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
If you would like to be notified when new chapters are posted, please sign up at: #1: I seem to be apologizing for the delay in updates with each new post, but that might be the way this series will be presented: delayed. Between RL and an increasingly paranoid (and binty) Muse, it takes longer for me to produce something that I'm relatively happy with. So, I will offer apologies now for all future delays in posting. Believe me, I am putting them up the moment they've been completed, and for those of you reading, I thank you for your understanding and patience.
A/N #2: A huge, heartfelt thank you to the wonderful Nimue Tucker, for her input and encouragement on this chapter. Every email and comment was appreciated and treasured.
~+~
Spike shuffled out of his room, giving a quiet sigh as he tried to stretch the kinks out of his back. Achy joints, recently unused to resting on padded mattresses, creaked as he worked them into place. He glanced to his left, towards the large bed on the far side of the main room, letting his gaze linger on its lone, sleeping occupant. Despite the late hour of the morning, it wasn't surprising that Isobelle hadn't woken yet. It had been a long night for both of them, a night cluttered with cautious conversation and raw emotions - feelings so damaged and wounded that they bled when expressed. So much had needed saying, but neither was willing to push the other, having to be satisfied with a polite reaffirmation of their… friendship? Were they back to that?
I think we're a few steps back from square one.
Her words from last night. And she'd stuck to them. He hadn't gotten more than that one hug - one small, tight embrace, when she'd dried her tears on the lapel of his robe and extracted the simplest of promises from him: not to hurt her again. His reward for that vow had been to spend a few more hours by her side before she'd sent him away to his solitary bed.
He'd kept the dark away with the lamp by the settee and, bathed in its weak yellow glow, sleeping fitfully. The loneliness of the basement had been nothing compared to spending last night, curled on a narrow mattress, one mere doorway separating him from Isobelle. He wanted to be closer, to be back in her bed and her arms, snugged tight to her body, reacquainting himself with the softness of her hair, the taste of her skin…
And her scent. The smell of her - sweet and familiar - in his nose, like it had been before. But not quite like before. Now, it was different. Once, she'd smelled of vanilla and innocence. And love. Bright and pure and good. Now, the cleanness of vanilla was gone from her skin, replaced by the warm earthiness of sandalwood and roses. A woman's scent, whispering promises of deep passion and commitment. And, under it all, a darker note, one of lust and longing and precious pain. His scent, driven into her flesh - into her being - by his teeth, on that hateful night, now months past. His mark went deeper than the silvered rent on her neck. It coursed through her blood, permeating every cell; his brand, seared into every fibre of her being. She was his. Together or apart, in love, despair or hate, part of her belonged to him.
And would. Forever.
He let that thought percolate in his mind as he crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He winced as the mattress creaked, dipping under his weight. She shifted under the thin coverlet, hands twisting the sheets under her chin, as she slept. He frowned. She didn't look peaceful, lying there with linen knotted in her fists, her body nearly corkscrewed around a thin, down-leaking pillow. He plucked a feather from the pillow seam, fluffing the crushed vanes into a semblance of their living form. He drew the tiny quill down his cheek, letting it dance over his lips and under his nose. Her scent had permeated the bedding, the down - the feather that he held in his fingers. He breathed it in, pulling her scent deep into his lungs. Sense memory kicked in, his body tingling in response, the instinctual tightening in his groin causing him to moan softly as his jeans restricted his stirring erection.
It would be so easy to slide under the covers, to replace the abused pillow with his own form, and try to work his way back to the place he'd left behind. He wanted to coax a smile back to her sleeping lips. Wanted her to smile at him again.
But he wouldn't.
It wouldn't be right.
A chill ran down his spine and he hunched over her sleeping body. This time when he moaned, it was from the hunger pangs that cramped his belly. It had been days since… well, since he'd stopped counting. His last meal was a foggy memory. He hated waking her, but if he didn't feed soon, it wouldn't be good.
