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

A/N: Thank you to Sylvia for making me do the re-write: as always, you knew what was needed! And a nod to Beta/Cheerleader Kristen ~ here's your 'tribute'!

~+~

Spike never had luck at parties.

Fresh from the shower, he shuffled around in his old bedroom, having been sent there by Isobelle, who - for some reason - found it impossible to get dressed with him in their room. He cinched the towel tightly around his waist, staring at the clothes laid out on the bed, his mind pulling out memories of past social disasters. The vengeance curse, that had trapped him - and the others - like rats in the Summers' home. The time he'd been tossed through a window by a lovesick robot. Or - a sentimental favourite - being strapped, with leather bindings, to a chair, by a poltergasmic frat house.

The list went on. If he tried hard enough, he could, undoubtedly, associate at least one humiliation with every fete that came to mind, right down to the night he'd been rejected by Cecily, mocked by her favoured guests, then turned, by Drusilla. He wondered what new horror he could add to the roster after tonight.

There was a knock on the door. "Spike?"

"What?" he replied, opening the door a crack, "And, it's 'Will', 'belle. Start calling me 'Will', otherwise you're gonna slip up later."

"Fine," she grumbled. " 'Will' it is. So, 'Will', we leave in half an hour. You need any help in there?"

He smiled. "You kicked me out of our room because I was in the way."

"You wouldn't let me get dressed!"

He took in the sight of her, standing in the hall, wrapped head to toe in terrycloth. White robe, towel turbaned around her head and floppy slippers that showed a hint of freshly lacquered nails.

"I can see you've made incredible progress."

"It's a process, 'Will'. Layers are involved. And, hey - pot, kettle."

"It'll take me five minutes, missy."

"Not if you have to fumble with a bow tie."

"No bow tie."

"Or cufflinks."

"No… " he started. Cufflinks?

"…problem. Go on, 'belle. I'll meet you downstairs."

"Alright," she replied. "Twenty-eight minutes. And what are you going to do with your hair?"

He shut the door and swore. How could he have forgotten cufflinks? He went to the bed and rifled through the pockets of the suit, the garment bag and the boxes holding the belt and shoes.

Nothing.

Running a hand through his damp hair, he went to the dresser and checked the drawers, then the closet, hoping to find something her father's - or grandfather's - that he could use. He came up empty.

At least he had the tack pin for the tie. Didn't he? He quickly sorted through the bags from the shop, and retrieved the tie. At the bottom of the sack was a small crimson box. Pulling it out, he found the silver pin for the tie and the matching cufflinks. A note was fixed to the lid of the case:

Knew you'd forget something. Don't embarrass 'Little Miss Cutie'. S.

"Well, thank you Sylvia," he muttered, tossing the box on the bed. "Now, where are my socks?"

Bloody hell.

~+~

Miracle of miracles, the dress still fit.

Isobelle cast a critical eye at the mirror, searching her reflection for fixable flaws. Her dress was simple - black, strapless and silk - something she had found, years ago, of her mother's wardrobe. She rarely had the need for formalwear, so the idea of buying a new outfit for one event didn't make too much sense. The dress had served her well in the past, on the odd occasion when she'd needed to be 'presentable'. Demurely high across the chest, it scooped lower in the back, its straight hem falling her mid-calf. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, she draped the matching wrap around her arms and made one final appraisal. A protracted session with the hair dryer had managed to eliminate most of the curl from her hair, creating loose waves that grazed her pale shoulders. She wore no jewelry, except for a tiny pair of diamond stud earrings - also her mother's - and she'd kept her makeup light, indulging only in darker eyeliner and rose-tinted lipstick.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she mumbled, heading towards the stairs. She could hear Spike - No, 'Will' - pacing in the entryway. She tread cautiously down the steps, in a futile effort to sneak a glance at him in his finery before he could see her; she hadn't even made the landing when she felt the weight of his gaze settle over her.

Spike couldn't help but stare when she came into view. She was lovely, exuding feminine courtliness reminiscent of his past, of time spent in drawing rooms and parlours, where proper gentlemen wooed delicate ladies with promises of devotion and everlasting love.

"Look at you," he murmured, taking her hand. "You're… Isobelle, you're stunning."

