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.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: I forced myself to read lots of naughty fics to make sure I didn't violate posting rules with this chapter. Ah, the torture of research!

~+~

"Air." Isobelle panted, pulling her lips from Spike's. "I need air."

Spike reluctantly loosened his grip on her waist and let her slip away. Isobelle leaned against her bedroom door and tried to catch her breath. He watched as every breath infused her cheeks with colour, turning her usual chaste blush to a scarlet that made his dead blood burn. She smiled, hooking a finger in the neck of his T-shirt.

"I said I needed air, not for you to let me go."

"Sorry, love. I can fix that."

Spike eased forward and placed a light kiss on her mouth, his tongue teasing her lower lip before it traced a wet trail down her jaw, to her neck. Isobelle sighed as he nipped the soft skin at the base of her throat, his hands firmly planted at the small of her back, pressing their hips together. She held on tightly to his arms; if it weren't for the door behind her (and him holding her so close), she was sure she would've melted into the floor by now.

The floor?

She scanned her surroundings.

"Spike? When did we come inside? How did we get upstairs?"

He lifted his head and looked around. A grin spread across his face.

"I dunno. I remember the porch and the swing, but the stairs are a blank." His grin broadened into a full smile. "I must have been distracted by something."

"You don't say."

She relaxed her grip on his arms, drawing her nails lightly over his biceps, making the fine hairs on his skin stand on end. Delicious tension knotted in her belly as she felt his dark, cyan eyes lock onto hers. Another delicate kiss brushed her mouth.

" 'belle?" he murmured against her lips, "Now what?"

One of her hands traveled across his chest and grasped a fistful of his shirt, while the other snaked behind her back to fumble for the doorknob. They stumbled across the threshold and into the room; moonlight filtered through the thick curtains, bathing it in a silver glow. Isobelle stood near the bed, watching Spike hover in the doorway.

"Do you need to be invited?"

He shook his head.

This wasn't like before; she would let him in. He didn't need her invitation, but he wanted it. He wanted to hear the words.

He was afraid to blink, to tear his eyes away from her; as long as he could see her, this was real. He had felt her with his hands, had tasted her with his mouth, and had reached out to her with his soul; it had to be real.

Please be real.

"Do you want to be invited?"

"God, yes," he said softly.

"Spike, come in."

Those three words were all he needed. He went over and ran his fingers through her hair, his hands cupping the soft contours of her face. His lips grazed hers with the hint of a kiss, before he slid his tongue into her mouth. Isobelle pressed closer, rolling her hips against his, feeling him harden through the layers of denim between them. She pulled his T-shirt from the waist of his jeans and ran her hands over his back. He shivered under her palms.

Clothes pooled around their feet as one slowly undressed the other, kisses and caresses replacing the fabric that had covered their skin, no modesty or hesitation hindering their progress. He slipped one hand under the thin cotton of her bra and teased her nipple into a firm peak. She moaned as his thumb rolled over the sensitive tip, sending tiny shocks of pleasure through her belly down to her toes. Spike smiled and nuzzled her neck, feeling her pulse race with each stroke he gave her tender flesh. Not bothering with the clasp, he pulled the garment off over her head and let it drop to the floor. Her ivory skin perfectly complimented his, glowing clean and white in the gauzy moonlight.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

Isobelle's fingers traced the twin arcs of his collarbones from breastbone to shoulders. She kissed the hollow of his throat as her hands continued their journey over his arms and chest.

"So are you," she murmured. She kissed a path from his throat to his chest. His muscles felt like marble under her lips, cool and smooth and firm. He growled when her palm brushed over the bulge in his jeans; a squeeze from her quickly turned the growl into a whine as she teased him through the denim. Hooking a finger in one of the belt loops she pulled his hips closer, pressing him into the damp cotton of her panties. Isobelle backpedaled her way to the bed, keeping Spike as close to her as possible. She sat on the edge of the mattress and unbuttoned his jeans. She kept her eyes locked on his as she undid his fly; stormy blue eyes gazed back, brimming with desire. No one had ever looked upon her with such passion or intensity.

