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 fumbled with the zipper on her dress, finding it difficult to grasp the tiny tab with her shaking hands. Pulling at the fastening with frustration, she let out a groan, hearing the fabric rend from her efforts. The silk hung loosely at her waist. She carefully stepped out of the garment and examined the damage. Relieved to see only a minor tear near the seam, she slung the dress on the end of the bed and put on her robe. Sinking down on the mattress, she dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes.

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

His words still burned in her ears. The cool venom behind them, the way they were spoken, dismissive and disgusted, unnerved her. She replayed the evening's events in her mind, wondering at what point her polite enthusiasm and attempts to make a good impression had degenerated into what he'd characterized as pandering. She didn't deny there'd been some moments when the attention she'd received was inappropriate; it was one of the reasons (though she'd never state it to Spike) that she'd needed him there. His implication that she'd willingly allow herself to be treated so, stung; what had she done to make him think such a thing?

She sat on the edge of the bed a while longer, listening to him rattle around downstairs. She jumped, hearing glass shatter, hoping it wasn't her grandmother's crystal that had hit the floor. On impulse, she rose and went to the door, making sure it was closed, and then turned the lock. Flicking off the lights, she let the robe fall to the carpet and crept into bed.

She jumped again when the phone rang. She nearly knocked it off the bedside table in her haste to answer it before the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Katie."

She sighed. "Why are you calling me at… " She squinted at the clock, " …one AM?"

"Just checking in, making sure everything's okay." Katie was never good at subtlety. Isobelle could hear the concern in her voice.

"Things are peachy. How is it with you?"

Katie sighed into the receiver. "Dave promised to divorce me if I ever dragged him to an event like this again. Think I can hold him to that?"

Despite herself, Isobelle smiled. "Doubtful."

"Rats. And, what about Will? He seemed pretty pissed."

"Is that why you're calling? He's… fine, more or less. And, 'pissed' is accurate."

"What's going on?" More concern flowed over the telephone lines.

"Nothing, really. He's in a mood. He's taking it out on the liquor cabinet at the moment."

"You want to come over and spend the night?"

"What? No, it's not like that. I mean, we had… well, a few things were said and now he's getting sloshed in the dining room and I have the bedroom door locked."

"That's it. Kick his ass out, or pack a bag, I'm coming to get you!"

Isobelle sighed. "Calm down, Katie. It's not what you think."

"Then give me some facts, otherwise I'll make them up."

"Not much to tell. He had a miserable time… "

"Just like Dave… "

" … and I think he hated almost everyone he met."

" …just like Dave… who, by the way, thinks Will is cool, but needs to get a sense of humour."

"He'll be thrilled to hear that."

"What else happened?"

Isobelle squirmed under the covers. "He implied that… well, that I behaved inappropriately."

"How?"

She cringed. "Damn, Katie, he said that I'd whored myself to make a good impression."

"Ouch. Sorry, Iz. That's terrible."

Isobelle frowned into the receiver. "Uh, I don't hear you saying anything to contradict that."

It was Katie's turn to sigh. "Well, hon, I wasn't with you all night…"

"So?"

"But, sweetie - and, remember I love you - you definitely weren't yourself tonight."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why don't we talk about it in the morning? I'll come by around ten and we'll have coffee… okay?"

"I don't know if it's okay. Tell me what I did!"

"In the morning. So, are you gonna be okay with him there?"

"Yes. Don't worry."

They said their goodnights and hung up. Isobelle debated going downstairs and talking to Spike but rejected the idea; he was, by this point, probably in no shape for conversation. Instead, she cocooned herself in the sheets and searched for sleep.

~+~

Something hurt.

He was puzzled by the sensation. Everything else was pleasantly numb at the moment - his brain, his tongue, his ass, from sitting on the hardwood floor, even the soul - but somewhere, there was pain. He scrutinized the bottle in his hand. Gin. Father's favourite. After scotch, of course, but Spike's scotch was all gone. The remains of the container lay smashed around him. There was blood on the gin bottle and on his palm; it oozed from the tiny cuts made when he'd gathered the broken bits of bottle around him. He sputtered through a generous swallow of alcohol, nearly gagging as the oily liquid burned his throat. He hated gin, but it would do in a pinch.

Don't be wasteful, boy. Finish it.

