Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.
Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.
Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.
Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now. J
Timeline: Selfless
Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca
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A/N: {taps neon sign that says 'Girly Selfishness Ahead'} Considering the timeline folks, this is rather drippy in spots. But my beloved Kristen likes the sap, so I left it as is.
~+~
It was happening again.
Buffy sat at her desk, head bowed over the file that was scattered on the blotter, trying to ignore it. The noise. Low, keening whispers. Sad, soft sounds that drifted through the air ducts, up from the basement, and swirled into every lonely corner of Sunnydale High. Stories were already spreading about what it could be: restless spirits of the former Sunnydale High's dearly - and violently - departed; the soul of a missing construction worker supposedly sealed within one of the concrete pilasters…
Or a lonely, raving lunatic, rumoured to creep through the corridors at night, frightening the custodial staff with his echoed mutterings and flitting, shadowy presence.
She flinched, sensing a laugh buried within the soft jabbering. She gritted her teeth, flipping the pages of the file with a vicious snap of her wrist.
Not gonna let it get to me… not today…
The stories, she could deal with. This was Sunnydale High. With the Hellmouth below and evil weirdness permeating the atmosphere, coating everything with a slick skin of malevolence, stories, concocted to explain the unexplainable, myth, forged and repeated like a mantra to make sense of the irrational, were a given. More than a given, they were a necessity - a way to survive, to explain away the oddness she and the others lived, and overcame, every day of their lives. What she couldn't take was the reality of it all - knowing the source of the melancholy ravings her coworkers cringed over, or the students giggled - or more often shivered - about. She could try to block it out, pretend that it wasn't there - that he wasn't there - and that her life was taking on a touch of normalcy. Finally, she had a regular job, like a regular girl. She had her own neat little desk, complete with paperclips, pens and stapler.
She smoothed out the file, moving her pencil cup closer to her Rolodex. Her things. Her corner of the ordinary. That he had invaded it - was haunting it - with his own fractured presence, ruined this cherished, unremarkable facet of her life.
Another faint laugh. Or, was it a sob?
It wasn't stopping. She twisted around and slammed the vent closed, drawing stares from the others in her office space. She knew they could hear it, too, but up until that moment, had been doing a better job of letting it fade into background than her; just another quirk of Sunnydale High that they had to live with. With an embarrassed glower, she pushed away from the desk and strode out into the hallway. She'd gag him if she had to; there was no way in hell she would let him piss on her little slice of normal.
She yanked at the hem of her black tunic as she stalked down the corridors. Blurry, student-shaped objects ducked and darted out of her way as she made a beeline for the basement door. Oblivious to everything around her except the staccato of her heels on the linoleum and the 'Access Denied' sign that had come into sight, she nearly knocked over someone not smart enough to jump out of her way.
'Sorry,' she muttered, tossing the apology over her shoulder and not stopping to see with whom she'd collided. She had only one thing on her mind: Spike. Shut him up and get him out of the building - or, make him dusty, trying.
~+~
Isobelle rubbed her smarting shoulder and watched the petite blonde girl continue down the hall.
"No, I'm fine," she called out half-heartedly. "Thanks for asking."
She leaned against the wall, out of the way of the milling mass of students, taking in her surroundings. Now, inside the building, it seemed less than probable Spike would be here. But, this was where her small slip of information had led her: the phone number, the address - this was the place. He'd been here, so this was where she needed to start her search.
The ache in her shoulder faded, but the one in her neck remained. That was the other oddity; the faint, silvery scar that tracked the left side of her neck had started to tingle the closer she'd gotten to the school's main doors. What had started as small sparks of pain had grown into a deep, disconcerting throb. She re-fastened the silk scarf around her neck, wincing as the wispy fabric grated over the bite. His mark. Her last remnant of him, carved into her flesh, flaring in response to - something. Here.
"Need some help?"
She jumped at the voice and turned, fixing wide, blue eyes on the man who'd suddenly appeared beside her.
"Hey, sorry! Didn't mean to scare you," he said, giving her a wide smile. Tall, dark-haired and rather ordinary-looking, he shifted the load of books he had in his arms. "You just look a little… lost."
