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: Post 'Selfless'
Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca
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A/N: ::beats 'Girly Selfishness' sign with a big stick until it cracks:: You've been warned.
This chapter is dedicated to Kristen, the original Spelle shipper, who only had one request regarding this chapter. I hope she's pleased.
~+~
Buffy never came back.
Hours had passed, painfully slow, as Isobelle kept her station by Spike's side in the eerie dark of the Sunnydale High basement. He'd tucked himself tight to her shoulder, keeping silent and still for the longest time. Every now and again, his hand would reach out to hers and give it the lightest of touches, before he'd pull it back. Then, he'd sigh: a thin, fluttery exhalation into the crook of her neck, and he'd be still again…
For awhile.
The moments were brief, but frightening, as Spike, with no warning, would jump to his feet and start screaming at the nothingness around them, begging it to leave them alone. He'd pace and yell and fling whatever was at hand down the dim hallways at his imaginary tormentor, before returning to her and going quiet once more.
It had broken what was left of her heart to see him that way, and, eventually, she'd decided to get him out on her own, no longer trusting that the angry little blonde girl would ever come back for them. She'd left Buffy a note - just in case - and prepared Spike to make their escape. At first, to her amazement, he'd wavered; even in his delusional state, with fear sparking in his blue eyes, he'd been reluctant to take her hand and go. She'd pleaded for him to follow her out, swaying him only when she, herself, had refused to go and leave him behind. After wandering the corridors - for what seemed like forever - they'd finally emerged into the chilly twilight of the Sunnydale evening.
It hadn't gotten any better, back at the hotel. With each mile that had passed, as the school had faded into the distance, Spike had crept towards lucidity, the tenor of his silence shifting from shy and anxious to a bowed humility. Before, as muddled as he'd been, he'd at least answered her when she spoke. But now, he kept his head down, refusing to meet her eyes, giving only a passive nod to anything that she said. By the time they reached the door to her room, he was as shut down as when she'd first found him.
She slid the electronic keycard into its slot and pushed open the door. By the light from the hallway, she made her way to the small settee in the room and dropped her bag. Turning, she noticed Spike was still standing on the other side of the threshold.
"Are you coming in? Or do I need to invite you?"
Spike shook his head. "Don't need an invitation."
"Then why are… "
"Lights," he interrupted. "Can you turn on the lights, please?"
Isobelle snapped on a table lamp. A yellow halo bloomed around the settee and filtered through the rest of the darkened room. From the doorway, Spike scanned the surroundings, then carefully crossed into the room.
"Since when do you need help seeing in the dark?"
He ignored the question, edging by her to take a seat on the small sofa.
"So," he said softly, "Now what do we do?"
Isobelle turned the lock on the door and leaned against the frame. "I don't know. I hadn't planned on… I mean, I didn't think I would find you so quickly… "
"You shouldn't have come."
She glanced over at him. Somehow, he managed to look very small, almost fragile, sitting in the pale lamplight. Head still bowed, he worried the frayed hem of his shirt, his fingers pulling loose threads free from the ruined fabric.
"You asked me to come."
He winced. That small gesture pulled yet another piece of her resolve from its sticking place. She had to remind herself why she was there: to help him.
Nothing more. It wouldn't be wise. If she caved, gave in to her feelings and ignored her plan and purpose, all it would do would be to heap more misery onto what was already stuffed inside her heart.
"I was wrong to pull you here… into this… " He gave a pained laugh. "This was easier when I was the babbling wreck." He risked a quick look in her direction. "But, I suppose there's nothin' easy about any of this."
It was her turn to let a comment slide. To agree with him would only feed into the understatement of his words; to contradict, out of politeness, would have been a plain lie. It was safer to let it go.
"The bathroom is over there, if you want to clean up." She gestured off to his left. "And I brought some of your clothes from…" From home, she nearly said, catching herself in time to avoid adding another turn of the screw to this painful exchange. She pulled a valise out of the closet and set it beside a door on the opposite side of the room. "Um, it isn't much, but there's a bed and stuff… you can… you're staying in there."