" 'belle," he whispered, giving her shoulder a small shake. Her body uncoiled under the linen as she stretched herself into consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, their dark blue irises focusing on him.
"Morning," he offered, testing the waters with a small grin. She blinked at him, de-tangling herself from the sheets. Sleep-heavy limbs gracelessly fumbled her into a sitting position, her back thudding against the carved pseudo-oak headboard.
"What time is it?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.
"Nearly nine. I was gonna let you sleep, but I didn't want you to miss breakfast."
He worked hard at keeping the grin fixed in place; she had yet to reciprocate with any such gesture.
"You know," he continued, "place like this must have the standard Continental fare. I wouldn't want you to miss out on the complimentary stale bagel and coffee-scented hot water."
That earned him a small laugh. She tucked her feet beneath her, giving him room to edge closer.
"As appealing as you make it sound, I think I'll pass," she said. "I'm not that hungry this morning."
"Still feelin' the effects of last night's tipple?"
This time she really smiled. "Sorta. You know better than to let me drink stuff like that."
"Then you need something in your belly. Best possible cure. Somethin' hot to sip, and, maybe one of those cinnamon-y things you like. I promise not to pretend the raisins are flies."
More smiling. More pretending things were normal between them.
"That's generous of you," she replied, rustling the sheets as she slid out of bed, "but I don't think so."
She headed towards the bathroom, collecting Spike's discarded robe along the way. He tensed again as hunger grabbed at his gut.
"Uh, because, I could run and get you something while you - well, you know," he said, gesturing at her destination. "And then we could - "
Not even pausing, she glanced over her shoulder at him. "Spike. No thanks. I'm not hungry."
"But I am."
That stopped her dead in her tracks. He saw her shoulders slump, and when she finally turned his way, guilt had driven any remnants of her smile from her face.
"Spike?"
"I mean… I'll get something for you while you do the girly stuff, and then, if you don't - you know - we could get something… for me."
The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. The look in her eyes reminded him of the cackled taunts from the night before.
This is pity, boy.
She feels sorry for you.
This is obligation…
That's what he saw.
"God, I forgot - " she began, stopping as he pushed off the bed and headed for the door. He snagged the keycard off the bedside table as he breezed past her. Shouldn't have woken her, he silently chastised. She got you out. The rest is up to you.
"Right. Not an issue. Can find my own nosh and all. Don't need you holding my hand every step. I'll be back in a few."
"No, Spike, wait - let me get dressed and I'll go with you - "
"Think I can do this on my own. Most of the marbles have shifted back in place," he said, tapping his temple with the keycard. "I'll be fine."
"Wait, dammit," she replied, tripping over the shoes she'd discarded by the settee the night before. She slid them on and caught hold of his hand as it wrapped around the doorknob.
"Wait?" he asked. "Why? Afraid I won't come back? Or," he intoned, pulling his hand free of hers, "that I will?"
"If I didn't want you here, I would've let you leave last night."
A long moment passed as both let those words settle between them. With a small sigh, Isobelle fished a $20 out of her sleep-wrinkled jeans and stuffed it in his pocket. "Get something decent. I'll… I'll wait here. Maybe see if room service will deliver some of that coffee-scented hot water."
Hand back on the doorknob, he canted half a nod in her direction and cracked open the door. Instead of an empty, berber-lined hallway, he was greeted by a petite redhead's shy pixie grin. Thrusting a paper sack into Spike's hands, she nodded nervously at the surprised faces before her.
"Did somebody say 'Room Service'?"
~+~
Buffy checked her watch for the fourth time. She'd given Willow the note with the scrawled hotel address nearly half an hour ago, before her retreat to the quiet corner booth in the Espresso Pump. It was well after 9:00 AM; she needed to be at the school - at her normal-life's job - in less than an hour. Waving off the persistent waiter yet again, she sank a bit deeper into the padding of her seat, letting the soft, worn stuffing ease some of the stiffness and ache that was left over from her previous night's encounter with Anya.