Father hated improvidence.

Thrift. Utility. Honour. Piety.

Simple demands, really. He'd never succeeded at any of them.

WILLIAM!

The bellow. The charge. The cane and the berating. Minor offenses made major by inadvertent duplicity. Taking the slap for a lost pearl fountain pen he hadn't known was misplaced. Chastised for poor performance on exams and then branded a lay-about for studying in his room. Or, being shoved, knees down, onto the cold stone floor for his weekly penance; being made to beg God's forgiveness for his weakness, his tender heart, his stumbling nature, for the humiliation of being visited as the son of his father's keeping.

Why, boy, did the Lord foist such a lacking child on me?

Spike choked down another vile mouthful, then dropped the nearly empty bottle beside him.

He'd never asked God that question. Never begged Him for absolution from his courtly faults, those traits that Father had reviled, but Mother had condoned and ratified with murmured praise.

You're a good boy, William. Your sweetness is your gift.

"Bollocks," he slurred. His 'gift' had gotten him nowhere. It had earned him beatings and derision; it was the weakness that had embarrassed his father and had wrested reluctant tears from his eyes the day they'd lowered that man into the earth.

He'd tried to set it aside, after that cold spring day. Nose still filled with the scent of mouldering cemetery dirt, William had vowed to temper his soft goodness with the stronger stuff of Father's legacy. He needed to be the man of the family. The family might only have been him and Mother, but it was his duty to assume control. Shy and benevolent, he'd failed miserably as ruler of the house, but home was now peaceful and welcoming, his brocade and velvet world, one that nurtured his sentimentality and fed his earnestness for a soul to match his own.

He scrabbled for the discarded bottle, knocking it on its side. The liquid soaked his pants and seeped through his glass barricade. It mixed with his blood, forming little pink rivulets that ran along the seams of the floorboards. He took off his shirt and used it to dab at the mess, then pushed the bottle bits into a pile and wrapped them in the ruined silk.

Now, what the hell had he been thinking about?

Father?

Yeah, but not really. Something else.

Pain. That was it. A nebulous ache that waxed and waned in his gut, overriding the alcohol-induced nausea that threatened to test the theory that vampires don't vomit.

He'd been rude to her when they'd gotten home, speaking a few nasty observations that maybe weren't as true as the Glenlivet had led him to believe. But, still, he'd spoken his mind; she'd angered him somehow and that had evolved into the unpleasantness that had left him, drunk, on the floor, and her, alone in the bedroom.

That could be it: a mixture of regret, self-pity and wounded ego would provide the lovely discomfort he was feeling.

No, that wasn't it. Not all of it, at least.

Wobbling to his feet, he clutched the dripping shirt to his chest and headed towards the basement.

"One foot in front of the other… " he sing-songed, working his way down the hall.

Hearing his approach, Dante bounded out of the kitchen and snaked around Spike's calves. Knocked off-balance, he slammed into the wall. Pictures rattled from the impact but, luckily, didn't crash to the floor.

"Dammit, cat, you're a hazard!"

Dante merely mreouped at his master and purred. Spike rubbed his shoulder, grimacing at the dent he'd put in the plaster wall. The few photos hanging there had been skewed by the impact; sighing, he tucked his soggy bundle under his arm and started to straighten the frames.

"Gram'ma and gran'pa… soddin' cottage at the soddin' shore… "

He paused at the third frame, blurry eyes struggling to focus on the image before him.

A little girl and her dog.

Isobelle, with her riot of curls, dancing blue eyes and a smile that could crack the hardest heart. It was the picture that had caught his attention that first day, the one that had made him stand in the middle of a stranger's house and wonder what it would take to make her smile like that.

He knew, now.

He recognized it; it was the same smile she'd bestowed on him nearly every day that they'd been together - really together. The night she'd confessed her feelings and kissed him. The first time they'd made love, and again, later, when she'd invited him back into her bed. Making breakfast, cuddling on the sofa reading the paper - hell, even folding the laundry - that was the smile she'd give him. It was his. He made her smile like that; it was his due. He'd earned - well, at least was earning - the right to have her look upon him with such tenderness and favour. She was his girl.

And, tonight, she'd carelessly shared something so similar with everyone: every offensive prat and pawing drunk, each self-aggrandized ponce who had sent her a passing glance of approval.