He nodded. There was a cold familiarity to this awkward scene, a deja vu devoid of warm or pleasant feelings. They had played this out before, but without the ties and entanglements that made this so fucking hard now: her help and his need had been more easily reconciled when they'd been strangers.
"A shower sounds good," he replied, more than aware of his wrecked state. "I'm sure even the flies would avoid me now." He headed towards the sanctuary of the bathroom, pausing in the doorframe long enough to send her another tentative look.
"Been here before, haven't we? Square one?"
"I think we're a few steps back from square one, Spike," she replied, tamping down the flutter of pity she felt as his gaze fell from her to the floor.
"I know. I… I know you can't ever… forgive me… for what I did to you… "
"Spike, this isn't the time… "
"…But I am sorry… "
"You've said that already."
"I'll say it until I know you believe me… until it means somethin'… "
"Alright, Spike, I get that… "
"Do you? Really?" A bit of hope inflected his voice. It made Isobelle grit her teeth. "I never meant to hurt you… I… it just happened… "
"Enough!" she snapped. He quieted immediately, his eyes flitting to hers, wide with apprehension. "I said I didn't want to talk about this now. Can't you just… dammit, Spike, do you even know what it is you need to apologize for?"
He mumbled something she couldn't hear. Going over to him, she pulled the silk scarf free from her neck, exposing the pale, silver scar. "What was that?" she prodded.
"H… hurting you," he managed.
"How? How did you hurt me?"
She could feel his eyes pass over the healed rent in her flesh. It sparked under his gaze, sending warm tingling threads of pleasure - and pain - through her body.
"This?" She took his hand and pressed it to her neck.
"Yes," he rasped, running a thumb over his mark.
She shook her head.
"Wrong. We both did this. I opened myself… let you have your taste… this was… us, and it doesn't need forgiving. This is not what you need to be sorry for… "
She moved his hand away and took a step back.
"You left me. Alone. I woke up sick and scared… I needed you. And you weren't there."
"Isobelle, I… "
"Do you know how horrible that was? To wake up and know that you'd left - that you had bolted - the moment something went wrong?"
"I couldn't stay… not after what I'd done… "
"ENOUGH!" she spat, her patience finally running out. "Enough with the I shit, Spike! That wasn't just about you, but about us! We had a crisis and you fucked off and left me alone! I… I trusted you and… dammit, I said I didn't want to do this now… "
She turned from him and retreated to the bed. Tears of frustration stung the backs of her eyes but she didn't cry. She wouldn't cry. Not now. Not in front of him.
"You're seeking absolution for the wrong sin," she muttered, working hard to keep her voice calm. "You don't need to be pardoned for the bite. But for abandoning me… killing my trust… " She swallowed, resisting the urge to glance his way, "I don't know if I can forgive you for that."
Turning down the same worn coverlet from that morning, she climbed onto the mattress and burrowed under the linen.
"Don't say anything, Spike. No more. Just… go take your shower."
A long moment passed before she heard the bathroom door click shut. She listened to the running water. The fuzzy white noise of the spray splattering on the tiles melted away some of the miserable tension that twisted inside, nearly lulling her to sleep. She shouldn't have caved. Going off on him about the hurt feelings, letting her emotions rule her good sense, had been indulgent and cruel. That wasn't what she'd wanted. None of this was what she'd wanted.
But really, she couldn't have expected anything else.
