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: For those of you invested in my little story, I apologize for the delay in updates. RL has been quite trying these past few weeks, not just for me, but for my lovely Beta, Sylvia, as well. Again, I would like to thank everyone who has taken the time to send those wonderful reviews; the feedback has been inspiring! I hope you like this chapter ~ it was a long time in coming!

This set of chapters will be winding up soon. The summer can only last so long L . I have been toying with the idea of a sequel, an AU S7, in hopes of providing some closure to my OC, as well as to dampen some of my hurt and disappointment of the finale.

~+~

Spike threw his book on the coffee table and sighed. This wasn't working. He had spent the better part of an hour reading (and re-reading) the first few chapters, trying to lose himself in the narrative, with no success. He slumped against the cushions of the sofa and closed his eyes. The house was so quiet it made his ears hum. So, this is what they mean by 'deafening silence', he mused. Bored and restless - and alone for the night - he had made every attempt at distraction: television, books, music - but nothing worked, leaving him even more unsettled.

The clock in the hallway sounded the hour; ten resonant tones echoed off the walls. Christ, it's not even midnight. He got up from the sofa and wandered through the rooms. If he couldn't engage his brain, perhaps meeting his more basic needs would help pass the time.

Now, children, there are three Fs to vampire behaviour…

The words played in his mind like a sound reel; points of a lecture being read to students by an earnest professor. Oddly, the voice reciting the words wasn't his, but Giles'. Spike wondered for a moment how the Council trained their Watchers. Maybe he should write some notes out for dear Giles on the reality of vampire deportment.

Feeding.

Spike wasn't hungry, but he did a quick inventory of the refrigerator's contents anyway. Blood, milk, eggs… nothing exciting. He looked closer, seeing a small yellow container near the back. He dug it out and grinned.

Chocolate sauce.

He'd have a use for that… later.

And that, dear children, leads us to…

Fornicating.

Aw, get with it, Rupert, he chided the brittle voice in his head, It's not 'fornicating', it's 'fucking'. He jogged up the stairs and entered the room he now shared with Isobelle. The queen-size sleigh bed was unmade, the sheets bunched and rumpled, pillows scattered from headboard to foot. He crawled into the tangled linen and gathered an armful of pillows to his chest. He breathed deeply, drawing Isobelle's scent into his lungs. The delicate, vanilla notes she left behind were mixed with the earthier, sandalwood smell that belonged to him. The bed was their haven, a place to feel warm and pleasured and safe. They talked, laughed, and explored each other's bodies there, secure from the world and the realities of life. The only thing he loved more than falling asleep, ensnared in her limbs and swaddled by linen, was waking up in similar fashion, bodies and sheets sticky with sweat and saliva and other, sweeter things.

Fornicating.

Fucking.

He frowned.

Poor, sensitive William knocked around inside, affronted by the vulgarity of the words, and their cheapening of the blissful act he shared with…

Oh, knock it off, milksop, he warned his other self. Take off the rosy glasses and appreciate what you truly got here.

Their relationship was adult, messy, lusty and fun, running the spectrum from Harlequinesque, soul-stirring lovemaking to hot, greedy sex. Isobelle's mortal libido surprised him, taking all he gave and giving him back, generous and unrestrained, everything she had - if not more. Memories of a recent night slid through his mind, one where they had spent hours making each other shudder and moan until, exhausted, she'd curled her back tightly against his chest and settled down to sleep. He'd held her close as she'd drifted off, spooned into him, her heartbeat slowing to a steady thrum. He was still hungry for her; hard and ready, he'd wanted her to wake up, so that he could have her one more time. He'd suffered it out for a while, lying in the dark, before reluctantly deciding to slip away to the bathroom. Before he could, though, Isobelle had twisted in his arms, brushed her lips across his and rolled him onto his back. She'd kissed her way down his body and had taken him in her mouth, blunting his need, drinking him in when he'd spilled his release down her throat.

When it was over, she'd crawled back up to him, tucked her head under his chin and wished him goodnight.

It hadn't been a reward, or a coercion; there had been no reluctance or disgust, no subjugation of body or will. He hadn't been serviced; he'd been fulfilled.

Fornicating.

Fucking.

William whined inside.

He'd have to come up with a better word.

And, little ones, with the demon's baser needs now satisfied, it moves on to its last motivation…

Fighting.

Now, that wasn't a bad idea at all. Take the demon off its leash and let it stretch its legs.

He rolled off the bed and bounded back down the stairs. He pulled on his Docs and grabbed his keys from the hall table before heading into the kitchen.

Crack a few heads, dust a few vamps - just the thing to pass the time.