'Fuck me," he groaned.

Jealousy.

It had been a while since he'd felt that.

And he should've known better; she'd been trying to be polite, jumping through hoops, striving to make a good impression, no matter how demoralizing. Still, he'd felt what he'd felt, so there must have been something - off - about the situation. Shaking his head, he suddenly wished he hadn't had so much to drink; it hadn't dulled what picked at his gut, or now, at his conscience.

He made it to the basement and dumped his soiled clothes in the utility sink. Clad only in socks and boxers, he wove his way up to the bedrooms. He paused by their door, not surprised to see it closed tight, not so much as cracked open to allow a peek inside. He placed a hand on the knob, but didn't try turning it; he knew it would be locked. Resigned to a night alone, he retired to his old room, wondering if - drunk as he was - he'd be able to dream up an appropriate apology by morning.

~+~

Isobelle yawned and poured herself a third cup of coffee. She had slept fitfully, waking nearly every hour, contemplating the empty space in her bed. Her conversation with Katie had also contributed to her less-than-restful sleep. She'd lain in the dark, wracking her memory for moments where she might have done or said something that had angered Spike, leading to last night's argument.

A noise at the back door caught her attention. Looking out the window, she saw Katie standing on the porch, her arms filled with pastry boxes. Turning the lock, Isobelle let her in.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Katie chirped, setting the boxes on the island.

"Well, you're half-right," Isobelle replied, retrieving a mug from the cupboard for her friend. "It is morning."

"Why are you so cranky… oh," Katie said, noticing the dark circles under Isobelle's eyes. "Bad night, huh?"

"You could say that."

Katie smiled and popped the tape on the boxes. "Good thing I brought bagels and donuts, then. Sugar or glazed?"

"Neither," Isobelle said tersely. "Explanations."

"For what? And, don't I get coffee first?"

Isobelle handed her the mug.

"For what? Remember our conversation last night? You implied that I'd acted… badly…"

"No I didn't," Katie corrected, helping herself to the coffee. "I said you hadn't been yourself."

"And again, I say 'explanation'."

"What ever happened to small talk? 'How are you, Katie?' "

"How are you Katie?"

"I'm fine, dear. You look like crap, though."

"Thanks. Well?"

Katie took a seat around the island, sipped her coffee and grimaced. She added sugar before sipping again. "Last night, you were very nice and charming and smart. Very accommodating."

Isobelle shrugged. "Then, I'm not getting it. Wasn't I supposed to be?"

"Sure, but not for two straight hours. Honestly, Iz, it was like you went Stepford on us."

"Okay, maybe lack of sleep is making me stupid… stupider… whatever… but I still don't understand what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong… exactly. But… "

"BUT WHAT?!"

" …you were so focused on being polite, you let a lot of stuff slide by."

"Like what?"

Katie sighed. "When Kalil said he was looking to add to his team and his harem, all you did was smile and laugh."

"So? He made a joke."

"Hon, he was checking out your ass at the time."

Isobelle blinked, stunned. "Are… are you serious?"

"You didn't notice the drool?"

Isobelle sank into a chair and pressed her palms to her eyes. "I don't believe this. Are you saying that for two hours, my efforts to be a dazzling professional… failed? That they only talked to me to get a better look at my… I'm such an idiot."

"No, they weren't - not all of them. And, you're not an idiot. For what it's worth, there were a few people there who were impressed that you didn't let the frat house antics get to you… they had no clue you were oblivious to it, mind. Personally, I was impressed with your Will."

Isobelle peered at her friend through her fingers. "Really?"

Katie snickered. "The man intercepted more passes last night than a wide receiver."

"Enough with the sports metaphors. You so need to get pregnant again and add a girl to that horde of yours."

"Three ankle-biters are enough, believe me."

"Oh, God," Isobelle moaned. "I really messed this up, didn't I? He was right."

"I wouldn't go that far. He kinda overstated his opinion, saying you… well, we won't go there. But, yeah, he put up with a lot - for you - and at the end he was pretty frustrated."

"What am I gonna do? How do I fix it?"

"Don't know."

"Thanks. You're a lot of help."

"What I mean is, you're obsessing here. So, you had a little fight and a few - unfortunate - things were said… "

"I told him to go to hell."

