14
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.
Timeline: Post 'Conversations With Dead People'; soon to be more AU.
Rating: R (usually)
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has sent me feedback! Those kind words are much appreciated. It seems to take longer and longer to get these chapters out, due to RL and other inconveniences, and I am grateful for the patience of those who still find themselves interested in the story. There might not be another chapter until the New Year, but I am presently trying to work out an actual plot (amazing, huh?) that will hopefully make writing go a bit more expeditiously.
Thanks again for reading, and Season's Greetings!
Where do we go from here?
The answer to that turned out to be 'not very far'.
Isobelle rolled her shoulders against the pile of pillows stuffed between her back and the headboard, trying to get comfortable. Small threads of tension ran down her spine; her muscles stiff, from being in the same position for too long a time. What she really wanted to do was lie down, stretch herself across the mattress until the pain faded away.
But, she couldn't quite do that when more than half the bed space was taken up with a lazy vampire.
Sprawled on his belly, head resting on top of folded arms at the foot of the bed, Spike lay, mesmerized by the action on the television.
She smiled to herself. Slowly, in the wake of their conversation, they'd started to relax with one another. It had been a relief - for both of them - to finally put into words, the feelings and expectations that had gone, unexamined, for far too long. Polite caution gave way to casualness. The eternally unspoken 'should I, could I, may I,'reverted to the ever understood 'it's alright', with word, thought and deed.
So, despite the ache in her back, she did little more than squirm against the thin pillows, unwilling to do anything that would break the peace and contentment of the moment.
There would be time enough for that later, when she had to tell him about Buffy's morning visit.
She squinted at the TV screen. Some tele-marathon was on, and while Spike was engrossed, she was more than a bit bored. And lost, regarding the plot.
"Spike? Tell me again why we're watching this?"
He cast a glance at her over his shoulder, warmth and amazement evident in his eyes.
"You're joking right? Isobelle, this is the single greatest examination of life, of love, of joy an' misery…"
"Yeah, okay. I got it…"
"You 'got it'? Love, Shakespeare would've killed to write of such passions, such relationships…"
"Okay," she repeated, giving his leg a nudge. "I hear you."
With a smirk, he returned his attention to the TV. A few moments passed in silence, Isobelle doing her best to become involved with what was unfolding on the screen. Eventually, she sighed, nudging him again.
"Spike?"
"Hm?"
"Who's that again?"
"Pacey."
"Ah."
Eventually the closing credits rolled. Spike found the remote and clicked off the TV. Curling onto his side, he sent her an apologetic look.
"Didn't care for it, did you?"
"What? No, it was… it was…" Affecting seriousness, she finally said, "They were all very attractive."
He laughed. "C'mere."
Grateful to at least be able to stretch the knots out of her back, Isobelle was more than happy to comply. She took her spot beside him, close enough that her socked feet brushed against his still bare ones.
"Not the way you wanted to spend the afternoon?" he asked, fingering the remote. He looked up at her through thick, black lashes, his smile still in place, making his eyes shine.
She arched her back, sighing in relief as her spine popped back into alignment. "I think after the morning we had, we deserved a little mindless down time. It was nice." She relieved him of the remote, giving him her hand instead. Their fingers intermingled, his skin pleasantly cool against hers. "This is nice," she amended. "I've missed it."
"Me too," he murmured, tracing the pattern on the comforter with their entwined fingers. "Missed all of it."
She grinned. "Especially the free cable, right?"
He brought her hand to his mouth, lips brushing lightly over her knuckles. "Most definitely," he agreed sagely. She could feel his smile against her skin. "But this is higher up on the list."
Her eyes drifted closed in silent assent of his touch. Small kisses dappled the back of her hand, moving in a slow path to her wrist. With one simple twist of his hand, her palm fell open beneath his lips, earning a low sigh from Isobelle.
"Tell me when to stop, when I've gone too far…"
He moved her hand down to his hip before shifting his own to the small of her back. Her fingers grasped at the denim belt loops on his jeans as his mouth found hers with a hesitant kiss. The simplicity of it made her ache. He was being so careful…
Leaning in, she kissed him back. "I love that you can be such a sap," she gently teased, hoping he'd relax more. "And it's okay." Giving his belt loop a tug, she urged him closer, until their thighs touched and she could comfortably drape her calf over his leg. Reassured, he smiled and resumed his exploration of her mouth, his pace still slow, still soft, but imbued with more passion, more confidence. It was comforting. Familiar. As he grew bolder, seasoning his kisses with tiny nips and strokes of his tongue, she let herself slide into that warm familiarity, let herself reconnect to the wants and feelings that had been ignored for so long.