Or rather, Anyanka. That's a fine hair to be splitting, she thought, dumping the bowl of sugar packets out in front of her, nervous fingers fidgeting with the paper-wrapped servings. Part of her hadn't recognized the thing she'd fought. Tried to kill, she corrected. But, that was her job; manifest destiny and all that crap. Slayer. Demon. Slayer kills the demon. Friend or foe - did it matter? Should it matter?
And, if it didn't, what did that say about her?
Sugar packets now sorted by colour, she started stacking them. First, brown. Then blue. White…
And pink! Don't forget the pink…
The swish of the door took her attention from the sweetener fort. Green eyes roved the late-morning crowd, then settled on the brunette standing by the pastry case. Buffy rose to wave the woman over, then paused. She took a moment to study her. Suss her out, as someone might've said. Buffy didn't see anything remarkable about her. Pretty, she supposed, in a tired, worn way. Dark hair, kind of like Drusilla's - but shorter, with a bit of a curl. The coat she hugged to her frame made it hard to see her build. A bit thick-waisted, maybe, Buffy mused. Like Tara had been - girly curves, sculpted of flesh rather than muscle. Not unattractive, but not noteworthy.
Ordinary.
Except for her eyes. When Isobelle's grim blue gaze found Buffy, the blonde jumped inside. She now knew where the phrase 'stared daggers' came from: those eyes bit into her like knife-tips - sharp, cold and precise as they fell onto their target.
Buffy held her place as Isobelle made her way over to the booth. Polite nods were exchanged as she sat down. The hovering server honed in on the fresh patron and bee-lined his way to the booth.
"You found the place okay?" Buffy asked in way of a greeting. No need to waste time on pleasant formalities. This wasn't social. This was… business?
This was personal.
Isobelle shrugged. "Your messenger had good directions. Wasn't too hard to get here."
"Good. I mean… good. I found your note. Last night. I mean, that's obvious, because I knew where to find you. I didn't forget about you. Or… or him. But something kinda came up and, well, timeliness suffered in the whole basement extraction scenario."
"We managed."
"So I gathered."
"LADIES!"
Both women turned to the server, who had plastered his best 'order-something-or-get-out' smile on his face. Menus were thrust in front of them. "Are we ready to order NOW?"
Buffy slapped the plastic-sheathed paper back into the server's hand. "Low fat, half-decaf mocha latte with non-fat whipped crème, cinnamon and chocolate on top. Please."
"And for you?" he asked, turning to Isobelle. She slid her menu to the side. "Just coffee."
"Coffee?" he reiterated.
"Yes. Coffee."
He gave her a blank look. She sighed. "Coffee. Black. With cream and sugar on the side."
He scribbled on his order pad. "I hope I can keep that straight," he commented. "I don't think anyone has asked for 'just coffee' before."
"Imagine that," Isobelle sniped as the server made his escape.
Buffy played with one of the pink sweetener packets. "Thank you for coming. And, so speedily. I really don't have much time. Gotta get to work and all. You understand… "
Isobelle shook her head. "You summoned me here, and now you want to rush through things? No. I'm here. You're here. Last night I told Spike that I didn't envision any deep conversations with you any time soon, but now that you've arranged this little confab, let's talk."
"I'm trying here. You… you kinda came out of nowhere. I don't know who you are or how you're connected to Spike, but I don't like surprises. Especially hostile ones. Kinda my job to squish 'em. But, I'm willing to give this a try."
"Fine."
"Good. How… how do you know Spike?"
Isobelle sighed and rubbed her eyes. "We met at the beginning of the summer. He needed help. I offered it. Spent a few months together, then he… " She paused as their order was delivered. "He left." She took one of the sugar packets from Buffy's fort and dumped it in her coffee. "I didn't hear from him again until a few days ago. He called, asking for help. Again."
Buffy poked the thick crème on her latte with a stirrer. "And you dropped everything just because he called?"
"That's right."
