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 Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

~+~

Isobelle flashed the salesclerk an apologetic smile and checked her watch for the fourth time. There were twenty minutes left until closing time. The small shop was devoid of customers, except for herself and Spike. He'd been cloistered in a dressing room for nearly half an hour. The clerk responded with a cheerless grin - a chilly, pinched smile that never made it to her hazel eyes; it barely masked her boredom and impatience. Isobelle wilted under her stare.

"I'm sure he won't be much longer," Isobelle offered.

"Would you like me to check on him?" She leaned forward over the counter, resting her arms on the highly polished surface. She lingered there, making no effort to leave her post. Her clerk-ly smile was starting to fade as she nodded in the direction of the changing rooms. "Perhaps he needs some… assistance?"

"No… I'll go. He's… shy." Isobelle turned towards the dressing rooms, missing the clerk rolling her eyes. She wove her way through the aisles, past racks filled with designer-labeled suits and ties. Fine silk, linen and wool were the standard here, the shop being one of the last genuine haberdashers in the city. Outfitted in dark, oiled wood and brass, it was a throwback to the past: replicated gaslight sconces glowed overhead and thick Asian rugs lay scattered over oak floors, muffling her steps.

Four fitting rooms lined the rear of the shop, the doors - all but one - hanging open. She knocked lightly on the one that was closed. Layers of discarded suit coats and trousers were draped over chairs and the stall door. Isobelle frowned at the mess.

"Spike?"

"What?" came the terse reply.

"Do you need any… help?"

"No."

"Are you coming out? Let me see what you have on."

"No."

She sighed. "Why not?"

Spike pulled open the door and strode out, wearing a T-shirt and khakis. "Because I'm not wearin' one of those stupid suits." He yanked the hem of his shirt down over his waist. "Nothin' looked right, anyway."

Isobelle resisted the urge to scold, but couldn't keep the frustration out of her voice. "How do you know none of them looked right? You never came out wearing one! I didn't have a chance to see any of them on you!"

"Then they didn't feel right, okay? Don't need to see them on to know none of them were a fit."

Men and shopping, she fumed, watching Spike head for the exit. He tilted his head towards the clerk on his way out. "Ta, love. Thanks for the help."

The sales clerk glared at Isobelle as she followed Spike out to the sidewalk.

"Two days, Spike," she warned. "Two days until… "

"I know that, Isobelle," he said tightly. "You've been draggin' me to shops for three bloody nights now. Why don't you just… back off a bit and let me take care of this?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Tell me, oh Wise One, how does someone who can't see his reflection buy clothes?"

He stood there for a moment, then shook his head. He pressed a hand into the small of her back and steered her towards the car, parked in a tiny lot behind the shop. "Been managing to dress myself for a dozen decades, 'belle. Think I can do this on my own."

"But… but… " she protested, sliding between Spike and the car, blocking his access to the handle on the driver's door. "I'm only trying to help."

"I know, but fixin' me up to look like a tosser isn't 'helping', luv. Now, toddle off home and I'll be there in an hour."

Knowing that arguing would get her nowhere, she moved aside and let him open the driver's door. Settling into the seat, she started the engine. Before she pulled out of the lot, she stuck her head out the window and called out to him.

"Spike, don't you think… "

"GO, 'belle!" he ordered, waving her off.

"Okay, but… "

He stalked towards the car and stuck his head through the open window. "Say 'but' one more time and I'll bite yours."

Isobelle couldn't suppress her giggle. "That's such a non-threat, sweetie."

In spite of himself, he cracked a grin. She was trying hard to make this easy on him, but her efforts were simply making a tense situation worse. The last thing he wanted to do was go to this affair, but he'd promised to be her escort and he didn't want to break his word. "I know, but humour me. Pretend I scared the pants off you and go. I'll only be an hour."

Sighing in resignation, she shifted into gear. He watched her ease the car into the nighttime traffic and drive out of sight, waiting until the taillights had blended in with the others twinkling in the dark. Turning on a booted heel, he headed back towards the haberdasher's. The door was locked and the lights were off. He rapped sharply on the window; the clerk appeared a few seconds later. Spike waited as she fiddled with the security system, finally unlocking the door and letting him in.

"Thanks for waiting," he said, wandering into the darkened store. "I couldn't get her to leave."