His obvious approval made her blush. "What, this old thing? Haven't you seen a dress before?"

"Haven't seen you in a dress before, and it isn't just the dress."

"Thank you." She stepped back and ran her eyes over him. "Would it sound insincere if I also said… " she paused, a broad smile overtaking her features, "… you look amazing."

"What, this old thing?" he mimicked. Self-consciously, he smoothed the lapels of his jacket, while she looked on. "I thought this was something you'd like."

"It isn't just the suit," she replied, continuing their shy verbal dance. She ran her fingers through his hair; they slipped easily through the soft curls. The roots were showing, their darkness contrasting with the frostiness of the bleached ends. "No gel. I like it."

Minutes lingered by, one still enthralled by the other, unable - or unwilling - to break the moment. Spike cleared his throat. "I suppose we should be going… "

"Right," she agreed. "You want to drive?"

He took the car keys and led her to the door. He stopped abruptly.

"I should've gotten you a corsage. I forgot."

She shook her head and tried not to laugh. "This isn't exactly a corsage kind of event," she said, squeezing his arm, "But that's a lovely thought… " She turned towards the kitchen and headed for the back door. "Just wait there," she called over her shoulder, "I won't be long."

He fidgeted with the keys, peering out the main door, watching the dark orange flare of the setting sun stain the sky. Hearing her heels clicking on the tile, he turned to see her return with a small red rose in her hand.

"I don't think the neighbours will miss one little bud, do you?" she asked, slipping a hand under his lapel.

"What? You nicked it?"

She grinned. "Not really. It was growing on our side of the fence."

She focused on sliding a pin through the tough, woody stem of the bud, then gave a sharp yelp.

"Ow! Damn." She pulled her hand away from his jacket, grimacing as a small crimson drop welled up on her index finger.

Tension filled the foyer. Isobelle looked up at Spike. He gazed intently at her finger, mesmerized by the bead of blood. He wrapped a hand around her wrist and held her still; head bent, his nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent.

Human blood.

Her blood.

His lover's blood.

He wanted it. To slide her finger into his mouth and suck the drop down, to consume it - consume her - and make her part of him. The urge to know her in that way was frighteningly powerful; it both thrilled and sickened him. Thrilled, because it was a sign, a demon's instinct, to taste and claim the one you wanted; the man had made his bid, and now, the demon was making his. Sickened, because it demeaned; it was base, animalistic and crude, playing upon his weaknesses and reminding him how low a creature he actually was.

He blinked, then released her wrist. Snagging a tissue from the hall table, he pressed it over the wound.

"You okay?" she asked. "I didn't know… "

"S'alright. Really." With a forced smile he offered his arm. "Ready to dazzle them, babe?"

She smiled back. "I'm ready for anything, as long as you're with me."

~+~

Isobelle crossed the threshold of the reception room, hovering near the steps that led to the crowd below. Spike stood beside her, one arm encircling her waist. The organizers had booked the event into one of the city's oldest hotels, a pre-Deco, and 1920s design steeped in the latter years of fading Indo-Victorian splendour. Dulcet greens and fawns coloured the walls, which were ornamented in blackened iron and oiled wood fixtures. The earthiness of the backdrop was contrasted by the richness of the thick Persian wool under their feet, overstuffed chairs of leather and suede, and side tables decked with glowing glass lanterns and tropical greenery. The main gathering space was a sunken floor, tiered on all sides by stairs and teak banisters. The well-heeled masses milled below, sipping wine and laughing in tight, intimate groups. Occasionally, an eye was cast upwards, to the entrance, checking on the latest arrivals, favouring some with smiles of greeting, while others earned bored frowns of disappointment. Spike felt like he'd walked into a Forster novel: the setting, the crowd - the whole dynamic - was reminiscent of the old-fashioned, caste-oriented privilege of his youth. And, here he was, walking into the tiger's lair, with his own Miss Quested on his arm.

"See anyone you know?" he asked.

"See lots of people I know," she replied, "Just no one I like."

"Well, pick the least repellent of the lot and say 'hello' ".

"I'm looking for someone… but I don't see… " She craned her neck, checking the far corners of the room, then grinned. "I should have known. By the bar."