Buffy nodded thoughtfully. She piled a fat drop of crème and shavings onto the stirrer and popped it into her mouth. "And, you know what he is?"
"Yes. Kind of hard not to notice, what with the blood-drinking and the bumpy forehead." Isobelle took a sip. "I know what you are, too." Off the blonde's surprised look, she continued. "Yeah. You came up. A few times, apparently, though I didn't know at the time that the woman he'd been angsting over this summer was the canonical enemy. That explains quite a bit."
"He… he told you about me? Talked about me?" Buffy dropped the stirrer into the cup. If she hadn't before, Isobelle now held the Slayer's full attention.
"He never mentioned you by name. You… you were always just there, in the background. You meant a lot to him. I know he got his… " She took a steadying sip. "I know what he did. For you. And what it did to him. Getting it back. Dealing with it."
"What else did he tell you? About me?" Buffy asked quietly. The already palpable tension shot up a notch with the little blonde's query. Isobelle shook her head. "Not much else. Like I said, he never told me your name, or too many specifics. I just knew there was someone else."
"Oh. Good. I mean - good." Relief trickled through Buffy. Not knowing what stories Spike might have been sharing about their past had panicked her. If anyone found out what had really happened…
Isobelle watched as the girl across from her played with her latte. She was visibly more relaxed after the assurance that Spike hadn't shared details, leaving Isobelle to wonder what she wasn't sharing.
"So," Buffy continued, "you kinda had an idea… "
"That you existed. Yes."
Green eyes glinted at Isobelle over the bowl of the latte mug. "Funny he never let on anything about you." Buffy slid a worn and dirty business card across the table. "I found this, last night, near your note. Actually, there were a few more, lying around the basement. I never thought anything of it - he was so out of his mind. Who knew where he was getting them… "
Isobelle fingered the card thoughtfully. "Well, now I know how he was able to call." Looking hard at Buffy, she took a breath. "Which begs the question, why did he have to call me for help?"
"Huh?" Buffy grunted, swiping foam off her lip.
"You obviously knew he was down there. Knew what he was like. Why didn't you help him?"
"I was going to - I mean, yesterday, when you showed up. I was going to get him out… "
"I only got a call from him a couple of days ago. How long did you know he was down there?"
The brunette's hard tone made Buffy's cheeks flush. "Long enough," she mumbled in reply.
"How long? A few days?"
"Longer… "
"Weeks?"
"Only about three or so… "
"Three weeks?" she hissed. "You let him rot down there for three weeks? Starving and out of his mind… "
"You don't understand," Buffy interrupted. "This is Spike, for God's sake. He's… he's not… " She pulled the business card from Isobelle's fingers and waved it between them. "This is you. You're… you're normal. Why did you get involved with a thing like him? Why do you care… "
Isobelle pushed up from the table. Rifling her coat pocket, she tossed a small handful of bills onto the counter. "He isn't a thing," she spat disgustedly. "He has a soul. He has feelings. He… " She cinched the coat tightly around her. "I can't believe you're the one he got It back for. Coffee's on me."
Buffy watched in stunned silence as Isobelle stormed out of the Espresso Pump. Piling the bills on top of the cheque, she gathered her own belongings. Yesterday, she'd pondered the implications of Spike having a genuine friend on his side. Today, it was clear this person was more than just his friend.
She was someone who cared.
That made it all the worse.
~+~
"So," Spike said, rinsing his mug in the bathroom sink, "how'd you get shrifted with this duty, Red? Delivery girl, toting bloody snackables and Buffy's invite to breakfast?"
Willow shrugged against the cushions of the settee. "I was the only one with nothing better to do, I guess. No classes until this afternoon."
"So you got conscripted to be Gal Friday?"
"Seems so. Oh, and, if you happened to go all wacky and grrr, I suppose I could go Black-Eyed mojo-y on you and no one would sweat it."
"Thanks for the heads-up. I'll try to keep it Emily Post while you're here."
"No problem."
