough to slow the beast down; the stake wasn't going to be of much use either, but it was the only weapon Spike had. He continued to dance with it, trying to tire it out as he waited for an opening. One hard kick from Spike sent it staggering backwards. With a yell, Spike drew his arm back and charged the demon, driving the stake deep into its neck. It gasped once, foul black blood pouring from its wound, then lay still. Spike nudged the carcass with his boot, satisfied that it was dead.
Spike made his way back to the clump of bushes. Pushing the brush aside, he winced at what he saw. Littered on the dirt were the gnawed remains of four or five kittens. The demon must have had a good night at the gaming tables and Spike had interrupted his victory dinner. He was about to turn and go when a small movement caught his eye. Huddled under the lowest branches of the shrubs, he could make out a small pair of eyes, glowing in the gloom.
"Here little one, come on then," he called softly, fluttering his fingers to draw it out. The kitten retreated further into the brush, forcing Spike to reach in closer. He grazed his fingers across the kitten's matted fur. It was shaking hard.
"It's alright now. Let's go."
He nearly had hold of it when a sharp pain lanced his hand. He drew it back with a curse. A tiny set of claw marks blazed across his skin.
"Think you're bad, do you?" he grumbled, thrusting forward and seizing the furry bundle by the scruff of the neck. A dirty blond kitten struggled in his grasp. Shucking off his button-down, he wrapped the writhing animal tightly.
"Now what are you going to do?" Spike asked, holding the kitten up to him. The animal stopped its shaking, its little eyes shining into Spike's. It opened its mouth to cry, but no sound came out. It blinked at the vampire, then gave another silent miaow.
"Manipulative little sod, aren't you?" Spike muttered, cuddling the bundle close as he headed to the house.
Spike was surprised to see Isobelle's car in the driveway. Being on call usually meant she was at work the entire night.
Stowing the kitten in the laundry room, he went into the kitchen. He found Isobelle seated at the island, head resting on her arms, across the tiled top. She was wearing her robe and her hair was wet. With her head bowed, he couldn't tell if she was awake or not. He tried to ease by quietly, but her voice stopped him.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Little after three AM," he answered, relaxing a bit. "Didn't expect you to be here."
"Didn't expect to be here myself. But, couldn't stay at work looking like this."
Isobelle raised her head. An ice pack slid onto the counter top. A dark blue bruise bloomed over her left temple. She sent him a sheepish smile before returning the ice pack to her head.
"What the hell happened?" he asked, going over to her.
"Well, I learned a valuable lesson tonight. No matter how drunk you think your patient is, don't be stingy with the sedatives." At his questioning look, she elaborated. "This guy freaked while I was putting a cast on his arm and clocked me in the head with it. And I don't think I got all the plaster out of my hair."
Spike took the ice pack from her and examined the bruise. It crept into her curls, and was starting to feather down towards her eye. His temper flared at the thought of someone hitting her. He ground his teeth together to keep his anger from getting out of control. He could see flecks of white, salted through her hair, binding the strands together in knots.
"You tried soaking it out?" he managed to ask, temper contained for the moment. Stupid thing to say, he thought, but he was at a loss for words.
"Tried until I ran out of hot water. The heat was making me a little dizzy, anyway, so I came down here. At least," she gave a small laugh, "if I passed out, you'd be sure to find me."
She crinkled her brow and groaned softly, returning the ice pack to her temple. Spike threaded his arm under hers and around her back, trying to get her to her feet.
"C'mon, pet. You need to be in bed."
"No, really, I'll be alright," she protested. "I should stay awake anyway, for a couple of hours at least. Concussion precautions."
"Well, you can stay awake upstairs."
A loud wail came from the laundry room. Isobelle looked at Spike, who did his best to steer her to the stairs.
"Spike? What was that?"
"Sorry? What was what?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Spike?"
Another wail from the laundry room. Isobelle slipped from Spike's grip and followed the noise.
"Oh, that," Spike said, keeping close behind her.
Isobelle found the kitten tucked in the corner of a clothesbasket. Grimy blond ears poked out from the black button-down shirt, followed by a tiny little nose and whiskers.
"Oh my God, look at you!" she crooned, pulling the ball of fur free from Spike's shirt. "Spike, where did you find him?"
"Hiding in an alley, downtown," he lied, not wanting her to know any details.
"And you couldn't leave him, huh?"
"Well," he started, glancing down at his boots. "You already took in one stray. Figured another would be okay."
Isobelle felt her heart flutter at his words. She hated hearing him put himself down. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
"Stop saying stuff like that," she admonished. "Come on, let's get him something to eat."
