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: A bit of an experiment on my part. If it failed, the moral is: Never write with the radio on.
~+~
The sound of rain hammering against the bedroom window roused Spike out of bed. Through tired eyes, he watched the drops batter the oaks that lined the sidewalk. It was good he was up. She would be home soon. A thrill of anticipation rose inside at the thought of her walking through the door. Grinding his teeth, he bit the feeling back.
No way. No fucking way, mate. You're not gonna let her get to you.
Spike had almost crossed the line a few nights ago in her room. Brushing out her hair had been an indulgence. Sitting there with those silky strands slipping through his fingers; Dru used to let him do that. For hours on end he would tend to her, fussing and primping and coddling his princess, before sinking inside her, making love to her until they were both spent and quivering. Memories of those nights filled his mind as he had sat in the dark, watching over Isobelle, while she slept. He had no such recollections about the Slayer. As much as he loved her, there were no tender moments between them; Buffy had never allowed him to be kind or gentle with her. A soft kiss on her cheek earned a backhand blow to his. To hold her snugly in his arms after sex rated a kick in the ribs; anything to get him out of her way so she could get dressed and leave.
He wasn't going to let stray thoughts of Isobelle lead him to think that there was anything more between them than… he struggled to find the right word. Friendship? That implied equality: give-and-take. It was starting to develop between them, yet he still didn't feel equal to her. He relied on her for so much, despite the progress she insisted he was making with his soul. She didn't treat him as if he were beneath her. She treated him well.
The soul. The thing. The thing inside that ripped and burned. It saw her. It needed her. That dependence placed him beneath her. She was good. He was not. Simple as that.
Thunder rumbled overhead and the wind gathered strength, shaking the house to its foundation. Lighting arced across the sky, flashing blue through his room, making him squint against its brightness. He needed to change his clothes. He had fallen asleep in his T-shirt and jeans and they were wrinkled and stained from last evening's patrol. He walked to the closet, shucking off the shirt and dropping the jeans as he went. He kicked them into a pile in the corner; he would wash them later. He didn't let Isobelle near his laundry anymore. He didn't want her guessing at his nightly activities.
Pulling on a pair of black pants, he winced as the fabric rubbed against his right thigh. Pressing his hand against the stinging flesh, he cursed softly as his fingers came away wet. He eased his pants back down and looked at the wound. Dark red blood oozed from the cross-shaped burn on his leg. He got a bandage from the bedside table and quickly covered the charred flesh. He finished dressing, checking his arms and feeling his face for any other evidence of injury. Nothing - at least, nothing that showed. He heard her car pull into the driveway and made his way to the stairs.
~+~
Isobelle leaned hard against the door, trying to push it shut against the wind. With a final thrust from her hip, she slammed it home, sliding the lock in place with a sigh. Water dripped from her hair and fingers as she shrugged out of her coat and shoes. With a scowl, she realized that even her socks were soaked. She sat on the stairs and pulled them off, tossing the soggy fabric to the floor. Even in July the rain was cold; her toes were tinted blue under the nails.
She heard footsteps behind her and craned her neck to see Spike.
"Hey," she said, moving to one side, so he could join her. "It's raining out."
"I see that," he replied, sitting down.
"I got wet."
"I see that too."
"Spike, this sucks," she moaned. "My first holiday off in… " she paused, counting back in her head. "…four years and it rains. That means no fireworks and no waterfront. Just rain." She scrunched her toes into the carpeting on the steps, trying to get them warm. "It's not fair. I had plans for us tonight."
"For us?" he repeated. That was news to him. He bit his lip, trying to quell the pleasure he felt at her words. She had thought to include him in her plans.
"Well, yeah, for us. I wouldn't have any fun going out without a friend."
Isobelle tried hard to keep her tone light, but inside she was worried. Spike had been distant since the night she'd been injured. He wasn't avoiding her - she'd hardly been home in the past couple of days - but lately, whenever they crossed paths, he seemed guarded and nervous.