~+~
Spike watched the last of the water swirl down the drain before stepping out of the shower. He kicked his grimy clothes to one corner of the tiny bathroom and wrapped his still-dripping body with one of the terry robes hanging on the door. The hot water had cleansed his skin, but had done little for his spirit. Fresh layers of shame and guilt covered what little solace Isobelle's presence had brought him, making him face the reality of what he had done to her. That the bite had been nothing, but abandoning her…
He shuddered. Her revelation had devastated him. No one had ever thanked him for staying before, after his fuck-ups and blunders and schemes. He had no reason to expect that she would want him to stay after what he had done. Leaving had satisfied both the coward and the penitent that lived inside his re-souled self. Staying had never been an option, for, in the past, it had always led to badness. Not that he'd known it at the time. Staying, taking the hate and the punishment and the abuse… thinking it meant something…
He'd never reconcile any of his choices. He'd always stayed when he should have left, but this time he'd left when he should have stayed. Neither choice would have been easy to live with, but now, he had to deal with the notion that had he not left, he and Isobelle might still be together…
That all his suffering, these past few weeks, had been for nothing.
He cinched the robe a bit tighter around his waist and carefully cracked open the door. He made his way through the semi-darkness of the room, giving Isobelle's sleeping form a long look before he retreated to his own quarters. He flicked the light switch, cursing as a hollow pop signaled the death of the lone bulb in the fixture. Climbing into the centre of the narrow twin bed, he tried to ignore the nervous dread that welled in his belly.
Gathering the sheets closer, he shut his eyes against the blackness. He'd traded the basement for a bed, the loneliness for a comforting hand, but it still didn't quell the unease of being in the dark.
Not that it was anything new. Childhood fears of the dark, of the creaks and shadows that toyed with innocent imaginations, had been yet another way little William could disappoint his father. Many nights he'd lain awake and peered into the far corners of his bedchamber, to tease out a glimpse the monsters that he knew lurked just beyond the glow of the oil lamp at his bedside. Again, it had been Mother that indulged his sensitivity, sometimes sitting with him until he drifted off to sleep, her voice murmuring a gentle tune that he carried into his dreams.
He waited. And he listened. No voices, from within or without. The Other had yet to appear and make the usual taunts or threats, and the soul was frighteningly calm. Even in the face of Isobelle's painful honesty, his better self had remained quiet, neither adding to his misery, nor in trying to reach out to her, as she'd vented her own. Small mercy, he thought, regarding the soul's silence. It should have been clawing at his chest, trying to connect with her, like it had over the summer. Instead, It lay there, unflinching, curled upon Itself.
Waiting.
Waiting for Isobelle to either let It closer, or send It away, for good. Waiting for any sign that she wanted It - him - back, or if she had come all this way for a final goodbye. Waiting to see if her favour would be swayed by compassion, or by disappointment.
Sighing, he gave his pillow a nasty punch and tried to burrow more deeply into the rumpled bedding. He was tired of waiting. The basement had been nothing but three weeks of suffering and abuse, wondering if anyone gave enough of a piss about him to haul his ass out of the dank and back into the semi-real world of Sunnydale. Or, if finally tired of his presence, the Slayer - or one of the others - would finally make good on years of threats to render him into dust, ridding themselves - and the world - of one more nuisance vamp.
He was tired of waiting. It wasn't his style, and it never worked in his favour. Fools might rush in, but at least they got the job done. Or their asses kicked. Either way, there was action, result, and resolution. She was here, one, thin door away, tucked, alone, in an empty bed.
Action.
She came for him.
Result.
She found him.
Resolution?
That was up to him.
She'll never take you back, you know…
His eyes snapped open, only to be met by the blackness of the room. Habit made him fumble for the long-abandoned gaslight at his bedside. He was defenseless against the dark, unable to see his tormentor. The Other was making his nightly visit. He wrapped his arms around his head and shivered as the voice continued to whisper in his ear. Even here, away from the school - from the basement - there was no respite from the Other and his games.
This is pity, boy. She feels sorry for you. She isn't here out of love. This is obligation.
He staggered out of bed, nearly tripping as the robe tangled around his legs. "Isn't," he retorted, blindly searching for the door. "She's never felt sorry for me. Never."
You sure about that?
His hand seized the doorknob and he gave it a vicious twist.
"Fuck off."
Heh - I knew it.
"Shut. UP!" he spat, escaping into the dimly lit space of the main room.
"Sorry. Didn't know I was making any noise."