Willow watched with quiet amusement as Spike paced around the hotel room. Every so often, he would pluck at a stray piece of clothing that had been shed the night before, dropped carelessly by its tired bearer. Or, he'd plump the pillows on the unmade bed, straighten the thin sheets, re-organize the paper-wrapped tumblers by the mini-fridge. She'd never seen him fidget before. It was mesmerizing.
"You seem better today," she commented. "Not so looped as before. Been visited by the Sanity Fairy?"
A self-conscious grin flashed across his face. "I think being hauled out of the basement by my ear cured that bit of nuttiness."
"Not a big shock, Spike. School basement. Hellmouth. Weird and evil things scampering around. An easy fix to the sitch, don't you think?"
Spike settled into the Queen Anne reproduction, opposite the settee. "Sure. In the light of lucidity and a demanding hand dragging me out. But there were reasons. For me bein' down there. And bein' out didn't make 'em go away… "
"We don't have to do the big share-a-thon, Spike," Willow interjected. He nodded, settling them into a strangely comfortable silence. Willow squirmed deeper into the cushions of the settee, browsing a magazine. Spike watched her read, slowing twining Isobelle's silk scarf between his fingers.
"Um, Will?" he ventured. Willow looked up from some article on cake decorating, her hazel eyes fixing on Spike's own intense blue gaze.
"I… uh… I just wanted to say… wanted you to know, I mean… "
"Spike?"
"I know… I heard what happened. To Tara. I'm… I'm right sorry, love."
Willow gripped the magazine in her small fists. "Is this sympathy thing due to that shiny new soul of yours? Or, are you trying to get me weepy, so I'll leave?"
He stopped playing with the scarf, setting the abused bit of silk down on the side table. "The latter, most definitely," he replied stiffly. "God knows there's nothing clean or pure about my soul - nothing that would account for that small bit of pseudo-decency." His calves nearly toppled the chair as he got to his feet. Stalking towards the door, he yanked it open. "But leaving sounds like a plan, yeah? Why exactly are you hoverin' here anyway? Don't think I need a sitter."
"Buffy told me to wait. Until she called. Or until she… your… friend… came back."
"Why?"
"Well… I… I dun… dunno. She just said… "
"Oh, she just said. Still status quo, I see. Wicked powers aside, you're back bein' the good little soldier. Back in the fold. Takin' orders. One of the team again." He gestured to the hallway. "Go on soldier. March. Don't need the company."
Willow stood, squaring her shoulders in a show of determination. "P… pretty demand-y for someone - who only yesterday - was talking to walls in the school basement. S… so, simmer down, mister. I'll leave when… "
"When what? Buffy gives you permission?"
"You so don't wanna go there on the 'jumping how high' front, Spike."
The vampire kicked the door shut with such force the frame rattled.
"This part of your penance? Be a good girl, do what you're told? Show your gratitude for… " He let the sentence trail off. Waving his hands in surrender, he ducked into his bedroom, to emerge a moment later, slipping into a new-looking dark denim jacket. Taking the spare keycard from the side table, he headed for the door. "You stay. I'll go. Ta for the brunch. 'belle will tip you when she gets back."
Reaching for the doorknob, he'd barely opened it a crack when a force slammed it closed. This time the frame did more than rattle: dust dribbled from the ceiling and a small split snaked its way through the casement.
"Sit," the redhead hissed, "or I'll… I'll turn you into a… a… "
"Turn me into a what, you… " he started, shutting up the instant he turned to face her. The air around her crackled and sparked. Darkness flashed through her eyes as she glared at him. "On the other hand, don't bother finishing that thought." He re-took his seat in the faux Queen Anne, and waited.
Willow took a long breath and closed her eyes. Nearly vibrating from the effort to calm herself, she eventually settled back onto the settee, a low, sighing moan the only hint of the energy it had cost her to centre herself again.
"Kinda pushing the rehab there, Red," Spike muttered. "Wouldn't do to blow all that hard work tossing a snit fit on me."