Spike ran his hands over her thighs, moving her knees up and apart to hook her calves around his waist. He tipped her back against the bed and settled over her. Her fingers mussed his hair into loose curls as she guided his mouth down to hers. Every kiss made him harder, every swirl of her tongue encouraged him to go farther. He shifted his weight to rest on one arm, freeing a hand to travel down her body. His fingers danced lightly over her skin, moving from breast to belly and back, before descending lower to the hem of her panties. She gasped as he drew one finger down the centre of the soaked scrap of cotton. He massaged her through the fabric, making her hips roll.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes," she sighed. Her head was spinning from his touch. "Don't stop."

Spike slipped his hand inside her panties, fingers grazing the tight bundle of nerves hidden among the wet curls. Long, languid strokes teased her, and she rocked against his palm, urging him to go faster. He maintained his pace, going only so far, running one fingertip over her entrance, but not dipping into its hot, wet depths. He busied his mouth at her breast, nipping and suckling her skin. Her heartbeat pounded through her chest, growing faster and stronger with his touch. He tore his lips from her breast and looked at her. The sight amazed him.

Isobelle's eyes were closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure. One hand was tangled in his hair, the other clutched the comforter, holding on as she writhed beneath him.

"Open your eyes," he whispered.

Isobelle's eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze. Spike turned his wrist slightly and slid one finger inside. Isobelle gasped and shuddered, never taking her eyes off of his. She moved in rhythm with his hand, her muscles tightening around him with each gentle thrust. He slipped a second finger inside, his thumb brushing against the sensitive knot above. Harder, deeper, faster - she was getting so close…

Isobelle cried out in protest when Spike withdrew his hand. He silenced her with a rough kiss before tugging her last scrap of clothing down her legs. Together, they slid off his jeans and she wrapped her calves back around his waist. It was her turn now; she dragged her fingers over the muscles of his abdomen, up and down, each time running them closer to the erection pressing against her thigh. She took him in her palm and gave one hard stroke over his length, making him growl into her mouth. It was the most erotic sound she had ever heard; deep and guttural, it resonated through her, shaking her to the core.

"Now," she panted, guiding him to her, "I need you now."

He needed no further encouragement; he thrust forward, slowly sinking inside until they were locked together. They moved as one, sweat-slicked bodies gliding gently as they danced, intensifying the delicious ache between them.

He felt her quiver beneath him, her arms and legs holding onto his body as he worked her over the edge.

"Look at me, 'belle, please. I want to watch you."

Once again, her eyes found his. There was more than simple passion in her gaze; her blue eyes shone with acceptance, vulnerability; but most of all, with complete and utter trust.

She trusted him.

"Spike? Oh, God… " she wavered, her body seizing around his as she came. Her hips arched off the bed and rocked against his, holding him deep inside. He lost it then, feeling her thrash and tighten around him. He buried his head in her neck, her name spilling from his lips with a harsh roar. He collapsed on top of her, gulping for air he didn't need as waves of pleasure rippled through him.

"I think we ruined the comforter," he mumbled, licking salty sweat from her skin.

"It was worth it," she replied, stroking his hair. "That was wonderful, Spike."

They lay together for a few moments longer, trading kisses and caresses, separating only to push the stained linen to the floor and crawl under the sheets. They nestled together, a happy, sated tangle of arms and legs and lips.

This is how it's supposed to be, Spike thought.

This is what I want.

~+~

Spike lay awake in the dark room, waiting for her to fall asleep. He carefully got out of bed and pulled on his pants before slipping away. The hall carpet muffled his steps as he made his way to his bedroom. Miranda and the rescued kitten, Dante, had made his bed their favourite sleeping spot. He found them curled together among the sheets, a knot of darkness and light, furry doppelgangers of himself and Isobelle.

He dug around the closet for the small wooden box he had hidden there the week before.

One week.