"What?" Spike asked, "Who? Bar?"

They threaded their way through the chattering cliques, Spike maintaining his grasp on her waist, as she steered them towards some unseen point beyond the throng. Heads turned in their wake; a few formerly disinterested gazes now fixed on the couple as they passed by. This was familiar to him: the stares, the ebbing of bodies out of his way as his presence was declared - it was all reminiscent of the salad days with Dru, when all they had to do to own a room was walk in. Now, he had a different dark, silk-wrapped beauty on his arm, but the effect was the same. Power. Confidence. Control. He held himself a little straighter, casting the next set of onlookers a cool, appraising glance. Men averted their eyes, sensing his silent challenge, while more than one of the female guests blushed under his scrutiny.

"Dave!" she called out, sending a small wave to the lone figure at the bar. The man signaled a reply and rose to meet her. Isobelle pulled away from Spike and greeted the man with a hug.

"Finally," Dave said, looking her over. "Katie was sure you'd chickened out. If she had to do this by her lonesome, she'd have been pissed."

"Not a chance. Where is she, anyway?"

"Hiding in the powder room, making sure she's 'presentable'." He peered over her shoulder, taking in the quiet blond behind her.

"Dave, I'd like you to meet Will."

Spike's proffered hand was seized in a firm handshake. Dave was a formidable physical presence, standing at least a head taller than Spike and twice the vampire's breadth. Generous laugh lines creased his ruddy face. Pale, coppery hair and slightly silvered beard took some of the intimidation out of his appearance.

"Good to meet you, Will. You must be the reason she's missed two months of Sunday dinners."

"Didn't mean to be," Spike replied, "and, the pleasure is mine." His well-bred, Victorian decencies started to emerge and, taking Isobelle by the hand, he guided her to a seat at the bar.

The bartender was a pretty young blonde, with sparkling blue eyes and a thousand-watt smile. The name Kristen was embroidered in gold thread on her black vest. "What can I get you folks this evening?" she asked.

"Hold that thought, my dear," Dave replied. He looked to the couple seated next to him. "Who's driving? And before you answer, Isobelle, let me remind you that both Will and I put on monkey suits for you gals, and this is an open bar."

"Open bar?" Spike asked. "You didn't mention that, love."

"Important info to be keeping from your man, little girl," Dave jokingly admonished. "Just for that, I think Will and I should definitely be allowed to skip driving duties."

"Seems only fair, 'belle," Spike added, deciding to play along; he'd agree to anything that would make the evening bearable.

"God," Isobelle smirked, shaking her head. "You guys have known each other for less than sixty seconds and you're already double-teaming me." She stuck out her hand. "Keys," she said to Spike, who fished them out of his pocket. "Keys, trouble-maker," she directed at Dave, who gladly dumped his set into her palm. She tucked them away in her handbag and slid off her stool. "Pace yourselves, fellas. You're stuck here for a couple of hours. I'm off to find Katie."

Kristen returned. "Decisions, gentlemen?"

He turned to Spike. "What d'ya say, Will? Make it worth our while?"

"What do you have in mind?"

He smiled. " Kristen, my dear. Scotch. Neat. The best you've got."

Crystal tumblers with amber liquid were slid in front of the pair. Dave saluted Spike with his glass. "To an open bar."

"To the ladies," Spike corrected.

"Even better. Cheers."

They sipped to the toast. Kristen didn't skimp; it was the best scotch he'd had in ages.

"So, tell me, Will. How did she get you to come tonight?"

"Pardon?"

"Me? I'm married. I had no choice; Katie all but waved a copy of our wedding vows under my nose, reminding me of the 'for worse' part of the pact. How did Isobelle rope you in?"

Spike shrugged. "She asked me."

"That's it?"

"More or less."

"What's the more?"

Spike sighed. "She asked me - a lot. And used logic."

"Smart wench."

"Indeed."

They sipped in silence, each man trying to gauge the other. Small talk was not one of Spike's strengths. The quiet pause between them was becoming uncomfortable.

Kristen approached the pair and set another round in front of them.

"Workin' on tips tonight, are you girl?" Dave asked, happily accepting the tumbler. Kristen grinned and tilted her head towards the far end of the bar, while giving a knowing look to Spike.

