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: Not an epilog in the traditional sense, but you'll get the point. J

Timeline: S7, 'Same Time, Same Place'. Dialog you recognise isn't mine. 'Nuff said.

~+~

"Keep your ticket, you'll need that."

Xander winced as Spike leaned in and pressed a grimy, dog-eared card into his palm.

"Yeah, whatever," he intoned, inching away from the crazy, smelly vampire and closer to the Slayer. Bright, manic blue eyes mapped his retreat, darting between the precious slip of paper now gripped in Xander's hand and the pretty, petite blonde at his side. Xander considered ditching the item in the weeds, but, with Spike standing there, staring at him like an idiot, he didn't dare try. Forcing a smile, Xander stuffed the card in his pocket and discreetly placed Buffy between himself and Spike.

Spike listened as they prattled amongst themselves. He'd done what they'd asked, but they were still not satisfied.

"Maybe it's a vicious, skin-eating rock cliff."

Focus, focus, focus…

Point it out. Make her proud. Show her.

"There's a cave in it. Look."

They looked.

"I'm insane. What's his excuse?"

She didn't reply. None of them paid him any attention now. He turned on his heel and blended into the brush, into the dark; a fractured creature of the night wandering a ragged path through the weeds.

It was better out here, in this kind of darkness, where its depth was tempered by the sounds of night and nocturnal life. Not like the basement: the dank, cavernous pit where the dark was not his friend and the noises brought no comfort from the shrouding silence. The chilled, earthy air was like a tonic, de-fogging his brain and letting order touch his thoughts.

"Better, and better, and better," he chanted, dodging the clump of sand burrs to his left. "Still burdensome, still hard, but better. Better for her. Helping. Heavy load, her lot. Trying. Trying hard."

Stopping abruptly, he shoved a hand into his pants pocket and pulled out another crumpled card. He only had three left. Smoothing the edges, he stared at it, its embossed letters glittering in the glow of the almost-Harvest moon.

Isobelle S. Jones, MD

"Better…"

Liar.

It was excruciating. The pain, the fear: it was constant and consuming, raging through him like a cold fire, fanned by It. His 'spark'. It hated him. Loathed him. It suffered - again - because of him, enduring the guilt, the despair and the loneliness. It wanted to abandon him, offer him up to the torments of the basement and the derision of the others and find Its own reconciliation, Its own release. But, It couldn't; there would be no peace in that.

It had other ways of getting what It wanted.

~+~

Isobelle gasped, savouring the burn of the cold air in her lungs. Every ragged breath she drew in stung her chest, spurring her on, making her run faster. Despite the chill this October night, she felt hot. Sweat rolled down her back, soaking her shirt. Jogging at 2:00 AM wasn't very smart, especially now, when she knew what lurked in the shadows, but, fearing what went bump in the dark was preferable to another night lying in bed, alone with her insomnia and thoughts of him.

And she needed it - to feel the ache in her thighs as she pounded the pavement, the bite of the autumn air on her cheeks - those tiny pains associated with activity and living. Anything to prod her out of the unfeeling stupor she'd been drowning in since he'd left, when she'd huddled on the floor and cried her last tears for him and what she'd lost. As she'd sat there, the numbness had set in, insulating her from the hurt, drying her tears. She hadn't wept since. Not at the memories that kept her awake at night, nor the little reminders of him that were still scattered around her house - she'd shed not one tear since that morning.

Not even when Dante had died.

~+~

It had worked on him the whole, long walk back to the school, picking and cajoling, whispering encouragements, cracking through his guilt and madness, offering peace and lucidity if he capitulated to Its wishes.

The office door was unlocked. Spike scuttled inside. Utility lights gleamed dully overhead, casting everything in sinister shadow. He shuddered and shut the door before scanning the room. He found Buffy's desk and sat in her chair, setting the card gently down on the blotter.

Do it.

He couldn't call her at home - he'd never bothered to memorize the number and he didn't recognize any of the other numbers listed on the card.

Do it. Do it. DO IT!

He fumbled for the phone and tapped in one of the numbers. Anxiety welled inside him, making his head buzz. After a few rings, a pleasant voice came over the receiver.

"You have reached the Orthopaedics Outpatient Clinic. Our hours of operation are… "

He slammed the handset back into the cradle.

'Not right. Not right at all… " he whined. The buzzing in his head grew louder. The soul railed inside, pushing him to try again.

Need her. Find her. Try!

He dialed out again. And waited. The line rang and rang. He rocked back and forth in the chair, near tears with frustration, the soul picking at him from within, the drone of the phone tormenting from without. Giving up, he went to drop the receiver when a tinny voice echoed from the handset.

"P… pardon?" he asked, whipping the phone back to his ear.