One week since their dance, when his resolve had started to crumble and his punishments failed to silence the soul inside. Tonight, he had given in; he wasn't up to fighting It anymore. Isobelle had become his salvation, his comfort; a living, breathing validation of his right to exist.

The soul had been his gift for the Slayer; one last grand gesture to win her love. That idea had appealed to the bloody poet that still rattled inside, but the demon had been the one forced to live with the bitterness and loathing that had come with his prize. It had been hard enough, slogging through the guilt, the nightmares and the self-hatred; it would be made worse if she rejected his offering.

If?

Fuck 'if', he thought. Buffy had no reason to ever want him again; not to use, beat, screw or spit on. Well, except for 'use'. He made a good demon fighter; he was strong and expendable. No, she would still make use him, when things turned grim and a sacrifice was required.

He found the box and made a quick inventory of the contents. The small pewter cross, wrapped in bloodstained linen, a few vials of holy water and the empty vial, all accounted for. He closed the lid and headed for the door. He wanted to get rid of it all, tonight. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard her voice.

"Where are you going?"

She peered down at him from the banister. She cinched her robe tighter around her waist, waiting for his reply.

"Just stepping out for a minute. I won't be long."

"Spike? It's 4:00 AM."

"Huh? I know, love. I just want to toss something out. I'll be right back."

"And I say again, Spike, it's 4:00 AM." She noticed the small box in his hand. "What's that?"

"This? It's nothing. Trash. Going to throw it out now."

Isobelle extended her hand over the railing towards Spike. "Can I see what's inside?"

Spike swallowed. He wanted to get the box out of the house. "I told you, 'belle, it's nothing."

"The more you say 'it's nothing', the more I believe it's something. No secrets, remember? No more shutting each other out." She went to the top of the steps. "Spike? What's inside the box? Why are you sneaking around, trying to get rid of it?"

"I'm not 'sneaking'," he said, hurt. "It's… I just… "

He hunted for the right words. If he could come up with something clever, she might let it go.

Yeah, like that would happen.

He walked back up the stairs, the little box feeling like a ten-ton weight in his palm. He handed it to her, then slipped inside her room.

Isobelle stood in the hall, unsure of what to do. She heard the bedsprings creak as Spike sat on the side. She opened the lid and examined the items inside. The bloodstained handkerchief, the cross, the vials - none of it made sense to her; not why they were here, or in Spike's possession.

She set the box on the hall table and went to Spike. She sat on the bed, and waited.

"You looked inside?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. 'And' what? What aren't you telling me?"

"Isobelle, there's so much… "

"Just start with the box."

"The box," he began, "is my other chip."

"What?"

He sighed. This was going to be excruciating.

"The chip, the one shoved in my brain? I told you about it, right? Told you what it did, how it worked?"

"Yeah, I mean… yes. It gave you pain whenever you tried to hurt someone."

He chuckled. It made a hollow sound in the darkened room.

"Gave me an idea, it did."

A chill ran down her spine. "What kind of idea?"

"If the chip - if the pain - could keep me from hurting people, it could keep me from doing other things. From wanting other things." He tapped his head. "Vampire doesn't equal stupid; well, not all the time."

He wrapped a hand around her wrist and pulled her to the carpet, making her kneel in front of him.

"The soul… well, it comes with its own set of rules. There's the general self-loathing, the guilt… you've seen that part. Funny thing, though; It thinks It has free will." He stroked her cheek, searching her eyes for a hint of the acceptance and trust he had seen earlier. "I got It - suffered for It, fought for It, to have It for - "

The words caught in his throat. How could he admit this to her?

" - and It didn't want her. It saw you, Isobelle, and It chose you. I… I couldn't just give in; I had to try to teach It… "

"Wha… what are you saying to me? Spike? Are you… is there someone else?"

"Yes. No. Yes and no. Fuck, Isobelle, I don't know!"

Isobelle was shaking. She could feel sweat rolling down her back, but she felt cold. She tried to push herself away from him, but he held her in place.

"Spike," she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady, "let go."

He shook his head. "Not 'til you understand."

