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. Thanks as well to the lovely Nimue Tucker, for her invaluable input on character voices (and for cheering on the 'girly selfishness'!).

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 'Conversations With Dead People'

Email: spikeswillingslaveyahoo.ca

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the time to give me feedback - you've all been so kind with your words and encouragement. I know I'm lousy at responding to individual comments, but please know that I deeply appreciate the time you've all taken to send me your thoughts.

This chapter has been a long time coming: partly due to RL and writer's block, and partly to my attempts to actually get a plot in place. There is a plot on the way - I promise!

"So, let me get this straight..."

Xander Harris holstered his hammer and turned his attention away from the half-repaired window in the Summers' living room. Even now, with most of the debris cleared away, the destruction that had been wrought on the space the night before was still evident. Anya made busy work at the mantel, dusting what hadn't been pulverized during Dawn's otherworldly attack, tossing fragments of the remainders into a large garbage bag. Dawn idly swept the thick layer of broken mementos and dust into one large heap, with Buffy standing by with a dustpan to scoop the remnants away. The only person to look up from their task and give Xander their attention was Willow. She closed the browser on her computer, momentarily putting a halt to her research on the source of Dawn's attack and Buffy's unthinkable revelation regarding Spike.

"This girl just shows up one day…"

Willow scrunched her brow. "Woman. I mean, 'girl' is a little… condescending…"

"Okay," he acceded, sending Willow an indulgent look. "Woman shows up out of nowhere, looking for the Evil Undead…"

"Actually," Dawn interjected, "now that Spike has his soul, it's kinda technically not true. The evil part, I mean, not the undead part, 'cuz until we find out if he's been nibbling on people again, the 'evil' bit is in question. But, yeah - still a vampire, so, still 'undead'."

"…and," he continued, ignoring Dawn's comments, "giving you a hard time over the whole basement deal. I mean, who the hell does she think she is?"

Buffy shrugged, wiping her dirty hands on her jeans. "Someone who cares, apparently."

"And she knows he's a vampire, all big with the blood-drinking and the grr?"

Buffy nodded. "She's been briefed. Besides, it'd be kinda hard for him to keep that a secret for too long."

Willow flipped through a stack of printouts, organizing the hard copies of her research efforts. "What did she say when you told her about the possibility he's feeding again?"

"She didn't believe it. I can't blame her for that. I mean, Will, I'm not sure I believe it. With the chip and all…"

"Nothing you say will matter."

All eyes turned to Anya. She dropped a cracked vase into the garbage bag, waving idly at the plume of dust that billowed out on its impact.

"You could stack the drained and mangled corpses waist-high in front of her, as proof that William the Bloody is un-alive and well and sipping his way through Sunnydale, and she wouldn't care one bit. Sue will roll her eyes and explain it all away, and then think the less of you for trying to convince her that her cuddly, souled vampire is a killer."

"Wait. Sue?" Xander looked confused. "Who's Sue? I thought her name was…"

Dawn waved a dismissive hand in the air. "We know her name. Anya's just calling her what she is."

He blinked, still lost. "Which is?"

Anya sighed. "An outsider. A perfectly nice - probably too nice - little wench, here to worm her way into our tightly knit - if demonically dysfunctional - group, and proceed to solve all our problems with a wink and a smile. And maybe baking. These people always have some disgustingly wonderful talent that they show off at the drop of a hat. 'Oh, the world is ending! But try my fudge before you go.' It's very annoying."

Xander slumped against the half-built window frame. "Still not following."

Dawn balanced a shard of wood on her palm. "That's 'cuz you don't spend any time online."