Isobelle was on the settee, wrapped in the thin coverlet from her bed. She popped the top on a can of ginger ale and poured a small measure into a plastic tumbler.
" 'belle… sorry… I wasn't… "
He scanned the room, looking for the source of that lilting, smug voice. "Wasn't talking to you."
"Then who…?" She sighed and shook her head. "Never mind." She pulled up her legs, making room for Spike on the other end of the small sofa. "After today, I wouldn't expect… well, I don't know what to expect. I don't know what's been happening to you since… "
"I left."
"Yeah."
She flashed her best effort of a smile his way. "You gonna sit? Looking up at you hurts my neck."
He reciprocated her gesture. "Feel like sharing that can?" he asked, nodding at the soft drink container sweating in her hand. A little warmth crept into her eyes, her grin becoming more sincere.
"Sure. At three dollars a shot, I can't afford to waste a drop." She nodded towards the small fridge on the far side of the room, from where she'd snagged the can. It was positioned between the honour bar and a mini-microwave. He loped over to the bar and pulled a shot-sized bottle of rye from the rack. "As long as you're splurging… you mind?" he asked.
"Take two," she replied. "I think it's been earned."
He settled next to her on the settee, adding the contents of the single-shot bottle to the can she handed him. She poured some into her own tumbler, before dumping the remainder into Spike's drink.
He tilted the can in her direction. "Are we drinking to anything?"
"The end of the day? Amazing luck?" She shrugged. "Dunno. Have any ideas?"
"None that won't provoke deep, touchy-feely conversation. Sorry about before, 'belle. I didn't mean to push."
"And I didn't mean to snap. This is all… God, do you have any idea how far beyond reality all of this is?" She sipped her drink, hoping the bite of the alcohol would snap things into place. All it did was burn her throat, so she set the tumbler aside. "What… what was happening to you? Down there?"
He took a long pull from the pop can. "Lots of weirdness down there. Too long to go into tonight."
"You were acting crazy."
"I was. I mean, I was, 'belle. At least, that's how it felt."
Feels, he reminded himself. Not over it yet, mate.
"You were… hearing things? Like before, over the summer? When you'd have those dreams… "
"Not quite. Thing you gotta know about this place… this town… this is where Evil takes its holiday. Any and all manners of weirdness can happen." He sloshed the contents of the can, listening to the fizz and pop of the ginger ale. "I don't… I mean, I'm not sure what was goin' on, down there. But," he took another long sip, "I know it wasn't all in my head."
"Well," Isobelle said cautiously, "I know that girl wasn't a figment of my imagination."
"No. She's real enough."
She nodded. And waited. After a lengthy pause, she nudged his thigh with her foot. "Do I have to ask? Or does this fall under the 'touchy-feely' category?"
He swallowed the last of his drink. "Touchy. Feely. Punchy and kicky. It isn't a pretty story. It can wait 'til later."
"I take it she knows… "
"What I am?" He gave a small, sad laugh. "Intimately."
"Intimately," she repeated, her stomach knotting as the word rolled off her tongue. She recalled the callousness of the blonde's words, the lack of compassion in the young woman's eyes as she'd coldly told him to prove himself - and his soul - to her. Only people who've loved could be so cruel.
" 'belle… "
"It's fine. I knew there was - had been - someone… I guess I thought it was someone who gave a damn about you… "
"She has reasons, 'belle."
"Reasons? Like mine? Think she'll want to compare scars?"
"Not unlike yours," he admitted. "And, it isn't something she'll likely chat about, either."
She retrieved her tumbler from the coffee table and took a healthy gulp, wincing as the liquid went down.
"Then it's something we'll have to add to our own list. I don't see myself having any heart-to-hearts with her in the future, either."
Spike leaned over and relieved her of the plastic tumbler, then took her hands in his own. He tried to hold back his disappointment when she flinched.
"I know this is fucked up five ways from Sunday, 'belle. And, I also know that it may never be right between us… "
"Spike… it's late… "
"…but I want to try."