"Let go of my hand and I promise, I'll stay and listen."

He released her wrist. Isobelle resisted the urge to run out of the room. He wouldn't hurt her; he couldn't hurt her; not physically, at least. She ignored, for the moment, the pain that ran through her chest; her metaphorical heart tearing in two.

When she didn't run, he was grateful; he had expected her to bolt for the door.

"My soul," he continued. "Mine to do with as I pleased. I had no idea It would be the one making the decisions."

"You… you said, It didn't want her. You wanted It for someone else?"

"To be worthy. To be deserving. To be… "

"Wait, wait… " she interrupted. She wasn't sure she was hearing him correctly.

"You fought for your soul, to get It back, to give It to someone?"

She shook her head.

"You idiot."

She jumped to her feet and paced in front of him. The man was admitting to - what? Punishing himself? Because his soul, the essence he'd reclaimed, didn't want to be given away?

Because It wanted her.

"I never meant for you to find out about this," he said softly. "I just… I didn't know what else to do."

Isobelle stopped pacing and turned to him. "You didn't?" she asked, incredulous. "You couldn't talk to me? Spike, I have never… " She paused, trying to keep calm. "I have always been here for you. I thought you would've known by now that you could tell me anything."

"I know," he acquiesced. "I should've. But it was so hard, 'belle, so… " He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus his train of thought. " …it's still hard."

Swallowing her own pride and anger, Isobelle forced herself to kneel back down in front of him. She took his hands in hers. He latched on tightly.

"Spike, how am I supposed to trust you when you keep things from me?"

"How could I tell you something I wouldn't admit to myself? You have no clue - no fucking clue at all - how it feels, to pass the challenge of your existence, only to find out your reward is fighting against you."

He pushed off the bed and pulled her to her feet. She tried not to resist when he drew her closer.

"I did everything I could to keep It in line. I tried ignoring It, thinking I was still in control. That didn't work. I kept up with the patrolling, the scrapping, reminding It and myself what we were good for; again, failure. The only thing left was to beat It down - punish It into behaving. Worked for a bit, but I didn't realize how strong It could be… and how weak I'd become."

She didn't want to hear that. It couldn't be true. Despite all her attempts to help him, to be there for him, he had still managed to convince himself he didn't deserve kindness. He wanted to wear his soul like a lavaliere - a pretty symbol of love and devotion and true emotion; the last slip of humanity his demon could procure.

"Stop it," she choked, edging away. "Do you hear yourself? You keep calling your soul It, like it's a thing. 'Fight It, punish It,' - your soul isn't your enemy, Spike. Your soul is you; you're fighting yourself - hurting yourself."

He shook his head sadly. "That little bit of sophistry doesn't make it any easier to accept."

She considered that for a moment. He was right; nothing about this situation was easy to accept. Unfortunately for her, one thing became clear: this was no longer simply about Spike. She had allowed her heart to rule her head; her emotional entanglement made her partly responsible for whatever he had done to himself. Sadly, she was also to blame for what he had, unknowingly, done to her.

"It isn't supposed to."

He waved her off and wandered around the room.

"If that's how little you think of yourself and your soul," she continued, "it doesn't say much about me."

He stopped roaming and looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"You wanted your soul, so the person you loved would love you back. But it torments you, makes you feel all sorts of things you don't want to feel - guilt, self-hatred - makes you miserable."

"Get to the point."

"As bad as you felt, it was worse when you actually started to feel good. It wasn't right, being content, having someone treat you with decency. You didn't believe you'd earned it; that or you didn't want it from anyone except the one you loved. How terrible it must have been to discover that your - reward, is that what you called It? - preferred kindness to yearning."

"Still not seeing the point."

"I'll speak slower. I was here for you. I saw your pain and wanted to make it better; I thought that's what you wanted, too. I didn't realize that what you wanted was to wallow in your misery; there's a pathetic nobility in penitent suffering. But what you were - or apparently still are - doing isn't penance, Spike; it's indulgence. You considered yourself dirt and the more comfort I gave, the worse you felt about accepting it; accepting me."