Or maybe it's just me, she thought. She could be projecting her own feelings onto Spike. They had shared a lot in the past month. Intense emotions. Secrets. Pain. Especially pain. The clinician in her understood that sharing such experiences created a false sense of intimacy between people. That would explain the warm sensation she got in her stomach when she thought of him; it would not explain why images of him pulling her into a kiss jumped into her brain during surgery. She tried to rationalize the thought as just appreciation for a handsome man. Spike was attractive and sexy as hell; and it had been forever since…
She stopped the thought. It had been awhile.
She shivered as her wet clothes drained the heat from her body. She looked at Spike and nodded towards the living room
"I can't believe I'm saying this in July, but I think we need a fire tonight. Can you get one started while I jump in the shower?"
"Sure. Got two sticks I can rub together?"
She sighed in mock irritation. "Men. Always going about things the hard way. No, there's kindling in the basement and matches above the hearth." She braced a hand on his shoulder and stood up. "I won't be long."
Spike listened as she trod up the stairs and entered the bathroom. The soul scratched inside, urging him to follow - to hold onto her under the spray, to run his hands over her, to try to make her warm. When he heard the water start in the shower he left the steps and went to the cellar. He slid one hand over his thigh, digging his fingers into the burn. He hissed as pain shot through his leg.
Remember that, he warned. It's all you can have. It's what you've earned.
~+~
After supper, they settled in front of the fire. The rain fell harder now, sheeting off the windows in thick waves, as the storm stalled over the city. Lightening flickered on the walls and thunder rolled through the sky.
Spike had been quiet all evening. Isobelle doubted he would have spoken at all if she hadn't tried to engage him in conversation. Now, sitting together on the sofa, he tucked himself as far from her as he could manage. It felt like he was shutting her out.
"Hey," she teased, trying to draw his attention. "Keep quiet down there. I can't hear the storm."
"Sorry. Guess I'm not in a very chatty mood tonight."
"No problem - unless there is a problem. Anything on your mind?"
He looked her way. Even in sweats and woolen socks she was pretty. He wanted to take off those socks and look at her toes to make sure they weren't still blue. He wanted to touch her cheek, to feel the warmth seeping from her skin. Instead, he went to the hearth and stirred the logs. They spit and cracked, throwing out sparks that stung his skin.
"No. Things are fine. Right as -" he indicated the window, "rain."
"Ooh, bad joke. I guess you're okay."
She picked up the TV listings and searched the schedule.
"Wonder if there are any spooky movies on. Shame to waste a night like this on 'Simpsons' reruns."
"I dunno. That Bart brat has his creepy moments. But, " he continued, reaching over to take the listings from her hand, "if you really want to be scared, I could tell you some stories. And I guarantee they're all true."
He was genuine in the offer; if he reminded her of what he was, she might keep her distance. It would make it easier for him.
"No thanks," she replied, fidgeting with the remote. "Besides, I thought you weren't up for conversation."
Before she could turn on the television, a loud 'pop' echoed outside. The house went black as the lights blinked out.
"Great," she sighed. She got up and flicked a few light switches, testing to see if it was just a blown fuse. None of the lights would come on.
"Whole street's dark," Spike said from the window. "The transformer must have gone."
He watched her move around the room, lighting candles. The space was soon soaked with firelight and heat. She shrugged out of her sweater and cast it aside. Yellow light glowed off her skin, her arms and back exposed by the tank top she wore. The scratching started again inside his chest; the soul, incited by the vision across the room.
Isobelle took one of the candles and went to her desk. Searching the drawers, she found a small radio. She turned it on and static cut the air. The batteries still worked.
"Well, unless you want to sit in the dark playing 'Twenty Questions', this will have to amuse us." She played with the dial until one station came in relatively clear. She wrinkled her nose as the wail of a steel guitar poured from the tiny speaker. "Oh, God. Country. Now I know we're doomed."
She set the radio on the coffee table. Spike was still by the window, leaning against the sill. Her throat caught at the sight of him. He was all angles and shadows in the low light. He was staring at her. She could feel his eyes touch her from across the room with the same intensity as if he had walked to her and physically laid his hands on her body.