"For somebody who recently got their soul back," she grated, "you still know how to piss people off."
"It's a gift, and has nothin' to do with being soulless. You should know. You knew Angel."
"Hmm. Rehabbed and re-souled. Not really the cure-alls for our issues."
He shook his head. "Not at all. Learned the hard way - shit, still learnin' it - there's no easy out. No quick fix. This is all long-haul stuff, kitten."
Willow frowned. Tucking her legs under her, she relaxed a bit more into the settee. "Don't know if I like this."
"Like what?"
"The idea that… that maybe the one person who understands what I'm going through is some sad little vampire with a soul complex."
"We're far from peers in the carnage tally, pet. Don't worry about being lumped in with the likes of me."
"Do numbers even matter? Evil is evil… right?"
"You'd think… but, come to find out, everything matters. Acts, souled or un-souled - they all count. All need to have their due paid."
She quirked an eyebrow in his direction. "You were never this deep before the soul."
"How would you know?" he replied softly. "You never really talked to me before."
Willow felt her cheeks flush. "Well, I… "
"Didn't you say you had classes or something?"
"Huh? Yeah, but not for awhile… "
The trilling of her cell phone cut her off. Fumbling it out of her small handbag, she looked almost embarrassed as she brought it to her ear.
"Hello? Oh, hi Buffy… "
Spike quietly got to his feet and moved off to the spare room. He tried not to listen to the murmured words. Didn't need to hear that. For lack of anything better to do, he straightened the sheets on the bed. With no sign of housekeeping yet, there was slim chance of them changing so much as a pillowcase in this room today. After a few moments, Willow appeared.
"So… I'm going to go now."
"Got the official okay from the boss, did you?"
"Uh… yeah. And, I do have class in about an hour… "
"Fine. Nice of you to stop by."
He pushed past her and into the main room, once more opening the door for her exit.
"Have a good one Red."
"Uh, yeah." Halfway out the door, she paused, turning back to face Spike as he leaned in the archway. "Thank you."
Blue eyes and a head tilt honed in on Willow's open expression. "For what?"
"For what you said. About Tara. Thank you."
"Oh… well, yeah. Needed sayin'."
Awkwardness at a peak, Willow started down the hall towards the elevator. She could feel Spike watching her from the doorway. As she waited for the car to arrive, she pivoted on her heel and looked his way.
"Spike?"
"Yeah?"
"You're friend. She's cute."
The glower hit her hard, even at that distance.
"She's straight, Will."
The elevator pinged its arrival. With a sly grin she hopped into the car and called out through the closing doors.
"So was I, once… "
"PATHOLOGICALLY STRAIGHT!" he bellowed, as the panels slid shut.
He swore he could hear her giggling from there.
Retreating back into the sanctuary of Isobelle's room, he locked himself inside and took careful survey of his surroundings. Semi-clean already from his earlier self-conscious hovering, he started to finish the rest of the tidying. Just to pass the time, until she came back…
Then he stopped, struck by the stupidness of it all. This wasn't home. This wasn't their place. It was nothing. An anonymous haunt, fit for hiding in, until they decided what they wanted to do next…
No, he corrected. Until she decided what to do next. She had come for him. It was up to her to plot out the next move. Make the plan, yeah?
"Fuck," he moaned.
Sinking onto her bed, he buried his nose into the pillow, working his fingers deep into the flimsy down-filled pallet. He was beyond pathetic. The voice - the Other - was right. Red had at least been polite about it. Getting out was a good thing, but where did he go now? Buffy obviously wouldn't give him the time of day. She couldn't even make it back when a worthy human life was in the mix of Hellmouth Central…
He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, filling his lungs with her scent. Their scent, to be exact. He could lay there, and pretend it was home, that he was snug in the bed that he once considered theirs - somewhere safe, warm and shared. Pretend that the last few weeks hadn't happened. He could do it. Surrounded by enough of her essence, it was possible.
So, he tried.
And waited.
For her to come back.
~+~