"That's alright," the clerk replied. "I've been busying myself cleaning up the mess out back." She sent him a pointed look, then waved to the small mountain of discarded suits and ties she had retrieved from - and around - the fitting room.

"Sorry, Sylvia."

Spike kept out of the way as the tall redhead returned the clothing to the racks. Her slender frame, neatly outfitted in a charcoal coatdress, glided silently through the store as she worked. He stumbled upon Sylvia - and her shop - quite by accident, nearly two weeks ago. It had been just another night, with another vamp - unwilling to accept his fate at the end of Spike's stake - running for his unlife, ducking into her shop, seeking his escape. Thinking he'd found a hostage in the beautiful clerk, the vamp lunged at her, just as Spike burst through the door. It was hard to tell who was more surprised in that moment: Sylvia, being faced with a pair of feral, snarling vamps, or the vamps themselves. With a flick of her wrist, both Spike and his target had found themselves frozen in place. Sylvia had slowly edged her way around the pair, examining her would-be attacker and Spike carefully. With a nod towards Spike and a snap of her fingers, she'd freed him from her binding spell, then watched as he went to his quarry and staked him.

And that's how Spike met his first Canadian witch.

"You know," he commented, "being one with the majicks and all, there is an easier way to clean up."

"Now, Spike," Sylvia replied, voice lilting with forced patience, "you know that's a waste of power. Besides, since when is the easiest way the right way?"

"Well, you got me there."

While she tidied, Spike browsed. Bored with suits and ties, he rested his elbows on one of the glass display cases, examining the trinkets inside. Cufflinks in gold and silver, diamond-studded cravat pins, engraved flasks and cigarette holders - high quality merchandise - glittered at him.

"See anything you like?" she asked, sidling up to the case. Spike nodded, eyes still roaming over the shiny items under the glass.

"Lots of things," he murmured. Glancing up, he looked at her and shrugged. "But, what's a fella to do?"

Sylvia grinned. "I've never met a vampire who had problem getting what he wanted."

"I'm reforming. Puts a crimp in the 'take what I want' philosophy."

"That must be rough. I bet 'Little Miss Cutie' makes it easier."

"She tries," he replied, smiling reflexively at the thought of Isobelle.

"Ah, but does she succeed?"

"Mostly."

Sylvia looked at Spike, grin still playing on her lips. His smile faded after a few moments. "Well," he amended softly, "some days are better than others."

"Really?"

"Okay, some hours are better than others. It's still a work-in-progress, you know?"

"Oh, God," Sylvia groaned, "let's not go all 'Oprah' here. Save your bellybutton gazing for 'Little Miss Cutie'. Besides," she continued, moving behind the counter, "it's done. Try it on so I can go home."

"It's not like you have to go far," Spike replied, taking the suit she handed him, "You live above the shop."

"Just go put it on. 'Will and Grace' is on in twenty."

Spike headed back to the dressing rooms, picking up a white silk shirt on his way. Sylvia's voice echoed down to him as he closed the door.

"You better be wearing underwear!"

To look at it on the hanger, the suit didn't seem like much: black, clean lines, double-breasted jacket and straight-cut trousers. But it was old. Calling it second hand would have been generous. Sylvia had found it in her storeroom, an unclaimed item from the shop's long history. A tailor's bill for $2.30 had been pinned to the lapel, a fair price for alterations in 1947, that date scribed on the corner of the receipt.

The shirt felt oddly warm against his skin as he slipped it on. More modern in design than the tuxedo, the cropped neck was embroidered with white silk thread, detailing the small collar points with fleur-de-lis. It fit well. Donning the jacket and pants, he double-checked that everything was buttoned and zipped, then returned to Sylvia.

He scowled, seeing the smirk plastered on her face, watching him walk down the aisle.

"Well?" he asked, stopping short of the counter. Sylvia came around to the front and leaned against the glass. Smirk still in place, she twirled her finger through the air.

"Spin. Let me take a good look at you."

Jaw clenched, he thrust his arms out to the sides and spun on one heel. This is so humiliating…

"Arms down," she commanded, "and less disco. Slowly - I don't want to miss anything."