"The point is," Anya continued, irritation evident in her voice, "she won't be on your side; she'll be on Spike's side. She isn't here to help prove he's killing again, or to save the world with bubble gum and two pieces of string and, if she does pitch in for your next almost-un-win-able cause, it will be to service him, and his needs." She gave the now-full trash bag a kick, smiling with satisfaction at the crunch the contents made under her foot. "Oh, and have sex with him. Wild, overly passionate sex that, in reality, no vampire can ever have with a human without some damage being done…"

Buffy glared. "Alright, Anya, enough. This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Sure it is," Dawn smirked. "I mean, we just learned that someone here spends waaay too much time reading Harry Potter fanfic…"

Anya pouted. "Doesn't make it not true."

Xander gathered his coat and headed for the door. "And on that note, I'm going to the hardware store. I still have a few dollars left in my wallet, and this - " he gestured around the still-dilapidated space, "will take a lot more spackle to be presentable again." He nudged Dawn on his way by. "You wanna tag along? Look at the paint chips?"

"And decide which colour my room won't be painted this year?" She shrugged. "Sure. Tagging it is."

Willow waited until the door had closed behind the pair before approaching Buffy with her research. "Kinda glad Dawnie left. We need to talk about a few things."

Buffy settled onto the one relatively clean spot of the sofa. "What did you find out? Did you put a name to the… thing… that took my mother's form last night?"

Willow shook her head. "Not so much with that. Sorry. I still have some searches to do on shape-shifting entities and de-corporealized manifestants."

"De-corpor-whatis?"

Willow took a seat on the arm of the sofa. "Kind of like pesky, mischief-causing changelings. They take the form of a departed loved one and make with the destruction and horror. They feed off the fear of their victims."

"Nasty little creatures," Anya commented. "They manage to generate a good scare in someone, and they breed like rabbits. Which are also nasty little creatures, so it's a fitting analogy."

"Anyway," Willow continued, "I'm still working on that one."

Buffy nibbled her lip and tried not to notice the thick sheaf of papers in Willow's hand. "And, the other?" she asked.

Willow cleared off a spot on the re-righted coffee table. "Three missing persons reports over the past five days. There would have been four, but Holden Webster was - well - found."

Buffy stared as Willow laid out the profiles: three, grainy black-and-white photos of smiling women peered up at her from the scarred oak tabletop.

"They range in age from 18 years to 23. All single, all last seen at public places. Two at a club downtown, one at a movie theatre."

"And what does this have to do with Spike possibly killing again?"

Willow shrugged again. "Nothing, as of now. But it's a place to start."

Anya slid one of the reports off the table. "His type alright. Does Sue ever let him out of her sight?"

"Anya, stop." Buffy got to her feet and pulled the report from the other woman's hand. "Her name isn't - "

"That's actually a good question, Buffy," Willow interjected. "I mean, if she can alibi him, then he's in the clear."

Buffy gathered up the remaining reports. "I'll ask. I know - I mean, he goes out. I know it. She knows it. She might not be able to cover for him."

"You don't think she'll lie for him?"

"No, Anya, I really don't." Buffy was noticeably exasperated. Willow retrieved her research and retreated to the dining room, unwilling to be caught in the middle of the tension.

"What is with you, anyway?" Buffy asked. "Why are you being so…"

"So what? Accurate?" She shrugged. "Must be leftover Vengeance Demon mojo. Back in the day - which, strangely enough, was only last week - I could sense a bitter, scorned woman two dimensions away. So, being in the same room with you? Trust me: not as tricky."

"I am not bitter! Or scorned or jealous or… or… whatever else sucks the Vengeancy-types close."

"Sure. We'll go with that for now. But tell me this: why are you defending her? I mean, she's fornicating with your so-called ex. Bitter or not, I'd've thought you'd revel in a bit of…"

"Petty bitching? Anya, I don't have the time. Something is messing with us big time here, and last night, it brought the fight into my house, and attacked my sister. I don't have time - "

"For jealousy?"

Buffy folded her arms across her chest. "For the last time, I am not jealous. I'm… I'm nothing, except tired and pissed off, so keep your sniping to yourself, and be helpful."