"Switchboard," came the reply, the voice dull and irritated with repeating its greeting.

"Oh."

"Can I help you, sir?"

Answer. ANSWER!

"Y…yes. I… I need… "

He couldn't do this; couldn't seek her out, or ask for her help, her kindness. Her forgiveness.

"What is it you need, sir?"

Say it.

"Isobelle… "

~+~

She turned down her street and sprinted the rest of the way home. She collapsed on the porch, panting, watching her breath frost and hang in front of her. Heat spilled from her body, the warm sweat evaporating, chilling her to the bone. She tried not to shiver, welcoming the cold, letting it swallow her.

Dante.

It had been just another morning, creeping home in the early dawn light, a little worn and rumpled from a long night at work. She should have been prepared, but fatigue had made her slow. She'd opened the door and Dante had bolted past her.

Into the street.

She didn't see the car; hearing the squeal of brakes-on-asphalt drew her attention to the road.

The driver was inconsolable, crying as she stared at the little body.

Isobelle had felt nothing.

She'd buried him in the back yard, under the tree, telling the vet that he'd run away.

She pounded her fists into the boards of the porch, suddenly ashamed. That hadn't been her. This wasn't her.

She flinched as her pager trilled. Pulling it out of her pocket, she checked the number and frowned.

Who the hell is calling me from an outside line?

~+~

Spike waited. It was hard, holding the line, waiting for her to answer. What would she say? What should he say? He wanted to hang up and run to the basement and hide, but It was relentless now, pushing him to hold on a few moments more, promising more misery if he didn't.

Minutes dragged by with excruciating slowness. His eyes darted to the dark corners of the room, searching for proof he was alone, that the Other wasn't here, too, waiting to pounce.

Then he heard her. It flared in response, warming him, making him giddy and sad all at once.

"This is Dr. Jones. Can I help you?"

"Is… Isobelle?"

~+~

She froze. It couldn't be. This wasn't happening. She clutched the cell phone to her ear, her mind racing.

Spike?

"Is… Isobelle? Is it… are you there?"

"I… I'm here. Spike?"

She couldn't understand him, his words muddled by his gentle sobs.

"Sh, Spike, calm down. Please."

"I'm so sorry, 'belle, so, so sorry… "

"It's alright, just… where are you?"

"I'm… lost."

"Spike?"

"I'm scared… so scared… I know I deserve it but I can't… can't help it… "

She paced the length of the porch, willing herself to stay calm. She could hear him struggling for control.

"Spike, tell me where you are," she intoned. "Tell me how I can find you."

"I don't know… I… not sure if… 'belle, I can't… "

The connection crackled and Isobelle looked in alarm at her phone. The battery light was on. The power cell was dying. Cursing, she fumbled for her house keys and frantically tried to get inside.

"Spike? Hold on! The phone is giving out! DON'T HANG UP!"

Once over the threshold, she dashed for the phone in the kitchen and dialed the switchboard, begging the operator to pick up.

~+~

Spike kept the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the static wax and wane. He could barley make out her voice over the interference.

"And what do you think you're doing, boy?"

He whipped his head around, eyes widening in fear. 'Angelus' smirked at him from across the room.

"You're not playing by the rules," he scolded, waggling a finger in Spike's direction. "You're not supposed to look for help. I like you as the pathetic wretch you are. No need sniffing around, searching for any of that pesky hope."

"Not… not real," Spike stammered. 'Angelus' chuckled.

"Real enough, boy." He glided over to the desk and hovered over Spike, who cowered into the chair. "Hang up. Hang up now and I'll make things easier for you." Spike averted his gaze and gripped the phone more tightly. 'Angelus' leaned in, whispering in Spike's free ear.

"Hang up now, and I'll leave her alone."

Spike shook at the import of the words. One last tear rolled down his cheek as he carefully set the handset into the cradle.

'Angelus' smiled.

"Good boy."

~+~

The cell phone died in her hand. Isobelle flung it across the kitchen, not caring as it shattered against the wall.

"Answer, answer, answer," she begged, waiting for the operator to pick up. "Answer, dammit… ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!"

"Switchboard."

Isobelle rattled off the situation, holding as the operator checked the connection.

"Sorry, the party disconnected."

"This is a medical emergency! Can you re-connect?"

"Hold please."

Please, please, she prayed, let me get through.

"Sorry," the operator droned. "It was a long-distance connection and the return path is lost. I have the originating number, but there's no answer on that end."

"You have the number? What is it? Where did it come from?"

The operator supplied the number.

"And the location?" Isobelle asked.

"Somewhere in the United States. California. Just hold a moment while I check… yes, California, from a town called Sunnydale… "

~+~