"Courtesy of the one in the red dress."

Both men glanced where Kristen had indicated. Perched on a stool with a swizzle stick lolling gracelessly in her mouth, the woman in question tossed Spike a knowing smile and flipped back her long, dark hair.

"Oh, man," Dave chortled, downing the drink in one swallow, "You're gonna make this night interesting!"

Spike inched the glass away from him and Kristen put it under the bar. "Oh, c'mon," Dave goaded, "It's just some harmless fun."

"Tell her that," Spike replied, wincing as the woman slid off her stool and made her move. He made a quick scan of the room, hoping that, wherever Isobelle was, she'd stay there for the next few minutes.

Red Dress sidled up and squeezed between them. "Hi," she bubbled, bright eyes fixed on Spike. "I'm Kelly."

Polite introductions out of the way, Dave surrendered his seat and watched, amused, as she went to work on Spike.

"So," she said, swizzle stick still in play, "you guys having a good time tonight?"

"Not so far," Spike muttered, swallowing the remains of his first drink. Kristen poured him another, pointedly ignoring the round Kelly had sent earlier.

"So, Kelly," Dave said, "do you work at the hospital, too?"

She giggled. "Who, me? Hospital? Eww! No way! With all the sick people? Gross!"

"Then what are you doing here?" Spike asked. She treated him to a slightly drunken smile.

"Actually," she whispered, leaning in close, "I snuck in from the pub downstairs. I heard there were some really cute doctors up here and thought - hey, why not?" She ran her red-lacquered nails over the back of Spike's hand. "You're a doctor, right?"

Dave snorted into his third scotch. Spike gritted his teeth and moved his hand away. "Sorry, ducks. You fixed on the wrong guy."

Kelly blinked. "You guys aren't doctors?"

"No," Dave answered, wiping his chin, "But we do sleep with them."

Her eyes widened. "You mean, you're gay?"

Spike shuddered and rubbed his eyes. Dave guffawed, spilling the rest of his precious Glenlivet over the marble top of the bar.

"No," Spike replied, as patiently as possible.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Dave added.

Kelly collected her swizzle stick and gave up her seat. "I think I'm gonna go. You guys are a little too strange for me."

" 'night, Kelly," Dave called after her. He slapped Spike on the back and ordered another round. "Having fun yet?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

~+~

Isobelle sipped her tonic water and watched the drama unfolding at the bar.

"I don't believe it! She's going right up to them!"

Isobelle glanced to her right. A slightly indignant Katie Forsythe stood there, as Red Dress pushed between her husband and her friend's date. Nearly ten years Isobelle's senior, Katie had been her best friend since medical school. A latecomer to her career, Katie had put marriage and family before her own education. Diminutive in size but large in spirit, Katie had a sharp mind and hearty love of life and work that belied her quiet, soccer-mom image.

"Don't you want to go over?"

Isobelle shook her head. "They'll be fine. I wanna see what happens."

"She's trying to pick up your date, that's what's happening." Katie crossed her arms over her chest and considered the scene before her. "Not that I blame her. My God, Isobelle, where did you find the pretty blond man?"

She smiled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Katie nodded, hmm-ing in appreciation. "He's gorgeous, Izzy. No wonder I haven't seen you outside of work for weeks. Now, what the hell is Dave doing? He's giving her his seat? Oh, c'mon. We've gotta put an end to this."

"Just wait a sec."

Katie shook her head. "He's just egging her on."

"Spike can handle it."

Katie shot her friend a look. " 'Spike'? I thought you said his name was 'Will'?"

Isobelle choked on her tonic water. "It… it is. Spike is just a nickname. God Katie, please, don't call him 'Spike'. He'll kill me that I let that slip."

"No problem. But, you and I are gonna have a chat about this, believe me."

A few moments later, they saw a flustered Red Dress wobble away from the bar.

"Okay, let's go," Isobelle said. The women made their way to the bar. Sensing their approach, Spike slid off his seat and offered it to Isobelle. More introductions were made, Katie momentarily lost for words when Spike took her hand and gave his most polite smile.

"You gals make any progress yet?" Dave asked, shaking his head at Kristen's offer to freshen his drink.