He complied. Sylvia hmmm-ed and fretted, checking every seam and crease. "The shirt was a good choice," she commented, straightening his lapels. "A nice collar tie should do. I don't see you as the bow tie type." She threaded a wisp of black silk around the collar and fastened it with a simple silver tack pin. Spike jumped when she then stuck her hands into the waist of his trousers.

"Hey!" he protested. Sylvia tsked, then went over to a rack of leather belts.

"As if," she intoned, tossing him one. "Put that on. Unless you want a cummerbund."

"I'll pass, thanks."

Belted, buttoned and zipped, he waited while Sylvia did another inspection.

"The boots need to go. They're ruining the line of the pants. Plus they're tacky." Kneeling down to straighten the cuffs on the trousers, she ran her hand, quickly, up one of his legs, then down the other. Spike jumped again.

"Inseam's fine. Plenty of room to grow there."

"Are we almost finished?" he growled. "I've been through torture sessions that were less painful."

"No doubt." She stepped back and gave him a final appraisal. "Aside from the shoes, I think we're done. I outdid myself. You look good."

Spike smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of the jacket. "You sure? I don't look like a waiter or anything?"

Sylvia smiled. "Just a moment." She dashed to the back of the store, returning a few minutes later, wheeling a large stand-up mirror. "You want to see for yourself?"

Spike looked at her in amazement. "You're joking, right? Vampire, here. Thought we were clear on that."

She shrugged and fluttered her fingers. Tiny sparkles arced through the air. "One with the majicks, remember?"

Spike gazed at the mirror and its empty reflection. Could she do it? Let him see himself?

Did he want to?

"Well, uh… " he stammered, glancing between the witch and the mirror, "I don't think a spell's in my best interest."

"The spell isn't for you," she corrected, "let's be clear on that. I don't enchant dead things - not even re-animated dead things. It isn't a precedent I want to set. But, I can work a whammy on the mirror." She narrowed her eyes at Spike. Was it her imagination, or was he shaking? "You alright?"

He ignored her and continued to stare at the mirror. It's not that big a deal, he reasoned. He'd had his picture taken as a vampire; back when Dawnie and he were tight, she'd snapped a photo or two. Granted, he'd been a walking bruise that last time, at the birthday party from Hell, but enough of him had shown through the lumps for him to have a good idea of what he was - or at least, how he appeared.

But this was altogether different. He was different. Would he be able to see It? Would he be as he remembered? Or would it still be that 'evil thing', looking back at him?

"Okay, I'm not asking you the Riddle of the Sphinx here," said Sylvia, "A 'yes' or 'no' will do."

He blinked and gave her his attention.

"Y-yes," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. "Do it."

He closed his eyes. Latin tumbled from her lips, words he knew but shut out of his mind. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, fingers clenching and opening in an effort to dispel the anxiety that was welling inside. The monster, or the man? The monster, or the man?

"Okay, go ahead."

His eyes snapped open and fixed on the image before him.

There he was.

He'd forgotten his eyes were so blue, his face so angular. He touched the scar over his right… no, left. It's all opposite; the reverse… eye, the skin still sensitive, even 100 years later. Isobelle was drawn to the scar; he couldn't swear she liked it, but she always doted on it whenever they were intimate. Fingertips, feather-light, brushing over it as they kissed, or tracing its jagged path with her tongue. He hadn't told her the story of how he'd earned it. He didn't think he ever would. If she knew, would she ignore it? Stop her ministrations? Each kiss, every caress, was a balm: for the pain, the past, the misdeeds and missteps. She healed him, a little bit at a time. The scar was still there. It always would be. But now, it meant more than just one good day.

"Well, what do you think?"

Sylvia's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"What? Oh, it's fine. Good job. Thanks."

"Please, try and curb your enthusiasm." She went over and slid her arm through his, ignoring how he flinched at her touch. "Too bad 'Little Miss Cutie' didn't stick around. You could've seen what you looked like together."

"Isobelle," he corrected, with a whispered growl. "Her name is Isobelle."

"Whatever. Go get some shoes."

Footwear selected and clothing safely inside plastic carriers, Sylvia tallied the bill. "I'm only charging you for the shirt, tie and shoes. The suit's been paid for once, already."

"Whatever," he mimicked, producing a sheaf of twenties from his pocket. Sylvia raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't know you were undead and gainfully employed."