They fussed over the kitten for half an hour, settling him in the laundry room for the night. Spike could see the dark circles forming under Isobelle's eyes, but knew it would be a few more hours before it was safe for her to sleep. Determined to help keep her awake, he led her to the sofa, searching for some distraction to pass the time.
"What do you want to do?" he asked, "Cards? Chess? Tiddly winks?"
She laughed thinly. "No, I want to sleep." She sank against the cushions, curling into the soft fabric of the sofa.
"You can't. Not yet. You said so yourself."
"Alright," she grumbled, pulling herself back into a semi-seated position. She motioned for Spike to join her and he settled at the other end of the sofa. She nudged his thigh with her bare toes, and with a grin, stretched her legs out until her feet were resting over his knees.
"So," he started, flustered by her casualness, "now what?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Talk?"
"Little late for deep conversation, isn't it?"
"Hasn't stopped us yet," she replied.
"Not quite in the mood to be reflective, love," Spike said, shifting a bit closer. Her feet rode past his knees, sliding her calves over his thigh. Her robe had slipped slightly, exposing the clean, white skin of her legs. In that moment, all he could think of was how it felt having her legs draped over his. His eyes wandered over her skin, taking in the small scar on her right knee and the tattoo on her ankle. If she just inched a little closer, the robe would part higher above her thigh…
"Hel-loo? Anyone there? I'm the one with the knock on the head."
Spike blinked, coming back to himself. Isobelle looked at him bemusedly.
"What? Sorry," he said, coming back to the moment. She had caught him wandering. He had been doing that a lot lately, especially where she was concerned.
"Mmm. Not a problem. I should probably try and get the rest of this plaster out anyway."
He felt a twinge of disappointment when she swung her legs off him. It had been a long time since he had shared the company of someone who didn't spend every moment telling him he was evil and useless; someone who didn't release their frustrations by kicking the crap out of him at their whim. He had told Buffy once that he knew he was a monster, but that she treated him like a man. That didn't last long after her return. This past month reminded him what it felt like to be treated decently, with simple kindness and respect.
Isobelle had made it halfway up the steps when everything started to spin. Gripping the banister, she sat down on the stair. Her stomach rolled as the pain in her head increased. She buried her head in her lap, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the dizziness to fade away.
"Hey, open your eyes. Look at me."
She raised her head gingerly. Even that slight movement made the throbbing in her head worse. He was with her on the steps, concern in his eyes.
"I'm alright," she managed.
"Sure you are," he replied. Her skin had gone so pale the bruise on her temple seemed black in comparison.
"I am. I just got up too fast."
She hauled herself up, swaying as she regained her balance. She forced a grin on her face.
"See? Perfectly fine."
Spike regarded her for a moment, unconvinced.
"You almost passed out, didn't you?" he asked.
"Only a little."
"That settles it. You're not leaving my sight. We'll talk about stupid flower arrangements if we have to, but you're stuck with me 'til sunrise."
She gave a short laugh, wincing as it made her head ache even more.
"Forget it. I'm off to the shower and you are not invited."
He cut her off at the bathroom door, spreading himself across the frame.
"You're not going in without me." He arched an eyebrow, smirking suggestively. "Be a good way to really get to know one another."
"Fine, I'll live with the plaster. Who needs hair anyway?"
"We'll fix it. C'mon."
Spike led her to her room, settling her on the bed. Retrieving a comb from the vanity, he slid behind her. He fingered a lock of hair, testing for a knot, then carefully drew the comb along the strands. Bit by bit, the plaster flakes fell away, dusting the denim of his jeans. Her curls were soft under his hands, flowing like dark silk through his fingers as he worked. It was a simple act, but intimate. His focus wandered; he was acutely aware of the warmth that radiated from her skin, the delicate blush that was creeping into her cheek. He could hear her heartbeat and feel it surge with each stroke of the comb.
Isobelle stilled beneath his hands, letting him work the plaster free. He was easy and gentle, and it was soothing. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy being cared for. The ache in her head melted away as she started to relax. Her breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of the comb in her hair. A small thrill rippled inside when his hand brushed her cheek. She felt her skin colour at his touch, heat flood her skin. She wanted to slip further into the comfort surrounding her; it had been a long time since she had felt so content.
Spike let the comb drop to the comforter, the last of the flakes freed from her hair. He let the loose curls run through his fingers as he satisfied himself no tangles remained. The scent of vanilla was all around him, drifting off her skin and hair, seeping deep into his lungs as he drew in a breath. Somehow they had managed to edge closer together, her shoulders nearly pressing against his chest. He wanted to hold her closer, but knew he should be pulling away. He felt guilty, having these thoughts about Isobelle after having pledged his devotion to Buffy. Reluctantly, he got off the bed. He needed some space.