He kept a stash of stakes on the back veranda, well out of Isobelle's way. She wasn't comfortable with Spike patrolling alone, but hadn't made any demands on him to stop. By keeping his weapons stored out here, instead of inside the house, it was easier for him to separate his demon-driven need to hunt from the newer world of patience and kindness he was making with her.

He had barely cracked open the door when a blond blur shot between his feet.

"Oh no you don't," he growled, grabbing the kitten by the scruff of the neck. "You do not go outside."

The kitten squirmed in his grasp and gave a few feeble mewls of displeasure. Spike held the animal up to his face and gave him a stare. Dante stilled immediately, his green eyes fixed on the vampire's steady blue gaze.

"The lady of the house sets the rules mate," he said, "And she says, from now on, you're an indoor kitty." Dante miaowed once, punctuating his reply by aiming a clawed paw at Spike's nose. Spike dodged it easily and set the animal down on the tiled floor. "No use takin' it out on me," he grumbled, "She sets rules for me, too,"

He turned to the door and prepared to leave, when something latched onto his leg.

"Bloody hell!" he hissed. Four sets of needle-sharp claws pierced the denim of his jeans and dug into his left calf. "Get off, you stupid cat!"

Spike stomped hard on the floor, trying to shake Dante loose, but the kitten hung on. Spike cursed again as the tiny claws raked his skin; he could feel drops of blood slither down his leg.

"I said, 'let go', or I'll make a meal out of you!" He reached down and pried Dante off, setting the angry kitten down - none-too-gently - on the counter. "I've got bigger things to deal with than you, so bugger off already!"

Spike stalked to the door, nearly hauling it off its hinges as he yanked it open. One boot had hit the planks of the veranda before the sound of the telephone stopped him cold.

"Unfucking believable!"

He waited a moment, debating whether or not to let the answering machine pick up. At the last second, he decided to answer.

" 'lo?" he said tersely.

"Hi! It's just me."

Like the toll of Pavlov's dinner bell, the sound of Isobelle's voice dampened his aggravation.

"Hey," he replied, tone softening. "How's your night going?"

"Busy, as usual. But, we had a lull in the chaos, so I thought… "

"You'd call and check up on me?"

"No, I thought I'd call and say 'hi'. What's the problem? You got a hot date I don't know about?"

"No - and no problem. I was just on my way out the door, is all… "

Oops.

"I didn't know you were planning on going out."

Damn.

"I wasn't… 'planning'. Just sorta… decided."

"Oh."

A quiet minute ticked by.

"Something you'd like to say about it, luv?"

He listened to her fidget on the other end of the line. He pictured her, twisting the telephone cord around her fingers, her mind running an inventory of reasons against his patrolling alone.

She sighed.

"No. Just be careful. And, I expect waffles in the morning."

His grin returned. "With chocolate sauce?"

"And whipped crème."

Breakfast sounded promising.

"It'll be ready and waiting for you."

They said 'good night' and Spike hung up the phone.

"Alright, let's try this again." He turned towards the door, patting his pockets to make sure he still had his keys. "Don't wait up for me, cat. This could be a long night."

~+~

Isobelle sat in the worn easy chair, the phone still pressed to her ear. The dial tone droned dully through the receiver, its monotone buzz bouncing through her brain, teasing out the start of a headache. She closed her eyes against the growing pain and tried to pretend that Spike was still on the other end of the line, that the dead air filling her head was his voice. He was safe at home - not prowling the streets, picking one of those righteous fights that he felt cemented his purpose and gave him license to exist.

That'll do. Let's run with that awhile.

She indulged in her little fantasy for a few seconds more, until a recorded message demanded she either hang up, or dial out again. Returning the handset to its cradle, she curled into the crushed foam and sprung coils of the chair and surveyed the empty on-call lounge. Fluorescent bulbs blasted fake, white light through the room, highlighting the dinginess and clutter surrounding her. A couple of cheap, metal cots were shoved along one wall, messily dressed with over-starched hospital sheets. Dirty dishes were stacked, Pisa-like, in the sink, while the coffee maker sizzled and snapped as it kept the hours-old brew hot and bitter. Newspapers and magazines littered someone's cast-off kitchen table - a generous donation at the time - its cracked, orange Formica top a match for the rest of the furniture in the room, with its depressing, used shabbiness.

Dispirited by the sight, headache aggravated by the brightness from above, Isobelle crawled out of the chair and turned the fluorescents off. She retreated to one of the cots and propped herself against the wall, resting her brow on her knees. Her pager had been mercifully silent for nearly half an hour now, but she sensed her respite from 'the pit' - one of the more polite insider terms for the ER - would be short-lived. Through the lounge's dented door, down the long, green, linoleum-tiled hallway, she could sense the tension and hum of the emergency room. She usually fed off the energy of the department, the controlled panic and anarchy of the place keeping her hopping and sharp. Tonight, it sucked the life out of her, leaving her edgy and distracted, allowing her fears for Spike, on his lonely patrol, to run roughshod over her nerves, tweaking her imagination with horrible scenarios…

Not helpful, she chastised. Focus. Quit worrying. You've got a job to do.