"No bigwigs in the ladies room, honey," Katie replied. "You fellas up to trolling the crowd?"

Her husband nodded. "If it gets us outta here faster, I'm all for it."

"Best behaviour, sweetheart," Katie reminded. Dave kissed her cheek.

"You know I'm kidding, hon. So Will, you ready to mingle?"

Spike tossed back the last of his scotch. "As I'll ever be," he replied, trailing them into the breach.

~+~

Not being you had its advantages.

'Will' was an evolving presence. Bits of swainish William and Alpha Spike co-mingled to create the charming Everyman that was the fixture at Isobelle's side. 'Will' could smile at the irredeemable joke that would have sent timidly eager William into apoplexy, or tolerate the crassest exposition that would have been incendiary to the complex social boundaries of Spike. 'Will' bantered where William would have fumbled. 'Will' accepted and followed where Spike would have rejected and rebelled.

'Will' was the perfect accessory.

At least, for the first hour.

In that hour, Isobelle did her best to win over the elite with her wit and innate intellect and, hoping, at the very least, not to embarrass herself in the process.

And, she was succeeding.

That is, until the second hour.

As time dragged by, the alcohol flowed, loosening the mores and manners of the power elect. Sottish supervisors began focusing on more than her mind and skill, punctuating their pointless inquiries with lazy gazes, or entendre'd comments with a misplaced hand. Flustered but persevering, she laughed off the transgressions, looking to her escort for support.

William would have been affronted.

Spike - if able - would have ripped off the offender's arm and beaten him with it.

'Will', however, became master of the proprietary glare, offering it as a silent but direct challenge to whoever dared touch his consort.

It worked. For awhile.

Distracted by Dave and his desire to return to the bar, Spike had become separated from Isobelle. Sending Katie to collect her husband, he started to search the crowd, more than eager to put the night to an end. The masses around him blurred and faded away, his concentration dedicated to locating her face, her scent, from amongst the others.

He found her a few moments later, pressed into a distant corner of the great room, being detained by one of the grosser social offenders of the evening. An uneasy smile rested on her lips as the man's wandering hand moved from her shoulder down to her thigh. Biting back a snarl, Spike stalked over, deliciously violent thoughts making the chip squirm in his brain.

"I really need to go," Isobelle said, nearly failing in her effort to keep her tone light and calm. "My boyfriend is probably wondering where I've gotten to."

"Never mind him," the man slurred, tightening his sloppy grip on her thigh. "We're talkin' about your future here… you'd make a nice addition to the team."

"And, that would be great," she replied, trying to slide out of his grasp, "but right now, I think I want to go home."

"No, no, no. Ya see, if you want to be on the team, you gotta be a team player." He moved in a bit closer, forcing her to retreat deeper into wall. "Are you a team player? Or do you prefer to go one on one?"

"Actually," came a cool, British voice, "she prefers more of a tag-team type action."

Spike carefully removed the man's hand from her body and eased her out of the corner. "And, consider me tagged," he added. "You can deal with me now."

The man sniggered, wallowing in alcohol-induced confidence. "Do you know who I am, son? She does. She knows how important it is to be… friendly."

"Let's just go," she whispered, threading her arm through Spike's.

"In a minute, love." He crept closer, closing the gap between himself and his target. His voice became soft, his accent honeyed with contempt. "Do I know you? No." A predatory grin flitted across his face. "Do I care? No."

William had nothing to contribute.

'Will' had retired for the evening.

"Do you know who I am?"

Spike came to the fore.

A glint of gold tainted his sapphire eyes. The chip crackled, threatening to fire from the simple intent that flowed through Spike's consciousness.

The man recoiled, offering no rejoinder or resistance as Spike led his girl away.

"Thank you," she shuddered, melting into his side. "I couldn't make him go away."

"Don't thank me for that," he replied. "Let's gather the others. We're done for the night."

His words were crisp, dismissive; the tone sent a chill down her spine.

This wasn't over yet.

~+~

Once at home, doors locked against the outside world, Spike helped Isobelle out of her wrap, laying it and his jacket over the staircase railing.

"Drink?" he asked, heading for the liquor cabinet in the dining room. She shook her head, watching as he poured a generous amount of vodka into one of her grandmother's crystal tumblers. He downed it in two deep swallows, then refilled the glass.