"But you're wrong," he interjected. "I did accept you. I wanted you."

"No. You didn't accept me. You settled."

She walked slowly to him, feeling vulnerable wearing only her robe. "So here you are, disgusted with yourself that you couldn't tolerate the loneliness anymore, feeling weak because you wanted the comfort; a lower-than-low, pitiable souled vampire." She trailed her fingers over his bare chest, taking no pleasure in how he shivered from her touch. "But I was the supplicant. I slipped beneath you and let you in."

Spike stared at her, horrified, as the meaning of her words started to sink in.

Anger - or was it sadness? - made her voice waver. "You simply traded one form of punishment for another. How could you make yourself suffer just a little more? Deny the emotion. I made love to you, Spike. You had sex with me."

She turned from him and walked to the door.

"Isobelle," he pleaded, "that's not true. Just listen to me… "

"It's alright," she said, not looking back. "I should've know better. Not your fault."

~+~

Spike spent the rest of the night in the hall, slumped in the doorway of her bedroom. He passed the hours reflecting on her words, teasing insight from emotion. Some of what she said had merit; he wanted so badly to feel something good, something other than guilt and loathing, but he wouldn't accept it when it was offered. She'd been there - really been there - so many times and he'd been too much of a fucking self-hating coward to see it.

Sound familiar, you sot?

But she was wrong - utterly, completely, WRONG - about two things.

First, it was his fault. He should've been more honest about how important she was becoming to him, instead of stewing and fretting over it, until his only recourse had been the bloody box of abuse. But she would be resolute; any explanation he gave would never negate her feelings of responsibility for him hurting himself.

Secondly, and more importantly, he was with her because he wanted her. For all his soul's pleading for comfort and love, he chose to be with her because it felt right to him. He didn't deserve it and he hadn't earned it, but he needed it; she'd invited him in, and he had no plans to leave her now.

And none of that mattered. He wouldn't waste one breath trying to convince her of either point. He believed, deep down in his broken soul, that he would make her trust him again; and, when she did, she would know how he felt and all doubts would fade away.

He'd be patient. His chance would come.

~+~

Isobelle finished the last drops of her morning coffee, grimacing as the cold, bitter liquid slid down her throat. She placed the mug in the sink and took a slow walk around the kitchen. Everything was neat and in its place, from tea towels to trivets. She sighed, searching for something - anything - to distract her. Five days was too long to be moping over one little indiscretion.

Yeah, that's it. A little indiscretion. Euphemisms are your friend.

After re-arranging the magnets on the refrigerator - for the third time - she noticed that the calendar had not been advanced for several days. It was one of those page-a-day calendars, a free gift from some drug rep. It hung on the fridge by the grocery list, declaring it was July 8th. Isobelle frowned and ripped off the page.

July 8th.

Five days ago.

Damn.

July 9th stared at her. That day hadn't been any better. She'd spent it hiding in her room, trying to avoid the vampire that sat guard at her bedroom door. That was the day everything had hurt - moving, breathing, blinking - even sleeping. For hours she had lain, curled on rumpled sheets, wondering how the hell things had gone so wrong. She tore that date off and crumpled the paper in her fist.

July 10th. The hurt had still been there, but thanks to several pints of chocolate ice cream, she had been able to sort through the reasons for her pain, like one would sort a pile of socks. The ache she felt, thinking of what Spike had done to himself, paired nicely with her bitterness over his cowardly inability to deal constructively with his feelings. Her distress over a corrupted moment of tenderness found its mate with her overwhelming sense of anguish that the bastard was probably in love with someone else. She pulled that sheet free and ripped it to bits.

Whoever thought a page-a-day calendar was a good, marketable product deserves to have his lungs yanked out through his nose.

July 11th. Just like July 10th, except she did her suffering at work and antacid replaced ice cream as her main source of sustenance.

Rip.