Isobelle glanced up as he moved away. Her sense of comfort faded as she watched him hover at the foot of her bed. She smoothed back her hair and tried to smile.
"Thanks," she said. "I think you got it all."
"No problem," he replied. "Not as much fun as in the shower… "
They both left that sentence hang in the air.
"You know, Spike… "
"Mm?"
"I should be fine now. You don't need to stay."
" 'belle, you almost fainted, not ten minutes ago. It won't hurt to keep an eye on you."
Logically, she knew he was right, but that didn't lessen the tension between them. Part of her wanted him to stay. She had grown accustomed to his presence, and liked him being around. But now, it was awkward. They had gotten a little too close and neither knew how to handle it. Before she could reply, Spike spoke up.
"Here," he said, shutting off the bedside lamp. "Crawl under the covers and get some rest. I'll be over there," he indicated an armchair tucked in the corner of the room, "if you need me."
She started to protest but he cut her off.
"No arguments. I said I wasn't going to let you out of my sight. It's the least I can do after all you've done for me."
She acquiesced. "Alright, you win. If... well, forget if - when I fall asleep, make sure you wake me in a couple hours. You can start to panic if I don't get up." She buried herself under the sheets, listening as he paced the room before settling into the chair.
"Spike?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. If it weren't for you being here, I would never have been allowed to come home. They would've made me spend the night at work and I really didn't want to do that."
Her gratitude warmed him. He couldn't recall the last time someone had thanked him, for anything. It was sad how a simple thank you suddenly meant the world to him.
~+~
Isobelle stretched under the sheet. She could feel someone next to her. Strong hands pulled her close and she nestled against a muscled shoulder. Words she couldn't understand were murmured into her hair. She kissed the skin beneath her lips as her hands roamed the broad plains of her lover's back. The body next to hers shivered under her fingers. She arched her neck, her mouth connecting with his, in a deep desperate kiss. His hand trailed down her back and clasped her thigh, levering it over his to bring their hips together. She felt him, hard and ready, pressing into the soft flesh of her stomach and it made her moan against his lips. He coiled tightly around her and moved her onto her back. He rained kisses over her face and neck, nipping and sucking the soft skin at her throat. His hands stroked her body before returning to her thighs, curving around those tight muscles until they pushed apart her knees, holding them open…
Isobelle woke with a start. Pulling herself upright in bed, she blinked against the sunlight that filtered through the blinds.
"Oh, you're awake again."
She blinked towards the voice. Spike was sitting in the chair across the room, legs draped over one of the arms, book open in his lap.
"What time is it?" she asked. Her head ached and she still felt sleepy.
"Almost nine. Was going to give you another half an hour before getting you up."
Spike walked over and sat on the side of the bed, handing her a glass of water. She took a sip and thought about his words.
"What do you mean 'awake again'? When was I awake before?"
"At five thirty, you woke up, wanting a drink. Don't you remember?"
"No, I don't," she replied, mildly alarmed at the lost memory. "Did I, uh… ask for anything else?"
Spike shook his head. "That was it. Why? Is anything wrong?"
"No. Just making sure."
She took another sip of water. Snippets of her dream flashed through her mind. She could still feel those lips on hers, those hands going over her body. She cringed inside. Spike, sitting so close and watching her so intently, made her more self-conscious.
"You should go to bed, Spike. I'll be fine now."
"You sure? You want breakfast or something first?"
The idea of food made her stomach turn. Forcing a smile, she shook her head.
"Nah, I'm good. Go to sleep. I'll be okay."
With a slight shrug, he got up and headed for the door.
"You know where to find me if you need me."
She nodded. Before he had cleared the doorway she called him back.
"Spike? Thanks again."
He tilted his head in her direction.
"You're welcome."
~+~
Spike closed the door to his room and let out a sigh. It had been harder than he thought; sitting in the dark, being so close to her, not being able to… he shook his head. Being able to what, you idiot? Don't confuse things. She isn't for you. It was for Buffy. All for Buffy. Remember that.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He remembered what it had all been for; the point was not lost on him. But he had changed. Part of him still longed for the Slayer, but that passion now left him feeling empty.
He dropped his clothes in a heap by the bed and crawled under the sheets. She had been dreaming. That had nearly killed him. He had watched as she writhed under her covers and clutched her pillow; it had taken all his effort not to slip in beside her, to make her moan against his lips. He closed his eyes tight and shook the images out of his head. Hopefully sleep would come soon.