She eased over onto her back, bringing him with her. It felt so good: the weight of his body on hers, the growing confidence of his kisses… she waited for alarm bells to ring, for common sense to raise its voice and remind her this might be - was - too much, too soon, but at that moment, she really didn't care. Her hands traveled up his arms and shoulders, her fingers skirting the un-gelled hair at the nape of his neck. He sighed as she carded through the unruly waves, working her slim fingers around the curls, grasping tiny fistfuls in eager response to his own mouth and hands. He nuzzled her neck while moving a hand to the hem of her shirt. Tugging it free of her jeans, he gave the soft skin of her belly a stroke of his palm. She shivered at the feel of his hand on her bare skin, her fingers twitching in response to the delightful sensation, her body…
"OW!"
Spike reared back suddenly, lurching into an unsteady seated position on the edge of the bed, carefully rubbing the back of his head, where he had hit it the night before. "Dammit, that hurt."
Kneeling beside him, she winced in sympathy. "Sorry. Didn't know it was still bothering you. You want me to get some ice?"
"Only if you're gonna put it in a glass with some bourbon. Otherwise… no, I'm fine. It's healing, but it stings a bit. It's going away now."
"Good."
Silence stretched between them, growing more strained with each passing second. With the moment rapidly fading, Isobelle realized, with much chagrin, how close she'd come to…
She stopped that thought in its tracks. There was nothing to be shy about, nothing to regret. She had to remember that this was something she wanted. As much as Buffy had seeded doubts about Spike - and even about why he was with her - her feelings were real. And from the way he responded, she had a good inclination that his were sincere as well.
Uh-oh.
She'd nearly forgotten.
Buffy.
"Well," Spike said, his voice seeming quite loud after the extended silence, "I think that definitely put us a few paces past 'square one'."
She smiled. "Well, it's not quite a dot on the horizon yet, but yeah, we're well beyond it now."
"Far enough for me to wonder… or to ask…"
His jaw tightened in frustration. "Feelin' like an idiot for even bringin' it up…"
She took his hand into hers for reassurance. "You know you can ask me anything." Seeing him like this bothered her. She knew, from the way he was acting that, whatever it was he wanted to discuss, he had the expectation that she wouldn't be receptive. And her constant reminders that he could be free with his thoughts and requests were probably not helping him feel any more secure about it.
He sighed, tightening his grip on her hand. "I wanted to know where I was sleeping tonight."
His question didn't surprise her. If anything, she was relieved he'd broached the subject. Wary of wanting too much too fast, she realized that whether he shared her bed, slept on the settee, or returned to the small room in the corner, ultimately had nothing to do with the mending of their relationship. And, at the risk of sounding needy herself, she wanted him with her.
But, she would let the decision rest with Spike.
She returned the squeeze of his hand. "You can sleep wherever you want. I told you earlier, I'm doing my best to learn to trust you again. To do that, I can't be making all the choices about what happens with us - if there really is an 'us', that is."
He didn't reply, and seemed to be giving her words some thought. A lot of thought as, once again, silence filled the room. She reminded herself that that was a good thing; that any snap decisions, made in the heat of the moment - especially considering the one that had just transpired - wouldn't be wise ones. Not that it wouldn't have been good to hear him immediately say that he wanted to be with her.
The all-encompassing quiet was starting to make her fidget, her free hand migrating to the wrinkled comforter, picking away at the tiny bits of lint that dotted the faded cotton. She was so engrossed in her distraction that she jumped when he finally did speak.
"Thank you. I… that is, for letting me…" He sighed, shaking his head with an amused grin, looking - relieved. "Thanks."
Dropping her hand, he rose from the bed and went over to the mini-fridge, examining their small cache of supplies. "It's getting nigh on suppertime. I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. And from the looks of this, unless you can make a meal out of a $4.00 bag of pretzels… where did you put the carry-out menus?"
"I think they're on the coffee table."
He was right. It was getting late; she didn't need to look at the curtained window to know the brocade would already be dulled by the nearly set sun. Time was running short. Buffy would make her presence felt soon, which meant that, for Isobelle, it was now or never…
Spike sorted through the pile of shiny, wrinkled inserts. "Chinese… Chinese… pizza… hm. Didn't know this place had a Greek restaurant…" He waved the selections at her. "What'll it be?"
"I'm not that hungry yet. I'll decide later." She shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, drawing her knees up under her chin as she watched him retrieve a container of blood from the fridge. "Spike, there's something we need to discuss… something I have to tell you…"
He stopped in mid-pour. "If you're going to confess to being a blanket-stealer, I already know that, and I'm taking that into consideration when making my decision."
"I'm serious."
The plastic jar was set on top of the fridge with a dull thud. Setting the half-filled mug into the microwave, he programmed the timer. "Serious 'bout what?"
"Buffy."
He sent her a quick glance, then trained his eyes on the blinking numerals of the microwave. "What about her?"
"She came by this morning. Very upset. Angry, actually."