"Or what, you'll run me through the chest with a sword? Oh, wait, you've done that already…"

"Anya please…"

"Alright. Helpful it is. I'll leave you with this tidbit to ponder, as I haul the remains of your broken goods to the curb." She leaned in, her expression softening to one of almost-compassion. "Sue might be on his side. She might be giving him lots of sex and support and telling him how wonderful he is, even if he just ate a basket of kittens, but remember this…" Buffy started slightly as Anya placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "One kind word from you… one crumb of hope… if you ever decided you wanted him back, you could have him."

Buffy shook. "Why would you say that to me? Tell me… even think that I'd want…"

"Doesn't matter if you ever do or not. I'm just reminding you who has the ultimate power here. And that would be you. I still have the scar to prove it."

From the moment he'd gotten up, to the one when he'd heard Isobelle's keycard slide through the electronic lock of their hotel room door, Spike had spent one of his unlife's longest hours trying to figure out what exactly he wanted to say when they sat down to talk. It should have been easy enough to do: she'd given him free reign to ask anything of her and, in return, she'd promised him plain and honest answers. Leaning against the headboard, amid the sheets of her unmade bed, he'd filled nearly three sheets of hotel stationary, trying to order his thoughts, to separate the meaningful from the facile and needy questions that had so quickly sprung to mind when she'd made her offer. But right now, watching as she came through the door, hands filled with shopping bags, those notes were forgotten, crumpled in his fist, as a dizzying swell of déjà vu flooded him. She looked just like she had that first night he'd spent in her home: tired and slightly rumpled, but with his needs as her priority.

And, in spite of it, a smile crept across her face, a true blush of reserved happiness that tweaked the corners of her mouth and made her fatigue-darkened eyes gleam.

"You're up." Department store satchels thudded onto the carpet, a small, white paper sack the only item now in her hand. She canted it towards him. "Hungry?"

He shook his head and regretted it instantly, the simple motion causing his hangover headache to rebound.

"Hurting?"

He stayed still this time. "Not so bad now. The sledgehammers beatin' the inside of my skull are down to a dull racket. And I only see one of you standin' there, so things are looking good all the way 'round."

She stored the bag in the mini-fridge. "Later, then, so I can impress you with my new status as a potable blood connoisseur."

"Big words." He pulled his legs up a touch, a wordless invitation for her to join him on the mattress. If he hadn't been watching her so closely, he'd have missed the flicker of hesitation, the split-second's pause between her closing the fridge door and crossing the room to take her seat on the edge of the bed.

"Well," she said, fussing idly with the wrinkled sheets, "six months ago I had to choose between cow and pig, and today, some guy tosses lamb into the mix. And turkey, but that just sounded disgusting."

He wanted to laugh, share in the absurdity of what she'd said, but all he could manage was a faded smile. "Turkey was disgusting, but the rest sounded dandy to you? What did you wind up choosing?"

Another pause. She tried her best to match his half-hearted grin, but couldn't quite manage. Being this close to him, knowing what was to come, with Buffy's words from that morning still sounding in her ears, made all of this that much harder. She couldn't reconcile what she'd been told with what she was seeing before her. Wearing a wrinkled black T-shirt and faded jeans, his hair still a bed-headed mess of blond spikes and curls, he looked harmless, nothing like the killer that Buffy had been told he'd slipped back into being. His bare toes fidgeted amongst the unmade sheets as he waited for her to speak. She stilled one set with her hand, her fingers tracing the outline of his ankle. "You really want to know, or are you stalling for time?"

"70/30, stalling," he quipped, again trying for a genuine smile. The brief attempt at casual coolness melted away quickly, spurred by the crackling of the papers he held in his twitching fist. "But not because I don't want to… you know. I do. I… We. We should do this. I just… I want to get this right."

"We will get it right," she assured. "As long as we're honest, it can't go wrong."

"Misconception the first," he chided.