"About tonight," she started, "I want to… "

"Forget it," he broke in, "Tonight's over. Let it be a memory. I'm tryin'."

"Well, that explains the silent treatment I got on the way home… "

"Don't," he warned, thrusting the tumbler in her direction. "Don't start with that passive-aggressive crap now; not unless you want a rollicking row before bed. I don't wanna talk about it, I just want it to go the fuck away, so, let's shut the hell up about tonight!"

Anger coloured her voice. "I'm not starting anything, Spike! You're the one copping the attitude here! I just want to know what the hell is wrong?"

More vodka poured down his throat. "Hmmm, what's wrong? What could possibly have been wrong with a gem of a night like this?!"

"It wasn't that bad… " she started.

He gave a bitter laugh, cutting her off. " I've been to apocalypses that were less horrendous! Suffered through torture sessions that were tea parties compared to this travesty!" He took another long sip and topped off his drink for a third time.

"You want to give some specifics before you choke on that bottle? Because, I'm having a hard time figuring out what the hell pissed you off so badly. And - don't yell at me!"

He slammed his glass onto the sideboard and glared at her. Isobelle shivered, seeing the anger flashing in his eyes, and his fight to control it.

"Havin' to stand there and see you whore yourself like that… "

She recoiled. His words felt like a slap.

"How can you say that? What the hell are you talking about, anyway!?"

"I'm talkin' about you, mincing and capering for those fucking pricks! If I'd known it was gonna be like that, I'd never have let you guilt me into going. No fucking way!"

"I don't… I don't know what to say."

"That's a shock. You usually have an answer for everything, sweetheart." He scowled at his now-empty glass; the vodka bottle was also empty. He rooted through the cabinet and found scotch; not the Glenlivet he'd been sipping earlier, but it'd do the trick. She stomped over and took the bottle out of his hand.

"Give it!"

She ignored the demand. "Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?"

"Nobody. I'm nobody. This happens all the time with you fucking women. 'Do this, Spike,' 'Do that Spike.' You're all the fucking same!! I did what you wanted! I went, I held my tongue, but not… I can't do it! Not anymore!"

His hand circled the base of her neck and he backed her into the wall. He gave it a small squeeze, with just enough pressure to make her gasp, and for the chip to start humming in his head.

"Let go of me," she demanded, adrenaline making her voice waver.

"Why didn't you say those things tonight? 'Let go of me', 'How dare you speak to me like that'? Instead, you… "

"I did not whore myself," she spat, interrupting him. "The fact you would say that to me makes my skin crawl."

"Poor flower," he intoned, dropping his hand from her throat. "Affronted?"

"Disgusted!"

"Join the club."

"I did what I needed to do for my job. My life. Did I like it? No. Did I have to do it? Yes. Like you said before. Jumping through hoops. I jumped."

He peered at her from hooded, hazy eyes. "Did you also have to get yourself cornered by that drunken ponce and let 'im grab your ass? Oldie, but a goodie, in the ladder-climbing handbook."

Her free hand shot out and cracked across his jaw. He flinched, but turned back to her with a grin. She pressed her stinging hand to her mouth, horrified.

"Ooh, baby, more please! Now, this I understand. Hit me a few more times, then you can fuck me 'til you feel better. Worked for a few of my ex's, no reason you shouldn't have try at it, too."

"Spike, I… "

"Don't! Don't say you're sorry, or some lame shit like that! C'mon, do it! Hit me again! It's what I'm good for, yeah? Do it again, until I show you how sorry I can be!"

He leaned in for a kiss, but she pushed him back.

"Stop," she demanded. He immediately withdrew.

"Finally learned what that means, too. Or, have I?"

He stepped closer, but she moved away from the wall.

"What? Tired of playing already? Don't you want to talk about it some more?" He snickered at the angry confusion displayed on her face

She thrust the scotch into his chest.

"I'm going to bed. You can go to hell."

He cracked the seal on the neck of the bottle and threw the cap across the room. He drank straight from it, listening to her stomp up the stairs.

"No worries there, baby," he muttered, sinking to the hardwood floor.

~+~