"Helps to have a skill," he replied. There were a few pool halls in the city where he was no longer welcome.

"Does 'Little Miss…' " She stopped as he glared at her. "Does she know you've got another… hobby?"

He shrugged. "Surprisingly, that's one topic she hasn't plumbed. She doesn't need to know everything."

"Dangerous," she clucked. "I'd re-think that policy if I were you."

He laid eight twenties on the counter and gathered the bags. "Good night, Sylvia. Thanks."

She watched him walk out of the store, and shook her head.

Vampires.

~+~

Isobelle gaped at the computer screen. Good Lord, she thought, scrolling through the text. Who would have ever come up with…? Her jaw dropped, reading the last paragraph. "Now that's just physically impossible!" she blurted, startling Miranda. The tortoiseshell had been asleep in Isobelle's lap; jolted awake by the outburst, the cat jumped down and, with a growl, stalked off towards the kitchen. Isobelle squirmed in her chair, puzzling out the directions on the screen. Twisting her arms and legs, she eventually gave up. "Physically impossible - and painful," she concluded, her shoulders knotted by spasms. She clicked her way out of that article and selected another. She was deep in her vampire archives, the collection of articles, myths and pseudo-research texts she'd gathered soon after she'd found Spike. She hadn't been through the files in weeks; in fact, she felt a bit guilty, perusing them now. Two months ago, he had been a mystery - well, more of a mystery - and she'd approached him as such. When in doubt, her instinct was to study and research.

And at the moment, she was researching vampires and sex.

Despite all the rumour, innuendo, and Ann Rice hype, she eventually determined that vampires did have sex. Well, she knew that. The occasional odd maneuver - or diagram - aside, she had learned nothing useful. Id driven, vampires indulged in the same kinks, fetishes and desires as humans. They just had more… stamina.

Again, something she already knew.

But there was one little question she wanted answered. Stupid as it sounded, it wasn't something she felt comfortable asking him, so she was resorting to searching her files. That however, led to another problem: trolling for the answer on the Internet seemed… degrading, especially in this matter. She was the one pushing Spike to be open with his feelings and concerns, yet here she was, too self-conscious to ask the man she was sleeping with about something that could impact their sex life.

She sorted through a few more files, knowing it was a waste of time. Miranda padded back into the room, rubbing against her calves. Isobelle reached down and scratched her chin. "You know 'randa, things were so much easier when I was thirteen. Grandma gave me a book and sent me to Dr. MacLeod's office. What I need to know," she sighed, shaking her head, "wasn't in the book."

"What book?"

The voice from behind made her jump. Miranda took off with a hiss. Spike watched, amused, as she collected herself.

"God! Don't sneak up on me like that!" she scolded. She fumbled with the mouse, trying to clear the computer screen. "You scared me half to death!"

"Sorry, pet. Didn't mean to startle you." He gave her a kiss on the cheek. "What book?"

"Huh?"

"What book? You were muttering to the cat about a book… "

"Oh, nothing. Never mind." She stole a peek at the monitor, relieved to see it blank. "Did you find a tux?"

"Yep."

"Can I see it?"

"Nope."

"Oh, c'mon," she wheedled, batting her eyelashes. "Please? Pretty please? Model it for me!"

"No. You'll wait 'til Saturday."

"You're no fun."

"Speakin' of fun," he replied, fixing her with a sly grin, "what exactly were you readin' on the computer?"

"What? Nothing! Nothing at all!" She stole another guilty glance at the screen. Still blank. Spike chuckled.

"Must've been a naughty nothing. Look at you - all dewy and flushed."

He cupped her blushing cheek and pulled her in for a kiss, his palm tingling from the heat. Moments lingered by, the pair distracted by each other and the shared bit of intimacy. Kisses soon progressed to caresses, Isobelle's hands sliding under Spike's T-shirt, her palms roaming over the hard muscles of his chest. Details from her 'research' floated through her mind, deliciously sensual images, bidden by his coveting mouth and hands.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" he whispered. She shivered, his breath tickling her ear.

"Sofa," she mumbled. "Perfectly good… sofa, right over there… "

"Prefer the bed," he replied, playing with the buttons on her top. "Besides, I'm not too keen on an audience." She followed his glance downwards. At their feet, rapt with attention, were Miranda and Dante.