She tapped the crinkled sheets in his hand. "Looks like you put a lot of thought into what you wanted to ask."

He looked at his list, sighed, then stuffed the papers under the covers. "I'm not usually one who's big on plans. Planning shit never really worked for me. I'm more of a 'fools rush in' type. But this…" he ran a hand over the hidden list, "this could get away from me. Ask the wrong thing, at the wrong time… it's like reading those 'Choose Your Own Adventures' books. What you say, what you do." He swallowed. "The choices you make. They all lead you down one path and one path only, and then you're stuck with whatever you get." His eyes met hers, raw with determination, his gaze so intense that she was close to looking away. But she didn't flinch. She sat in silence, waiting for him to continue.

"So I gave it some proper thought. Wanted to avoid re-hashin' the same old stuff we've already talked to death."

"Like what?"

"Why you came. What you feel - if anythin' - for me. How sorry I was - I am - about… all of it."

"We can talk about anything you want, Spike." She shifted a bit closer. His arms had come to rest on the tops of his knees, and as she slid a comforting hand up his denimed calf, her fingertips brushed along the palm of one of his hands.

"I know. An' we will. I got it figured. Mapped out."

"So, where do we start?"

He took a steadying breath, which, for the first time, seemed strange - yet endearing - to Isobelle.

"I know why you're here. Why you came. Been over that and I understand. You did it for me. Because I asked and, knowing you the way I think I do, helpin' is just your way."

"Spike…"

She was starting to feel uncomfortable. The last thing she wanted was for this to deteriorate into another useless examination of her supposed virtues.

"But now," he interrupted, tucking his bended knees even tighter to his chest. "I want to know why you stayed."

By the look that Isobelle now wore on her face, Spike knew he'd either managed to suss out the million-dollar question, or that he was about to get the reaming out of his unlife. The expression of gentle patience she had been sending his way had given way to one of surprise, her lips rounding into an O of mild shock, before fading into blankness. He could feel her retreat into herself as she - hopefully - gave his question serious thought.

After a few long moments of stilted silence, he spoke.

"That one knock you for a loop, love? You look a little lost in it all."

"That's because I am." The urge to get off the bed and pace was strong, but she knew he'd take any such action as a sign of rejection. She did her best to stay put and come up with the most honest answer she could. "Somehow I thought this would be… easier. In an 'I know what to say to that' sense, I mean."

His eyes clouded a bit, his defenses climbing a bit higher. "Just be honest. That's an answer. Say what you feel."

She reached over to take one of his hands; instead of accepting her gesture, he laced his fingers together and bracketed them over his flexed knees. She let her hand fall to her side and tried to find words to do justice to what she was feeling.

"I guess I'm still here because…"

IstillloveyouIstillwantyouIstillcareaboutyouIforgiveyouyoustupididiotman…

"Because?" he prodded. "You take pauses like that and I'm gonna start to think you're fluffin' your answers."

"Because," she started again, "I didn't think it would be this hard to say goodbye."

She knew the moment she'd said it that it sounded wrong, and the look that flooded Spike's face confirmed it. His eyes darkened, all hints of hope driven out with her words. The already-pale knuckles of his hands whitened even more as he further tightened his grip on his legs. His whole body seemed to tense, then settle into the unnatural stillness of someone trying their damnedest not to shake. Then, with extreme care, he let his hands fall open, unfolded his legs and slipped off the bed. Isobelle reached out to pull him back down, but he easily avoided her grasp.

Spike felt numb. After last night - after the kiss - he'd managed to convince himself there was the smallest chance he might be able to salvage some part of whatever he and Isobelle had shared over the summer. He'd taken the fact that she'd come for him, stayed with him these last few days, as a sign that, just maybe, she felt more for him than pity. Than obligation. He truly thought he'd had it, the perfect question - the one that would give her the opportunity to admit whether or not she still had any affection for him. That all she needed was the chance to say it.

Why did you stay?

Because I still love you.