Isobelle took a step back and made an effort to return his grin. "Well, you wouldn't be wrong,' she replied. She fished a scrap of paper out of her pocket, smoothing out the wrinkles to make the phone number visible. "I'm trying to find the person at this number… I don't suppose you…"
He craned his neck over his armload of books and peered at the scrawled digits. "Oh, yeah, that's Miss Summers' number. Buffy Summers. She's one of the counselors here."
Isobelle blinked. That was too easy.
"Really? Great. Uh… where would I find her office?"
"Down the hall, third door on the left. No, I mean right. On the right."
"Thanks." She turned to follow his directions only to be stopped as he spoke again.
"Oh, but she's not there."
Her shoulders slumped. "What?"
"She's not in her office." He gestured down the opposite end of the hall. "She went that way just two seconds ago. Just… through that door there."
She looked and tried not to sigh in frustration. "You meant through the door that says 'No Admittance'?"
"Yeah. It just goes to the basement. No big if you want to go after her. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
She glanced again at the door and weighed her options.
"I suppose I could wait for her…"
A fresh twinge of pain sparked in her neck.
That cinched it.
Clutching her bag more tightly on her shoulder, she walked towards the basement door.
"Thanks, again…"
"Warren," he offered, smiling again. "And - no prob. My pleasure."
~+~
'Warren' watched the dark-haired woman slip through the basement door.
"Gotta like these little surprises," he mused, as he faded into nothingness, completely unnoticed, amidst the student throng. "Makes things a whole lot more interesting."
~+~
It didn't take Buffy long to find him. It never did. No matter how shifting and labyrinth-like the basement seemed, she could always find him easily, his disjointed spirit almost a beacon of misery, slicing through the gloom that permeated the Hellmouth's lair, drawing her in. She tried not to grouse when she saw him, or let her distaste show on her face. Spike was huddled in a corner of one of the storage areas, back pressed against a strip of chain link fencing. He was a mess: his clothes rumpled and dusty, his hair a mass of tangled, bleached curls. Broken packing crates were scattered around him; he was facing one, mumbling, seemingly deep in conversation… but there was no-one else in sight.
She watched for a moment.
He seems so calm; just like before, when he came to the house… before what happened in the church…
He gave a small sigh and self-consciously tucked a hand behind his head.
God, is he crying?
A hard frown settled upon her face as she stepped forward to get his attention.
"Spike?"
~+~
"Well, this was a smart move," Isobelle muttered, picking her way through the dimly lit basement. "You come to a strange town, wind up at the local high school and end up wandering around in the dark, looking for a lost vampire. Oh, and now you're talking to yourself. Fabulous."
She needed that noise - needed to hear her own voice bounce off the concrete walls, as she crept deeper into the dank emptiness that surrounded her. The sounds of her false humour and bravado echoed back to her as she progressed down the corridor, quelling some of the dread that had set in her belly. The ache her neck had settled, too. Now a steady, prickling burn, it was irritating, but not uncomfortable.
"Oh, lovely," she moaned, coming to an abrupt halt. She'd reached a fork in the corridor. She gnawed her lip in frustration, wondering which path to follow. Both seemed to stretch forever, details of where they led blurred in the dwindling overhead lights. Which way? Left or right?
Decide.
Make a choice.
"Dammit!" she blurted, tears forming behind her tired eyes. She didn't know which way to turn. She had come this far and a simple choice - left or right - had her confounded. Helpless. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling, trying to pull herself together.
Then she heard them.
Thin, tenuous sounds drifting up from the path on her left.
Voices.
~+~
Buffy hovered over Spike, her expression dark in the face of his own surprise.
"This basement is killing you," she intoned. "This is the Hellmouth. There is something bad down here, possibly everything bad."
Spike laughed bitterly, shaking his head at her words.
"Can't hear you, can't hear you…" he babbled, ducking away from her hard glare.
Losing her patience, she nearly spit the words at him.
"You have a soul? Fine. Show me!"