"See? Another example of the unfortunate things… "

"No, that's a big deal in his case… I mean - this - this case… "

"Then, it's high road time."

"Meaning?"

Katie grinned. "You get down on your knees - in whatever capacity you need to - and make it better."

Isobelle looked, wide-eyed, at her friend. "Katherine Jane Forsythe, I can't believe what you've just suggested." She tried to look affronted, but wound up mirroring Katie's ever-broadening smile.

"Now that's what you should have done - several times - last night." Katie tore off a piece of blueberry bagel and popped it into her mouth. "Besides, considering the man you're apologizing to, it doesn't seem like it would be such a chore… "

"It isn't," she replied, still grinning.

"There ya go! Problem solved." Katie chewed thoughtfully, watching her friend fidget with a bagel of her own. "You really like this guy, don't you?"

Isobelle drizzled a bit of honey onto her breakfast. "Yeah, I think I do."

"He like you?"

"Seems to." She licked the sticky sweetness off her fingers.

"What else?"

Isobelle sighed. "I look at him sometimes and think, 'Oh my God, this is good. Things are working here', so, for a while, I'm confident that we're going in the right direction. It's like… I forget what I've been doing with my life until he stumbled into it. But, whatever it had been, this is better. It is better."

"And… " Katie prodded.

"And then I realize that I could wake up one morning and he could be gone. He appeared out of nowhere and he could just… leave, too. Poof. I don't know how I'd cope with that."

A long, silent moment passed. Food was forgotten. Isobelle rose from her seat and tossed out her soggy bagel. Katie's voice made her turn back around.

"You are one maudlin little girl, you know that?"

"Huh?"

"I married Dave when I was twenty-three years old. By the time I was your age, my fifth anniversary had come and gone and kid number two was on the way. Watching you and Will last night - well, mostly Will - I was trying to remember what it felt like being young and falling in love… "

"Katie… "

"…and I don't recall it being this hard. Suck it up, Isobelle and get your head on straight. He'll stick around as long as you keep one thing in mind."

"What's that?"

"You're allowed to fight. You're allowed to get mad at one another and be childish about it, but then you get over it, and remember the second thing… "

"Second thing? There's a second thing now?"

"…which is, just because you hurt each other, doesn't mean you can't still love each other."

Isobelle slumped back against the counter in resignation. She eyed her friend as Katie prepared to leave. "You learned all that from being married to Dave?"

Katie snickered. "If I hadn't, we wouldn't still be together."

~+~

Spike sat at the top of the staircase, huddled against the spindles of the banister. He pressed his spinning head against the cool, carved wood, hands wrapping tightly around a pair of the supports. He didn't know whether to curse the pounding in his head or be grateful for it - as much as it hurt, it kept his mind off the nausea that rolled through his gut. He should have stayed in bed and tried to sleep off the hangover from hell, but voices from the kitchen had drawn him to his station on the steps.

He gripped the spindles harder, resisting the urge to stagger down the stairs and indulge in an 'I told you so'. Besides, he was only wearing boxer shorts; claiming the side of right while in his underwear was not going to earn him any new respect from his lover. At least he could be confident in the knowledge that last night hadn't been a product of his imagination being influenced by his predatorily possessive nature running wild. The validation lessened his guilt, and hearing her admit to her artless naivete' softened some of the anger.

And she still liked him - more than liked him, it seemed. Warmth infused his body, listening as she openly declared her feelings for him, while shyly musing about his own for her. Genuine affection and consideration imbued her words, effectively driving out his earlier childish impulse. There would be no gloating on his part, no further judgments on her character or wit; his girl had stumbled last night, trying to be everything to everybody, when all she'd really needed was to be herself.

Herself. What else could she really be? He knew her true self; he had seen her essence, last night, in the look of utter shock and regret she'd flashed when she'd hit him. None of the others had ever shown any remorse for similar acts; a creature like him deserved no such consideration. But, she was nothing like them, his others. He had been wrong to goad her the way he did, begging for another slap and a return to something he knew, to a situation where the outcome - as painful as it always was - gave comfort in its predictability.

Kick Spike. Use Spike. Toss Spike aside. Repeat.

It was his pattern as much as theirs - he'd allowed it, propagated it, and - sadly - thrived on it for decades. She didn't deserve to have - that - thrown at her.