Mustering what dignity he could, he said, "Right then. Well, that's something I can help with, at least. Leavin's a specialty of mine. An' I'm all for makin' things easier for you."

Feeling that things were rapidly skidding out of control, she made another effort to sit him back down. Managing to grab onto the hem of his T-shirt, she tugged him towards her, succeeding in making him settle next to her on the bed.

"Another specialty of yours is not listening. Or, only hearing what you want to hear."

"Your answer doesn't need much decoding, Pet," he countered. "For all the reassurances last night that you weren't planning on skippin' out, I know now it's only a matter of time."

She bit back a frustrated sigh and tried to keep her cool. "Of course it's only a matter of time, Spike. I can't stay here forever. I have what passes for a life elsewhere and at some point, I have to return to it."

He didn't reply. Casting his eyes down to the ground, he sat, silently, waiting to see if she would continue.

She tried a different approach. "I didn't come here for purely selfless reasons, Spike. I mean, that phone call scared the hell out of me, and I wanted to find you, make sure you were okay. But part of me wanted the chance to make my own break from… whatever it was we had. I wanted to indulge in my right, as the discarded party, to scream you stupid and show you how much better off I was without you in my life."

"Then why bother helpin' me? Gotta figure seein' me the way you did gave you some satisfaction."

She shook her head. That he would even think she'd find some measure of pleasure in his suffering made her heart ache.

"Knowing you were in pain would never make me happy."

"You didn't hate me that much?"

"What? No, Spike. I didn't hate you at all."

She reached out and took his hand in hers. Gratified that he didn't pull away, she ignored the fact that he didn't reciprocate the soft grip she had on his hand.

"Not that I didn't want to," she continued. "It would've made things a lot simpler…"

"And you had every right to."

"You're right. I did. I had a lot of anger - and some hate. But do you want to know what it was I hated?" She dropped his hand and got to her feet, giving in to the urge to pace. "I hated that you left me. I hated that I missed you and wanted you back, even after…"

She paused. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to admit to myself that, despite everything that had happened, I still wanted you with me? Coming here was supposed to be my opportunity to let it all go, and the last thing… the last thing I wanted was to realize that I was still in love with you."

She cringed slightly. Dammit-to-hell, I really did say it out loud.

The stunned look on Spike's face would've been cause to laugh had she not been suddenly overwhelmed with the most chilling panic. Very slowly, he rose from the bed, taking one step, then another, towards her. She mirrored him, back-pedaling with each of his advancing moves.

Spike watched her careful retreat, his mind fixated on her last words.

Still in love with you.

Still in love.

With you.

Love.

You.

He had to have imagined it. Surely, someone who had plans to soon leave him wouldn't confess such a thing. He couldn't have heard her correctly.

In the softest tone he could muster, he spoke.

"Isobelle, dear, would you kindly repeat what you just said?"

She shook her head. "No."

He blinked. Dulcet, it seemed, wouldn't get him far. "No?"

She twitched, her panic cresting at hearing the edge that had crept into his voice.

"That's right. No." She pointed a wavering finger in his direction. "And… and sit back down! I'm not finished yet."

He complied, the bedsprings squeaking in protest as he re-took his seat.

She loves me.

He let that confession settle inside, the warmth of it dissolving away some of his earlier fears.

She paced for a few moments, hands wringing in her frustrated distress, as she worked up the nerve to continue talking.

"Alright. Okay, I guess I will repeat it." He leaned forward slightly, suppressing a delighted chuckle at seeing her blush in response.

"Yes. I think… well, more than think… I do. I still love you. At first, when I realized it, I didn't understand why. By all reason under the sun, I should've stopped the moment you abandoned me. And until your call, I really thought I had." She leaned against the back of the settee, hands bracing the silk-encased backing. "I told myself that, if I came, it would be to make sure you were safe, find closure - however lame that sounds - and go."