Say something, say something, her mind prodded. God, he was beautiful. Hell, don't say THAT!
The notes of a familiar song floated in the air. She acted on the first thought that came into her head.
"Care to dance?" she asked, cringing inside as the words left her mouth. God, let me die now.
Spike gripped the sill in his hands to keep from lunging forward and taking her up in his arms.
No, his mind railed. No, no, no, no!
The soul clawed harder in his chest. He felt like his insides were being shredded as It tried to reach her.
Yes.
It propelled him forward, making him take her hand. He twined his fingers with hers, setting his other hand on her hip. She rested her free hand lightly on his shoulder. He started to lead her in time to the music. They took a few hesitant steps, getting used to the feel of each other. Holding her had settled the soul; It hummed in contentment, with her this close.
Tell me one more time again, just like I didn't hear you
Like I don't know what's going through your mind, I do
I play the same game too, I know it's hard to stop even
When you want to
Isobelle relaxed and let him pull her to his body. His eyes rested on hers, staring deep.
Now the moon lights up your face and I can see you're crying
You never liked me to see you cry, it's true, I've done some crying too
The hardest part about it is trying to hide it from you
Spike was aware of every place she touched him. Isobelle was hot and alive in his arms. She slid her hand over his shoulder until her fingers grazed the back of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine, as her finger ran through the short hairs at the nape of his neck.
It must be great to be so strong, never needed anybody's help to carry on
But we're so scared of the silence and the tricks that we use
We're careful and we're cunning, but we're easily bruised
I don't wanna lie about it, I'm not bulletproof
Isobelle couldn't take her eyes off Spike. His gaze consumed her. She felt, at that moment, that he saw nothing but her.
Well, I finally found a way to hide from all your glances
Till the waiting game we play is through
I can, but what's the use
When all I really want to do is hide out with you
Spike closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. He felt a sigh escape her lips and she eased in closer. Her breath was warm and sweet on his cheek.
It would be great to be so strong, you never needed
Anybody's help to get along
We're so scared of the silence and the language that we use
Yeah we're careful and we're cunning, but we're easily bruised
I don't wanna kid about it, I'm not bulletproof
A tremor moved through her as he squeezed her hand, his thumb kneading the soft skin of her palm; it was a small gesture, but profoundly intimate. She rested her cheek against his chest, nestling into his neck. Her eyes fell shut.
Tell me one more time again, I guess I didn't hear you
I don't know all the secrets that you keep inside
I tried the same thing too, but they all come pouring our of me
When I'm talking to you
She was everywhere on him. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest pressed into his, the soft swell of her breasts, brushing against him with each breath. Her heartbeat vibrated through him… it was… he couldn't begin to describe how it felt, holding her this way. The soul thrived as they connected, demanding more…
It must be great to be so strong, you never needed
Anybody's help to carry on
Isobelle brushed her hips against his. She sensed the music more than she heard it, responding to the rhythm of his body next to hers. Her breath caught in her throat when Spike pressed his thigh between hers.
But I'm not waking up each morning
With forgiveness I can use
Isobelle pulled back, tilting her chin upwards. They opened their eyes. Spike could see desire melting in those dark blue pools and Isobelle flushed, seeing the same, reflected in Spike's.
No I'm careless, and I'm cruel, but I'm still easily bruised
Spike leaned forward slowly, bending ever so slightly to reach her lips.
I'm so tired of lying about it, I'm not bulletproof
No, and I'm not going to lie about it, I'm not bulletproof
Isobelle stilled in his arms, waiting to feel his lips on hers…
With a mechanical thud the power snapped back on. Harsh light flooded the living room.
They froze.
The warmth left Spike's eyes as he slowly pushed her away. He clutched a hand to his chest and took a few paces back.
"Spike, I… "
"No, don't. My fault. Should've been more careful."
Careful? She shook her head. "Spike, it's alright. We… I mean, I… "
I just wanted to kiss you and hold you and…
He held up a hand to quiet her. The hint of a smile played briefly across his lips. His eyes looked sad.