He shook his head, intensifying the throbbing ache in his brain. He had to move past his own mistakes. Last night was a lesson: he reverted to self-destruction when hurt, and that had to change. And, for once, he found himself in a place where that could happen.

All he had to do was try.

He heard Katie say 'good bye' and got to his feet. Hesitating a moment, he turned and headed back to his old room, moving as quickly as his aching head and soured stomach would allow. He slipped between the wrinkled sheets and, as an afterthought, shucked off the boxers, tossing them on the floor. Feigning sleep, he ignored her tentative knock, snapping his eyes closed as she carefully opened the door.

"Spike?"

He growled in his 'sleep', rolling over onto his stomach and burying his head in the pillow, his arms splayed around unruly frosted curls, his un-scarred profile exposed to her view. The carpet sighed under her feet as she crept towards the bed. He could smell cinnamon and honey as she got closer; he groaned - for real - as his stomach lurched from the scent, a response due in equal measures to the hangover, his desire to find the part of her coated with that spicy sweetness and…

He clenched his jaw as another wave of nausea rolled through his gut.

Fucking hangover.

A dull click signaled something being set on the nightstand. The mattress sagged slightly as she perched on the side of the bed. She knelt close, her warm skin pressed into the curve of his extended shoulder, brushing his flank. For what seemed a long time, she simply sat there, not moving or speaking. He found himself holding his breath, tensing with each silent minute that ticked by. When he felt her fingers combing through his tangled hair, he sighed, but maintained the illusion of sleep. She lightened her touch but didn't stop, putting order to the springy locks, each pass of her hand venturing farther down his crown, until she let it rest on his back.

"Wake up, you jerk," she murmured. "Wake up so I can tell you how sorry I am."

He winced, pretense nearly lost, as her softly spoken words intensified the throbbing in his skull. She tsked, pressed a kiss to his temple and left the room. Moments later, he heard the front door open and close.

He opened his eyes and scanned the room. On the night table sat a glass of water and some aspirin. He swallowed two tablets, then burrowed deeper under the sheets, wishing he had let her know that he had been awake, so that they could've talked the issue through and moved on to her friend's idea of 'apologizing'.

Best be rid of the hangover, first, he decided. And soak under the showerhead for a few hours. He felt grimy, covered in dried, sticky liquor and - he sniffed - blood.

He cursed in misery as his stomach flipped for the dozenth time. He fought against his body's biological memory of its urge to vomit, biting down hard on the edge of the pillow.

"I'm never, ever, ever… gonna do that again… "

~+~

It was dark when he awoke, the house quiet. He lay there for a moment, taking note that his head had stopped throbbing and his stomach had ceased in its efforts to jump outside of his body. He felt better. The worst of the hangover having passed, he cautiously got to his feet and crept towards the bathroom. The hot shower felt like heaven, clearing the rest of the fog from his recovering brain. He brushed his teeth - twice - and used nearly half a bottle of mouthwash, trying to get rid of pasty staleness that coated his tongue and palate.

Both cats launched at him as he entered the kitchen, begging for supper. Feeling generous, he treated them to a can of tuna. Delighted, the cats devoured their special meal in minutes, thanking their master with purrs and rubs against his calf. He brushed the fur off his jeans and scanned the room. Isobelle wasn't home and there was no note telling him where she was.

Seeing how much the cats had enjoyed their treat, he hunted the kitchen for one of his own. Lighting on the freezer, he found more than a few blue and gold ice cream containers.

"Well," he commented, drawing the attention of his fuzzy companions, "seems to do wonders for our mistress when she's in a lousy mood. Surprised there's any left." Taking a spoon from the dishwasher, he loaded a few pints in his arms and headed out the back door. The near-full moon illuminated the yard, its silvery light driving out the shadows and quieting the crickets. The air was thick and heavy with moist heat, making the ice cream containers frost, then sweat, dampening the unbuttoned shirt that flashed his hard, muscled chest.

He sat under the chestnut tree and popped the lid off one of the pints. Scooping a generous amount of the melting stuff, he sucked the mouthful off the spoon and let it run down his throat.

"Bugger that!" he grimaced. It was vile. He stared at the container in his hand, searching for the flavour.

Cookie Dough.