"Bed it is," she agreed. With a wicked grin, Spike seized her by the waist and lifted her off the ground. "What are you doing?" she laughed. No-one had ever literally swept her off her feet before. "I can walk, you know."

He shook his head and went towards the staircase. "I went out and got a nancy-boy suit tonight, and I deserve a reward." He kissed her hard, pulling her lower lip into his mouth, biting it gently. "And for my reward, you'll be needing all the energy you got, so you're not gonna waste any climbin' stairs."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled its silent pulse. "Mmm, chivalry, Spike-style? I could get used to this."

Cradling her closer, he looked up to the bedroom door, then back to the woman in his arms. Kinda hopin' you do, he thought. Kinda hopin' you do.

~+~

Isobelle leaned over the side of the bed, reaching for something on the floor. Fumbling in the dark, her hand finally made contact with the alarm clock. She pulled it up and checked the glowing red digits.

"Well, the clock still works," she said, setting it back on the night table. She adjusted the shade on the small lamp and flicked the light on. Weak light filtered through the darkness, bathing the bed in a faint golden glow. "I thought for sure it was a goner."

"Sorry about that, pet," Spike replied, running his hand over her naked back. She twisted around and slid on top of him, kissing him lightly as her hands twined in his hair. He stretched underneath her, winding his calves around hers, holding her in place.

"Don't apologize. That was amazing."

"Didn't do it alone," he mumbled, his dark gaze fixing on hers.

A long moment passed in silence, Spike and Isobelle lost in each other's eyes and the warmth of comfort and satiation. She settled against him, feeling safe in his embrace. He was softer, in these moments, all his pretense and posturing having faded into the darkness, leaving his sensitive core unguarded and vulnerable. This was the man who needed the most support, the gentle understanding and acceptance of someone who valued the romantic as much as the strength. This was the man the world needed to know.

This was the man she was falling in love with.

" 'belle?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Have you given any thought to how you're gonna introduce me at this party?"

She moved one hand down to his chest, tracing lazy circles over his stilled heart. "How do you want me to introduce you? It's up to you."

He thought for a moment, then sighed. "Well, it can't be 'Spike'."

She blinked at him. "Why not?"

He gave a small, tight laugh. Her heart twitched, watching as he started to close himself off. "Why not? How can you ask that? It'd be bloody embarrassing, wouldn't it?"

"For who?"

"For who?! For you, love. Couldn't have you do that in front of… those people."

Isobelle pushed herself up and rested on Spike's hips. He looked at her, guileless. Taking his hands in hers, she urged him up, helping him rest against the headboard. She tangled her fingers with his and held on tightly.

"I am not embarrassed by you, or ashamed to be with you. God, I hate that you still think that way; that you'd think I'd feel like that about you, about us."

"And you're not being bloody realistic," he admonished. "This thing is just a test, right? Another hoop for you to jump through. Image counts, 'belle. I won't have you fuck this up because of me. I'll be whoever you need me to be. Which, I guess, is easier said than done, since that's still a soddin' mystery, itself."

Isobelle bit back a frustrated sigh. He was making this so hard on himself.

"If you don't want me to introduce you as 'Spike', what name do you want me to use?" She drew his hands around to her back, then leaned in to his chest. He reflexively hugged her closer, then gave a slight shrug.

"William?" she suggested.

A wince flickered across his face. The last time someone called me William…

Buffy.

The crypt.

Bomb debris and broken pride littering the concrete floor.

I'm using you…

And it's killing me…

It's over…

I'm sorry, William.

"Maybe not William," he eventually replied. "Will. What about Will?" He attempted a grin, but it faded quickly. "Can you see yourself dating a 'Will'?"

She stroked his cheek. "I see myself dating you. Call yourself whatever you need, but I need you to get me through this thing."

"One of us will be there for you, darling," he joked. "Promise." He tweaked her side, forcing a stilted laugh from her.

"No fair," she scolded, swatting at his hand. "Tickling isn't allowed. I'll make it a rule if I have to."

"Okay, baby, whatever you say," he said.

"I guess I can live with 'Will'," she relented. That earned her a smile from Spike. "But," she added, dropping kisses along his jaw, "who is it I'm making love with?"

"No worries there, love," he replied, capturing her face in his palms. "It's always going to be me."

~+~