She pulled away and levered off the settee. This time, the hurt was evident on his face, as he watched her back away.
"I didn't come here so you could try, Spike. I… I came because you asked for my help."
"You sure that's the only reason?"
"Yes."
Somewhere, in a far corner of the room, he thought he heard laughter. Shaking off the panic that rolled through his gut, he pushed up from the sofa and went to her side.
"So, you're here out of pity, then? Tell me now, 'belle, and I'll go."
"Go where?" she asked, shaking her head. "You said today that you didn't have anywhere else to go… "
"And if you don't want me," he interrupted, "If you're here because you felt sorry for me, then I truly have no where to go. I don't belong here, unless you want me here. And I can't be here, around you, if that's the case. I'm just as well off, back in that pit."
She wavered at that. He was pushing hard to make his point, but she knew he wasn't exaggerating. If she denied him the truth of her feelings - confused as they were - she had no doubt he'd head straight back to the basement, and indulge in a penitent's misery until he slipped irretrievably into madness.
Seeing her moment of hesitation, he continued on. "I don't expect that you'll ever have me back. But I owe you better than this… "
"You don't owe me anything," she told him. "This isn't something you keep score on, Spike."
"Maybe not, but I do have a debt to you, love… "
"Please don't call me that," she begged, her voice thickening with frustration. Her eyes glimmered with tears. Denying him, when he was being so painfully sincere, was excruciating. It would be so easy to let him back in, to give him that chance to show her how it should - how it could - be, again.
"Can't help it," he said softly, "It's what I see when I look at you. Even now, after everything… you smell of it, 'belle," he leaned close, breathing in her scent. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "…and taste of it… "
"Please, stop… "
"Look at me."
Hesitant blue eyes met his. He placed a finger on her neck, tracing the faded scar, tracking the curve over her skin. He could feel her flush, the heat rolling off her body in waves. She trembled under his touch, and he slid his free arm around her waist to keep her from falling to her knees.
"Did you feel that, baby?" he murmured. Her hands clutched at his forearms as she tried to steady herself. Her head was swimming. Sparks of colour and light danced in front of her eyes. One touch from him, one small stroke of his finger across her flesh, had sent the sweetest bolt of pleasure through her body.
"Wh… why does it do that?"
"Don't know, but it means somethin' when it does."
She swiped a tear from her cheek. "It hurts, too. Sometimes."
He nodded. "That happens, love."
"Why?"
He shook his head. "As I said before, I don't know. Maybe because love is both pleasure and pain."
She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he held her in place. "Who said anything about love, Spike?"
"You did. Remember?"
She did. She'd said it so casually on her way out the door, on their last morning together. She hadn't even been aware that she'd said it until later. They'd never had the chance to deal with it.
She gave a slight nod, which sent another tear slipping down her cheek.
"If you meant it," he continued, "even for a moment, then give me the chance to try and make this right," he kissed the salty drop from her skin, "please… "
Another soft laugh came from the shadows.
She wasn't caving. Submitting to the truth was not sacrificing purpose. Giving comfort was not giving in. His earnestness had cracked the last of her resolve. She was too tired to continue pretending that she was here out of goodwill and kindness, that closure was her reward for answering his call for help.
She was here, because, sad and wrong as it sounded, she still loved him.
"You… hurt… me… " she said brokenly, letting the tears fall freely. "You hurt me, and you left me… and I hate you for that… I want to hate you for that… "
"That's part of love, too, babe," he said, holding her tighter in his arms. "It's the one I know the most about."
She dried her eyes on the lapels of his terrycloth robe before meeting his gaze.
"Don't ever do that to me again," she intoned. He nodded, and she eased back into his embrace.
"Promise," he whispered.
He buried his nose in her hair, smiling into her curls, as he felt the soul inside stir.
~+~
The Other grinned at the scene before it. So heartfelt. So sweet and eager, those two.
And the vampire, with his sad little promise…
Making him break it was going to be fun.
TBC…