~+~
"Definitely voices," Isobelle muttered, walking with renewed confidence down the concrete hall, towards the sounds trickling from the dark - but, now, not so dark; light bloomed from the end of the corridor. She edged her way closer, pausing near the entryway to what appeared to be a large storage area. Hugging the corner, she tried to make out what the voices were saying.
"You have a soul? Fine. Show me!"
A woman's voice. Harsh. Annoyed. Isobelle slipped around the corner and saw the tiny blonde who had run into her upstairs.
And, on the floor, at her feet, curled in upon himself, was Spike.
"Get up and get out of this basement!"
Spike stared down dejectedly. "I don't have anywhere else to go."
Isobelle stepped from the shadows.
"Yes. You do."
~+~
Buffy turned quickly on her heel, staring in surprise at the stranger before her.
"What? Who… who are you? And what are you doing here?"
"I'm… a friend. And I came looking for him," Isobelle replied, trying to slip past the angry blonde.
"He doesn't have friends," Buffy retorted, grabbing Isobelle's wrist, stopping her cold. "He has victims. And you didn't answer my question."
"Don't hurt her, Buffy," Spike whined, watching from his station on the floor.
"For God's sake," Buffy sighed. "Alright. Now you know my name. Yours?"
"Isobelle," the brunette intoned, fixing a dark stare on Buffy. "And like I said, I'm a friend. Of Spike's. Now, let go of my arm."
Buffy loosened her grip, still wary of the stranger before her. "A friend? How, exactly, are you friends with…"
"Long story," Isobelle interrupted. "And now's not the time or the place. I heard what you said. You want him out of here? I want to get him out of here. Let's do that and then worry about polite introductions."
"No, not good enough," Buffy retorted. "I don't know you, or how you're connected to Spike, but if you think I'm just gonna let you scamper off with the Big Bad Bag O' Crazy here, then…"
"What? It didn't sound to me like you really cared…"
"Stop!"
Both women looked down at the vampire curled up on the floor. The chain fence rattled as he pressed himself deeper into the corner and started rocking on his heels, forehead jammed to his knees.
"Angry voices… don't like them… no more… stop being angry…"
"I don't have time for this," Buffy muttered.
"Then leave," Isobelle said, trying to make her voice as neutral as possible. "I'll take care of him. Not like I haven't done it before."
Buffy hesitated, shifting closer to the brunette. "You… you've seen him like this, before?"
"Sort of. I mean, it wasn't… I don't think it was this bad…"
"I… I tried - to get him to go…"
"I know. Like I said, I heard you. You can't bully him into lucidity just because it's annoying you."
"I wasn't… okay. Point made, whoever you are. What do you suggest we do?"
"You mean, aside from getting him out of here?" Isobelle took a steadying breath. "Can we do it now? Safely, that is?"
Buffy shook her head. "Not. Too many students. Too much sunshine. Later, after classes let out. I… I mean, we can come back…"
"No. I'll wait here," Isobelle replied, casting a sad look towards Spike. He was still cowering on the floor, the heels of his boots squeaking as he continued to rock in place.
"I don't think that's such a good idea…" Buffy began, quieting when Isobelle turned her concerned gaze her way.
"I'm not leaving him alone."
Buffy felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a mixture of frustration and embarrassment making her flush in response to this person's refusal to follow her lead.
"Fine," she replied. "Look, I need to go…"
Isobelle crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "So go."
"…but I'll be back."
Spoken with a bit more antagonism than she'd intended, she was none-the-less pleased to see the stranger's coolness start to waver. The brunette's shoulders dipped as her whole posture softened, the ire leaving her eyes as they now telegraphed a fragile, tired stare, her arms slacking and sliding bonelessly to her sides. Buffy's momentary gratification melted at the defeated look Isobelle now gave her.
"Good. We'll be waiting for you."
With some uncertainty, Buffy made her way through the corridors and up to her office.
Spike with a friend.
That can't be good…
~+~
Isobelle waited until Buffy was out of sight before turning her attention back to Spike. His head was still bowed but - she noted with mild satisfaction - he'd stopped rocking. With great care, Isobelle walked over and took a seat next to him on the concrete floor.