With a scowl, he pitched it over his shoulder and into the neighbour's bushes. Snatching up another container, he read the label.

"Cherry Truffle. Sounds safe."

He pried the lid off, this time taking a more cautious scoop. He grinned, the creamy mixture smooth on his tongue. He picked through the pint, digging out the chunks of chocolate and cherries, sucking off the ice cream before crunching the bits between his teeth.

He leaned against the tree trunk and ate, waiting for her to come home. He needed to talk to his girl.

His girl.

He kept thinking of her that way. It felt nice.

He could only hope that after they'd thrashed through this latest drama, she'd feel the same way.

~+~

Isobelle tiptoed in the front door, realizing even as she minced across the hardwood, that if Spike was in the house, he already knew she was home.

What she'd intended to be a short walk to organize her thoughts had turned into a tour of the city. After wandering for more than an hour through downtown, window-shopping and mingling with the tourists, she'd found herself at the gates of one of the city's jewels: an authentic Victorian garden, teeming with exotic flowers and trees, swans, ducks and the ever-present pigeons. She'd settled on one of the iron benches, watching the water-birds glide across the pond. Pigeons had pestered her for peanuts she didn't have, which had prompted more than one three-year-old to toddle over and press a salty handful into her palm.

Apologizing to Spike wasn't what weighed on her mind. It was Katie's comment, spoken with that knowing little smirk she had when she felt she'd figured out some big secret, that had distracted her all afternoon.

…trying to remember what it felt like being young and falling in love…

It was partly true. There were times, moreso in recent days, where she'd look upon him, the strength of the emotions rent from her heart frightening in their intensity. The idea of really loving someone was thrilling and scary and novel; this was new territory for her, no-one else had ever come close to meaning as much to her as he was becoming.

Katie had called her maudlin; she preferred to think she was just sensitive. Maybe paranoid, too. The only true romance that had affected her life had been her parents' marriage; the idea of someone making her love them that completely, giving oneself with utter abandon and trust…

He wasn't in his old room, or their bed. The lights were off on the main floor, the rooms empty. Sighing, she went to the kitchen and looked out the window. She saw him sitting under the tree, barefoot, shirt gaped to tease with a glimpse of alabaster skin. Her heart spasmed with one of those blasted strong emotions, tightening her chest.

As if sensing her presence, he looked up and caught her gaze, smiling. She went outside and joined him on the grass.

'Where you been?" he asked, licking the back of his spoon. One empty ice cream container lay at his side, another half-finished one melting in his lap.

"Just out, walking. Thinking."

"Missed you when I regained consciousness. Thanks for the present, by the way."

"You're welcome. How's your head?"

"Still attached and working."

He scooped a spoonful into his mouth. "Vanilla Caramel Brownie. Not as good as the Cherry Truffle, but tasty."

"I think there's Cookie Dough in the freezer," she commented. He made a gagging noise. She chuckled. "Have an opinion about that one, do you?"

"Cookie Dough is evil," he intoned. "Never again will it enter the house."

A few quiet moments passed. She watched him eat. He sent her curious looks over the bowl of his spoon, wondering if she was going to apologize, or if he should be the adult for once and tell her it didn't matter.

"Spike… " she began, her voice trembly, "I want… "

"Taste?" he asked.

"Uh… "

"Here. Nice chunk of brownie in this one."

He slid the spoon between her lips, admiring the way they claimed the creamy offering.

"It's good, no?"

"It's good."

He fed her another mouthful and licked the spoon clean, sticking it into the container. She opened her mouth to speak. He dropped the pint to the ground and pulled her close, kissing her long and hard.

"Spike," she gasped when he finally released her. "What… "

"Shush," he ordered. "Don't speak, just listen. Things happened. Things were said. Heat of the moment stuff. Your bad. My bad. Fucked up on both sides. Don't care about any of it and not keen on wasting any more time fretting over it. We can both be sorry and agree that we each forgive the other for temporary stupidity and blindness, yeah? Tell me that makes more sense than some long, drawn out… "

It was his turn to be silenced with a kiss.

"Yes, yes, I agree, I do… whatever you say," she replied. "Spike, I… "

"Not now. Later. Let's go make up the proper way."

Damn, Katie, Isobelle thought, as she and Spike kissed and groped their way into the house, you may be onto something here….

~+~