"That sounds very… practical," he commented, disappointed with how calculated her plan had been.

"Shush. Don't interrupt."

He quieted and waited for her to continue.

She considered his words. "But you're right. It was practical. Practical was all I had left. I couldn't trust my emotions. And after I got here, and found you… God, I didn't expect to feel anything remotely like…"

She swallowed, trying to cap the anxiety welling inside. "It was confusing. I'd done what I'd set out to do - find you, make sure you were safe. When it came to reconciling whatever was unfinished between us… I… I couldn't. I didn't want to. I should have been ready to go, to finally leave it behind me and to start over…

"It took a while - and a lot of thinking - for me to finally figure it out. Why I couldn't go." She had to be careful with the next part. Reciting it in her mind, it sounded horrible. But, she'd promised him honesty. No one said honesty was pretty.

"I'd come to realize that my decision to leave - to say goodbye when the time came - had more to do with my ego than with what I was feeling."

Her words were like a physical slap and he couldn't suppress the flinch that came from hearing them. Whatever giddy satisfaction he'd gotten from hearing her say she still loved him had vanished. Once again, the 'power of his charm' had left someone he cared about feeling ashamed. Disgusted with themselves. Stifling the overwhelming urge to bolt, to remove himself from her sight, he bowed his head, gripped the mattress, and waited for the rest of it to come crashing down.

Her heart ached to see her words affect him so. She quietly approached the side of the bed, and lightly ran her palm over his cheek. He leaned into her touch, soaking up her comfort for as long as she'd give it.

"I'm not done yet."

"I don't know if I can take any more honesty today."

Craving the contact, she braced his legs between her own, and settled into his lap. "I'm sure you can," she replied, resting her forehead on his. Getting nothing but silence in response, she pressed on.

"Pride can be a hateful thing. I knew that if I gave in to my feelings, let you back in, and you hurt me again, it would be my fault. I don't trust easily. But with you, it came quick, it came fast, and I put my heart and my faith into believing it, and when you left, it killed my trust in you…" "Stop, please." He put his hands on her thighs and tried to push her off his lap, but she held on tightly to his shoulders. He could've easily removed her with more force, but he didn't want to hurt her. "I've changed my mind. Let's go back to the 'walking on eggshells' arrangement…"

"But," she continued, ignoring his plea, "I can't live my life denying what I want - whom I love - because of my pride, or my fear of getting hurt again. It'd be perfectly reasonable to get up tomorrow and say goodbye. I'd go home, live my quiet life," she slid in closer, until she could lace her hands behind his back, "and be utterly lonely. A wise person once said that, denying love for the sake of pride - for dignity - meant enduring a cold and lonely bed, and an empty life. I don't want that. I don't deserve it. And neither do you." She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'm tired of my heart fighting my head. I don't care how wrong or unwise it is. I love you Spike. I love you and I want to trust you again. I think I can. And that is the long and painful - yet completely honest, as promised - answer as to why I stayed."

After a long moment of silence, Spike sighed. His hands made a slow, soothing journey from her thighs to her back, where he finally reciprocated her hug. He tucked his head under her chin until his cheek was nestled snugly against her chest. He listened to her heartbeat, savoured the heat that melted into his body from hers, and once again focused on the words that mattered the most.

I love you.

"Isobelle?"

"Yes?"

"D'you think that next time, when I ask you a question, you could keep your answer to somethin' short and simple, like, 'I love you, Spike', or 'Because I'm pissed, Spike', or even 'Because I said so Spike, now shut up and do it'? 'Cause honest to God, 'belle, I don't think I could take another discussion like that anytime soon."

She smiled into that unruly nest of blond curls. "I promised you honesty Spike, not brevity." She gave him a quick kiss. "You not happy with the way our experiment in total honesty worked out?"

He shook his head, leaning back so that he could look her in the eyes. "Not at all. But, it begs the next question on the list."

"Which is?"

"Where do we go from here?"