A job. Her job. Sitting in a crappy call room, waiting to be paged, summoned like one would call a waiter for a glass of water, to fix all the hurt and broken people that kicked, crawled, or were wheeled in through the doors.

She thought about that for a moment. Broken people. She fixed broken people. Fixed them with medicines and needles and knives and plaster, sewed up the gashes and narcotized them against the pain. That's what Spike had been, in the beginning; another broken person needing to be fixed. Disenfranchised and utterly alone, no-one had ever struck her as needing as much help as he had: silent and sullen, dripping diesel and seawater, angry fear pushing away her helping hand until he had been too beaten and debased to continue along his road. And it wasn't balms, or potions, or bandages he had required, but time. Patience. Attention. It wasn't cleaning his wounds, dressing his burns - the manual 'doing' of healing, which was her skill and her crutch - but her that had been necessary for his conciliation.

That realization both thrilled and frightened her. She had been alone for so long, relying on nothing but her brains and resolve to get her from one day to the next, that she had forgotten what it meant to connect with someone. She helped, she treated, she prescribed, held hands and said all the right, soothing things, but the satisfaction she received had felt hollow and empty; until now. Never had the artifact of her work returned to her one thousandth of the joy she had gotten from being there for Spike. Hints of the man he was becoming had bled through his cracked armour and reached out to her; the beauty of what she saw screamed at her to take hold and not let go.

But therein lay the fear, the longing, and the panic that currently played with her imagination. The man in the demon chrysalis still had the demon's sensibilities to balance against the demands of a soul. That was part of Spike's drive to patrol. He had tried to explain it to her, this necessity to put himself on the line, to risk losing what he had fought so hard to attain; she had let it go, on the faith that his reasons were good ones and were best kept in his own council. She didn't understand it, but she respected it, fully accepting that by not understanding his motivations, she left herself open to the chilling fear that accompanied the insoluble. Fear that he would be hurt, that he would be lost to her, that there was a part of him that didn't need her. Fear, that after he was 'done', when the chrysalis broke and the fully-realized man shone through, that she would become redundant and shed, along with the cocoon.

That he would be gone and she would be alone.

Again.

The whump of the lounge door being thrown open snapped her back to the present. A nameless intern sighed in relief at the sight of her.

"There you are. We've been paging you for five minutes."

The trill of her pager suddenly became painfully loud. Her headache still throbbed and she quickly silenced her device.

"Sorry," she muttered, climbing off the cot and smoothing her clothes. "I must have dozed off. Slept through it."

The intern blinked, unsure of how to respond; it wasn't every day a senior staff member apologized to a grunt like himself. He settled on nodding and urging her out the door.

"It's a zoo out there," he warned.

Isobelle shrugged and secured her stethoscope around her neck.

"It's the job."

~+~

Spike staggered into the kitchen and dropped to the tiled floor. He lay there, flat on his back, limbs splayed in all directions, blindly kicking until his boot hit the door, slamming it shut.

"Bloody awesome," he groaned.

Two more piles of dust littered the park tonight, courtesy of him. Patrol hadn't been promising, at first. He had prowled the usual haunts - the graveyards, the docks, a few of the seedier bars - with no luck. The park was his last resort. He had skulked amongst the trees and shrubs, noting the abundance of stupid, moon-eyed lovers snogging in the copses or macking sloppily on benches. With so many people around, it was either going to be a demon bust, or a demon feast.

The latter turned out to be true when he finally spotted a pair of vamps in hunt mode, stalking a small group of bar-hopping, soon-to-be entrees. With barely restrained enthusiasm - and little foreplay - he had quickly sent one vamp to his dusty fate. His partner had been less cooperative. As the drunken buffet of victims scattered, screaming into the night, the other vamp threw himself fully into the fight with Spike. He'd played with this one a bit, blocking blow after blow, then delivering his own punishing punch or kick.

The sound of tiny nails clicking on the tiles drew his attention, as Dante scampered over and jumped onto his chest.

"Dammit, cat," he hissed, as the animal aggravated a cracked rib. "For a three-pound scrap of nothing, that fucking well hurt."

Dante tilted his little head, blinking at the vampire.

"Too bad you couldn't be out on the prowl tonight, cat. Missed a fun bit of violence."

The kitten shifted his weight, pressing his paws right over the damaged rib.

"OW! Christ. Alright, the violence was fairly shared."

Aside from the injured rib, Spike knew there were bruises forming on his arms from blocking punches, not to mention the small split in his lip, courtesy of one of the few swings that had gotten through his defenses.