"Don't. No worries love. No harm done."
He sidestepped his way around her and headed for the stairs. She watched him go, unable to think of what to say to make him stay.
"Spike, please… " was all she managed before he'd reached the steps.
"Good night, Isobelle. Sleep well."
~+~
Isobelle sat alone in the living room, watching the candles burn down. Wax dripped from the pillars, congealing into hard puddles on the coffee table. It had been almost an hour since Spike had escaped upstairs. She had tried half a dozen times to go up and talk to him, but she'd never made it past the landing. Even if she had managed to make it to his door, she didn't know what she would say. It felt like an apology was needed, but she didn't believe they had done anything wrong. She admitted it - she found Spike attractive and was drawn to him. From the way he had held her when they were dancing, she was sure he was a little bit attracted to her, too.
Maybe it was a case of 'too much too soon'. The past month had been hard on both of them. They had taken turns giving and receiving each other's comfort. That one dance amplified the intimacy they shared and pushed it to a place they weren't ready to go.
God, that was presumptuous, she scolded herself. She had no clue where Spike saw their friendship heading; he could get up tomorrow and leave, for all she knew. Why did she assume there would be anything more between them? Goddamn it. One stupid four -minute song had completely screwed everything up.
Summoning her courage, she tried to go to him again. She managed to get one foot on the first step when her pager trilled from the hall table.
"For God's sake, I'm not even on call," she muttered, silencing the device. Red numbers blinked the emergency room extension, followed by the digits 9-1-1.
Crap. Disaster callback.
She called her arrival time into the triage desk and ran upstairs to change. After throwing on jeans and a T-shirt, she sped out of her room, stopping at the top of the staircase. She looked down the hall towards Spike's room. His door was closed. She walked up to it and tapped on the wood.
No answer.
"Spike?"
Again, silence.
"Spike, listen. I have to go to work. I don't know when I'll get back."
She waited, but no reply came from inside. She sighed, running her hand over the door.
"Okay. I have to go. We can talk whenever I get home."
Reluctantly she went down the stairs. She didn't like the fact that he wasn't speaking to her. She liked it even less that she was forced to leave before they could discuss what almost had happened. Swallowing the anxiety that rose in her throat she grabbed her keys and ran out the door.
~+~
Spike heard the door slam behind her as she ran out into the rain. He sat in the middle of his bed, sheets pulled around him. He had thrown his clothes off, scattering them all over the room.
His soul raged. It was harder and more demanding than his demon had ever been. The soul demanded. It fought and howled and begged and twisted inside until he hurt.
It wanted her.
He jammed his palms into his eyes. Fucking hell.
He didn't get It for her.
She didn't deserve to have It inflicted on her.
want… need… lust… have… have her… take her… pain… PAIN… PAIN
GODAMMITFUCKINGHELL… take the pain away…
Never.
It would learn. He wouldn't bow to It. It was for the Slayer. It wasn't allowed to choose.
He got off the bed and walked, naked, to the closet. On the floor, under a pile of dirty clothes, was a small wooden box. Retrieving it, he sank down on the carpet, setting it in his lap. Inside, wrapped in a linen handkerchief, was a small pewter cross. He studied it a moment, then put it aside. He pulled out a glass vial, one of several at the bottom of the box. He lay it on the carpet as he packed the cross away, returning his cache to the closet. As an afterthought, he took a soiled T-shirt from the pile, before closing the door. She might not be home, but the neighbours were. He balled up a section of the fabric and shoved it in his mouth, biting down hard with dull, human teeth. With shaking hands, he uncorked the vial.
want… need… have… have her… want her… need her… have her… please…
No.
Never.
It would learn.
He tipped the vial, spilling drops of holy water across his chest. They dripped down his body, burning his delicate flesh. He screamed against the gag. Tears leaked from his eyes.
He would show It.
He would teach It not to want what It couldn't have.
~+~
Song Credit
(Bulletproof ~ words and music by Blue Rodeo)