"Spike?"
"No."
"Spike, it's Isobelle…"
"No. Not supposed to be here."
"Spike, look at me."
He hugged his knees more tightly to his chest. "No. I can't. I… I need to do my lessons. Go now."
"I'm not leaving. Spike, don't you remember? You called… wanted me to…"
"NO! No. Mistake. Mine… I… I need to work it out… I'm not getting this right… none of it is right…"
"Spike, please…"
He released his knees, only to jam his fists over his ears. Words tumbled from his mouth as he tried to block her out and shut himself off from his surroundings.
"Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis…"
This was nothing like before. That first time, when they'd met, as sullen as he'd been, she'd been able to reach him, let him know that he wasn't alone. But this was frighteningly different, nothing like the terrors he'd suffered those first couple of weeks, when he'd thrash and cry in his sleep, his spirit and psyche shredded by nightmares, forcing him to relive his vilest deeds. Then, he'd let her in, accepting her kindness and comfort; but now, seeing him like this, rejecting her hand after begging her to come for him…
She rolled to her knees and positioned herself flush against his shins. He flinched when she lay her hands over his, but he didn't shake them off. She frowned, his recitations growing louder as she stroked the backs of his fingers with her thumbs.
"Spike…"
"…amaris, amatur, amamur, amamo…no, amamini, amantur…"
"Listen to me…"
"…amabam, amabas…"
"Amabat, amabamus, amabatis…" she supplied.
Spike's eyes flew open and connected with hers. She proffered a wan smile and gave his hands a squeeze. She could see the clarity start to shine in his eyes as lucidity crept to the fore of his psyche.
"Private school, remember? Where Latin is still one of the staples."
"A dead tongue," he whispered. "A dead tongue for a dead man…"
"Stop it," she admonished. "I don't like it when you talk like that."
"That's what I am."
"You're more than that."
"I'm death…"
"No," she said, shaking her head, "Not anymore, not like before…"
Watery sapphire eyes searched her face, then roamed to the scarf secured around her neck. Pulling one hand from hers, he hooked a finger under the wisp of silk, freeing the knot and letting the fabric slither down her skin. Isobelle trembled as he grazed the silvered scar. There was no pain this time; her nerves sang with pleasure as he traced the outline of his bite.
"Just. Like. Before," he intoned. "I ruined you. It's what I do…"
"But I'm still here," she interrupted. "You didn't…"
Kill me, she silently completed.
"I'm not right," he said softly, his hand still lingering over her throat. The bald intimacy of his touch muddled her brain, nearly making her forget the purpose of her being in Sunnydale, in this basement and, now, at his side. Even after everything that had happened, with one simple stroke on her flesh, he had wiped away any resolve she'd had about settling their debts, taking her leave of him and this whole dark adventure.
"Everything's so fucked around here. I don't know what's real anymore… these things I see, or say, or do…"
His voice hitched and he gave the hand, still wrapped with hers, a squeeze. "But I can feel you. You're here, aren't you?"
"I'm really here," she replied, voice shaking as she tried to keep her own tears under control.
"I shouldn't have asked… this is a bad place, 'belle."
"Then leaving is the right thing to do. We'll get you out of here and it will be better."
He shook his head. "Won't."
"It will. Believe me."
" 'belle…"
"Have I ever let you down before?"
His eyes darkened and the hand still clutching hers tightened its already bone-cracking grip, making her wince before he let it drop and clambered to his feet.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "You have."
Confusion played across her face as she watched him pace the narrow aisle along the fencing. Standing slowly, she took a step towards him, feeling a kick in her gut as, with great deliberateness, he retreated from her advance.
"H… how, exactly," she managed, "have I let you down?"
He twined his fingers through the chain links of the fence, the metal, grating, as he flexed and pulled at the thick meshing. It felt good against his skin. Solid, slick and sturdy. He pressed his cheek into it, concentrating on the sensation and keeping his back turned to the brunette, hovering a few feet away.
"Never mind," he said. "Leave. Now. It'll be alright."
"No… I mean… I came a long way to find you. I … I'm not leaving now."