"Quit starin' at me like that. You know that if you'd had the chance, you woulda been out there moling, or voling, or whatever it is wee beasts like you hunt in the night."

"Mreoup."

"Talk back all you want. You're a lucky bugger. You don't need to go all 'animal instinct' to get through your day. You got it all right here: nice house to roam in, a full belly every night, a sweet little mistress to scratch your ears and cuddle you close… "

Spike stared back at the cat. Big eyes blinked at him.

"Yeah, okay, that sounds familiar. I've been singing that song myself. Trouble is, kitty, I'm not blind to the bigger picture anymore. The 'want' and the 'need' are fine and dandy; it's the 'having' that's a bitch."

More blinking. Dante tucked his paws in and lay down on Spike's chest.

"You're still all you were," he said, rubbing the kitten's head. "The pure animal. Simple motivations for simple needs. My problem - and it's a lovely one - is I wanted more than I deserved. Thought I had gotten it, too, 'til that rug was whipped out from under me and I fell on my ass. So, I sullied my already-tainted beast with another smear of humanity. Now, I still have the 'want'; those demands just burn more now. Wanna know why?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I got a taste of the 'having'; the pure, undiluted satisfaction of fulfillment. And it hurts. Hurts because I want it and it feels so fucking… good. That's what our mistress doesn't understand. She gives it so freely, but I need to be earning my piece. And my peace."

Dante stretched and hopped off Spike's chest. He watched the kitten pad away.

"Okay, you furball. If I didn't make any bloody sense, sue me. No need to totter off with your tail in the air. I'm done explaining myself."

Spike stayed splayed on the floor, sulking a bit. His impromptu psychoanalysis session had killed the buzz of his successful patrol. His ribs hurt and his arms started to ache as the bruising set in. He was about to haul himself up when Dante clicked his way back into the kitchen. Crammed in his mouth was one of the several catnip-filled toys that were scattered around the house. Climbing back on top of Spike, Dante dropped the prize and gave a loud miaow. Spike started laughing, breath catching as his ribs grated with the strain. He ruffled the kitten's golden fur and Dante began to purr.

~+~

Isobelle climbed the stairs to the back door, feet falling heavily on the wooden boards of the veranda. Her night had been hell. Not because it was busy - she was used to that; used to the crowds, the noise, and the general upheaval of an urban care centre. What had put her through the ringer was her inability to get in touch with Spike. She had called home three times and she had gotten her answering machine with every call. She'd rationalized each failed attempt at contact: she'd called too early and he was still patrolling; he was in the shower and didn't hear the phone; he was beating eggs for the waffle batter and couldn't pick up the phone…

Or he's dead and dusted somewhere and I'll never know what happened…

The sun had started to rise half an hour ago. The early morning rays filtered through the trees and warmed the back of her neck. She reached out and gripped the doorknob, taking a steadying breath before twisting it and entering her kitchen.

Her heart spasmed in her chest as she surveyed the empty room. There were no plates on the breakfast table, no bowls of batter or mess of flour on the island. The place was quiet and still. She stood in the middle of that stillness, light-headed with panic. Her worst fears bubbled back to the surface and she forced her legs to move, stiffly putting one foot in front of the other, stumbling through her office and into the living room, searching for any sign of Spike. He wasn't at the computer, or stretched out on the sofa.

With more urgent strides, she took the stairs, two at a time, up to the bedrooms. She passed the open door of the bathroom; like the kitchen, it, too, was empty. The shower stall was dry and there were no wet towels on the floor.

She turned towards their bedroom door. It was ajar, diffuse, harmless sunlight glowing from inside the room, through to the hall. Blood roared in her ears as she went over and pushed the door open.

A pile of dusty clothes had been kicked into one corner. Spike was curled on his side, in the centre of the bed, the sheets covering him from the waist down. Isobelle saw the blush of a bruise spread over the left side of his chest. A few more purple blotches were scattered over his arm. Tucked under his chin was Dante. Both were asleep, the picture of peace.

Weak with relief, Isobelle swallowed back grateful tears.

We both made it through another night.

She shed her clothes and slipped into bed, pressing her chest against his back and burying her face in his neck. He stirred when she kissed the skin under her lips.

"You're home," he said sleepily. She kissed his cheek and snuggled closer.

"Yeah, just now."

"Damn, what time is it?" he asked. "Breakfast. I forgot… "

"Don't worry about it. I'm not hungry."

"Yeah, but I'd promised… "

Whipped crème. Chocolate sauce.

Spike's ribs protested at the thought.

"I just want to lie here, okay? Let's just go to sleep."

She watched as he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep, the kitten purring against his chest. She gathered the sheets around them and held her lover close. She indulged in the contentment of the moment and let herself drift off to sleep.