July 12th. That was the day she realized she hadn't set eyes on Spike since they'd slept together. They had done a remarkable job of giving each other space. Or avoiding one another, she thought. She'd waited until dark, when she was sure he'd gone out, to slip into his room. His clothes and what few possessions he'd managed to acquire over the past six weeks were still there. He hadn't left.

She'd sat there a long time, surrounded by his things, by his smell; that was the moment when she'd come the closest to crying.

She wanted him gone.

No, I want him to stay.

She wanted him to suffer the way she was suffering.

No, we've both had enough.

He'd settled for her.

No. He chose me.

Rip.

Stupid calendar.

July 13th. Today. What little misery was in store now? Was it time for another confrontation - the last one went so well - or for the big, emotional 'I'm sorry I hurt you, please forgive me' extravaganza? It had been so long since her last relationship, she'd forgotten the schedule of events for lovers' quarrels.

It didn't matter. She didn't want to be part of either of those scenarios. Grand gestures meant little to her. Spike didn't seem to fare well with them either; his whole soul quest hadn't work out like he had hoped.

She looked down. Five days sat shredded in her palms. She was no closer to working out her feelings for Spike, and he hadn't made any move to clarify his own.

She dumped the ruined paper in the proper recyclable box and made another tour of the kitchen. She rinsed her dirty coffee mug in the sink and began to dry it. She turned to go to the cupboard when a small movement caught her eye. She looked down at the tiled floor and froze. The mug slipped from her hand and shattered.

~+~

Spike was in his room, trying to sleep. He could hear Isobelle rattling around in the kitchen, pretending to cook or to clean, frittering away time. It felt like forever since they had spoken; their last words to each other rattled in his head, picking at his conscience, bruising his soul. He could go down there now and try to talk to her, but he had no clue what he would say.

You could say you're sorry. That you want her. Please forgive me.

No. Not enough. He had to come up with some way to show her that he cared and wanted her.

He heard the crash.

He sat up, listening hard. Nothing. He settled back into bed with a sigh; she'd knocked something over, or dropped whatever she'd been holding. No big deal.

Then he sensed it.

Fear.

Her fear.

He bolted out of the room and flew down the stairs, grabbing the first weapon he could find, a silver candlestick from the hall table. He skittered into the kitchen and stopped short at the island, brandishing the ornament like a club.

Isobelle stood on the other side of the island. She didn't look towards Spike, ignoring his dramatic entrance; instead, her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on something on the floor.

Without lowering the candlestick, Spike edged his way around the island, searching for whatever had her so scared. Tension knotted his muscles as he ever-so-carefully crept closer to…

Bloody hell.

He set the candlestick down on the island and sighed in relief. Scuttling across the tile floor was a brown house spider. For the first time in days, he felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Isobelle, hoping to share the moment with her. The grin faded fast when he saw the dread in her eyes. She was frozen in place.

She was terrified.

Spike didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and crushed the offender under his heel. He forgot he wasn't wearing boots and grimaced at the mushy sensation beneath his foot.

Isobelle took a shuddering breath, her whole body shaking as she succumbed to the adrenaline running through her veins. She watched Spike peel off his socks and throw them in the garbage, then wash his hands.

He went over to her and reached out to touch her arm; thinking better of it, he simply graced her with a small smile and headed back to the stairs.

His surprise was evident when Isobelle caught him at the landing, wrapping her fingers around the sleeve of his shirt. For a moment, all they did was look at one another.

Then, Isobelle leaned over and kissed him.

~+~

Sometimes, it was the small gestures that meant the most.

Spike tugged gingerly at the bed sheet, trying to slip the twisted bit of linen from under Isobelle's arm. She stirred in her sleep, a hint of a smile on her lips. He set the half-empty water glass on the bedside table and crawled back into their bed. He gathered her close to his body, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead as she snuggled into his embrace. The red numerals of the digital clock glinted at him from her side of the bed. He did a little calculation in his head.

Five days, fourteen hours, thirty-seven minutes.

He'd waited that long for his moment. He hadn't failed.

He buried his nose in her hair and closed his eyes.

Time to start counting again.

One minute…