Carefully, she eased up behind him and set her hand lightly on his shoulder.
"You asked for my help," she said softly. He cringed under her palm, but she didn't pull it away. "And I'm here. Please Spike, come with me. It'll be okay."
~+~
She was really here.
And he needed her to go.
At first he thought it was another trick. The Other was good at his games, showing Spike exactly what he wanted to see, flashing him a bit of hope and then laughing when he poofed it away. When she came into sight, he thought she was an illusion, one more trick twisted out of his fragmented mind: his other girl, here to save him. Again.
But the details had been wrong.
It was her, but different. The lush curves that had defined the body he'd once known - once poured over and mapped, with his eyes, hands and mouth - had thinned; although still rounded and feminine, the woman standing before him, arguing with the other Buffy, was now only a shadow of what he remembered. The glitter had faded from blue eyes that used to radiate acceptance and affection. Her, but not. Convinced of it.
Then, she had touched him.
He'd felt the warmth of her skin when her fingers curled around his hands. A small gesture that made her solid - made her real, and not one of the torments plucked from his psyche for the Other's sport.
But while the Other was here, she wouldn't be safe. That was a promise he knew his keeper would honour.
She was still talking. Even as he gripped the fence and fought to keep his back turned on her, she continued to reach out to him. His sweet little saviour. His healer, his beating heart, his never-to-be-realized future. Wanting to make him better.
Her palm rested on his shoulder and he flinched. More touching. Not bad or coveting, nor a caress prefacing a blow.
"Please Spike, come with me. It'll be okay."
Come with me.
Come for me. I've got you.
It'll be okay.
It's okay, love. Do it.
"Liar."
He felt her palm jerk from his shoulder. The chain fence rattled loudly as he unfurled his fingers from the links and whirled around to face her. She looked stunned.
"Wha… what did you say?" she stammered, eyes wide with confusion.
"Liar," he repeated, taking a step forward. It was her turn to slide away, keeping her distance from the agitated vampire now bearing down on her.
"That's how you let me down. You. Lied. To. Me. Told me to do it. That it would be okay." He reached out to trace the scar again, but Isobelle ducked his hand.
"You knew what I was… what I could do… and you let me…"
"An accident," she interrupted. "No-one's fault."
"Somebody's always to blame."
"If I thought that was true, I wouldn't be here. You ask for my help and then, once I find you, you push me away? No. I don't see that happening."
Stepping past him, she took a seat on the cement floor and rested her back against the fence. "You want me to leave," she continued, "I will. After we get you out of here. Not a moment sooner."
He watched as she shoved away the broken crates with her foot and then gestured for him to sit beside her. After a few moments, he complied. The metal links grabbed at the frayed material of his shirt as he settled in place. Close to her, so that he could feel the heat wafting from her body and filling his lungs with her vanilla-laced scent. Close enough to keep reminding himself that she was here.
And that she was real.
~+~
They sat in silence, facing the heady gloom of the basement together. Isobelle had been relieved when he took his seat. The urge to reach over and take his hand back into hers was almost painful, but she resisted the impulse, instead wrapping her arms around her knees.
" 'belle?" Even his whisper seemed loud in the smothering hush around them.
"Hm?"
"You know what helps?"
"Helps what?" she asked. She tilted her head to the side to see him, her heart sinking like lead in her chest.
Whatever lucidity she'd seen reflected in his eyes earlier had vanished. Wet, manic blue eyes shone at her through the dim light.
"Being here," he supplied. "Quiet. Being quiet. Not as bad. Doesn't hurt so much if you're quiet." He crept a bit closer and lay his head on her shoulder. "Are you here to help me be quiet today?"
"Yes," she eventually managed. She felt his smile on her skin as he nestled closer, and tried her best to keep her frustrated cry from bubbling out of her throat.
"Thank you," he mumbled. "Then, we can sit here and be quiet together, and it will be okay. Right?" When she didn't respond, he pressed more tightly to her side. "Right?" he repeated, hope cracking his voice.
"Right," she agreed, fresh dread making her shiver. "It will be okay."
~+~