"That's nothin' new."
She could feel the tension rising in the room, could see the stiffness in Spike's back, how the muscles of his jaw twitched as he tried to control whatever emotions were running through him. But this had to be done. She'd rather him hear the story from her.
Swallowing, she pressed on. "She wanted to talk to you, but I wouldn't let her wake you up…"
The microwave beeped. He popped open the door, allowing the iron-rich smell of heated blood to thread its way through the room, but he made no move to retrieve his meal. "Talk about what?"
"Why don't you come back over here and…"
The microwave door closed with a none-too-gentle slam. She jumped, wide eyes fixed on Spike as he slowly turned to face her. Grim lines etched his brow.
"Talk. About. What?"
Hugging her knees to her chest, she took a breath, and started.
"It was about something that happened last night…"
The First stirred, shaken out of its reverie, in the dim corner of the hotel room, sparked to interest upon hearing Buffy's name. Mistakenly thinking it would be good fun to listen to this pathetic pair whine and angst over their sad little entanglement, the reality of watching them simper and pet one another had been a crashing bore.
But now that the dark girl had mentioned the Slayer, things were definitely bound to get more exciting…
It was the docks this time.
Another nameless girl runs for her life, thin shoes thudding in staccato panic on the sea-worn boards of the darkened port. Three figures in black, flowing robes keep a cruel pace at her heels. They can easily overtake their prey - end the pursuit right then and there - but they want her worn down: by the chase, by the fear, by the unshakable truth that she will soon die. So they continue the hunt, their scarred, unseeing eyes unmoved by the terror in hers, flashed at them as she wastes precious seconds looking over her shoulders, long black hair whipping in the wind. Her fine Asian features belie the fear she feels. Only her eyes give her away.
This one doesn't even have the sense to fight and when she finally stumbles over the detritus of the docks, landing in a twisted heap amongst slimy coils of thick hemp rope, she does nothing but cower and pant as they crowd around her. Only one Bringer unsheathes his knife. He lets her see it, taunts her with it, lets the dirty yellow moonlight glint off the blade, before driving it through her chest. She buckles at the impact, her mouth twitching around the silent scream forever lost in her throat.
One more down…
Buffy woke with a start, her choked cry bringing Willow into the living room in a rush. Kneeling next to the sofa, she sent her friend a sympathetic look.
"Another nightmare?"
Palms pressed hard into tired eyes, Buffy tried to rid her mind of the last watery images of the dream. "Every time I go to sleep, I see another girl die. And there's more out there, Will. I don't want to close my eyes anymore, don't want to see…" She pushed herself up to the edge of the sofa, shaking her head. "I just… I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
Willow sat next to her. "And Giles hasn't got anything on what these dreams might be about?"
"Giles hasn't mastered the skill of returning my phone calls, so that's a big 'No' on the info front." Off Willow's look, she sighed. "Yeah, I know, he's 'Big Council Meetings Guy' now. But this is important. You'd think it would get at least one 'Gracious, Buffy, I'm flummoxed' from him, instead of the big silence."
"Maybe we should try and work it out ourselves. Pretend I'm Giles. Describe the dream to me."
"Will, we've been over it before…"
Grabbing a pencil and scrap of paper from the remnants of the coffee table, Willow persisted. "Details please."
Details were the last thing Buffy wanted to focus on. Between the nightmares, the horrific events of last night, and the disturbing possibility that Spike might be killing again, she was feeling more than stressed. But she knew Willow would not be deterred.
"Three guys. Tall. Long, dark robes. Pale. No eyes. Really big knife…"
"What does it look like?"
Buffy thought. "Blade was kinda curved. And, there might have been some writing on it. Or the handle. It's all kind of a blur…"
"Anything else?"
"Another dead girl."
Willow's pencil stilled. "Oh."
"Yeah. Nothing new to add."
"Speak for yourself."
Both girls looked towards the front door. Xander helped Anya out of her coat and tossed it, along with his, over the stairway banister. Buffy practically bolted off the sofa, reaching the pair before they could make it into the living room.
"What did you find out?"
Anxious green eyes locked onto Xander. He shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny, trying to ignore the small spark of - hope? desperation? - he saw reflected in them.
"Nothing good, Buff. We went to The Bronze. A couple other places. Most of the people we talked to remembered seeing Spike there, on and off, for the past few weeks."
"So… so what? We already knew that. I mean, we knew he went out… that he goes out. That doesn't prove…"
He interrupted her. "He'd arrive alone, but never left that way. Door guy at one place said every night he showed, someone different would be with him when he left. And before you start thinking mistaken identity - we're talking Spike here. He doesn't exactly blend."
"You're not kidding."
Picking her way through what was left of the destruction, Dawn emerged from the general direction of the still-intact kitchen. "He'd stand out at a Billy Idol concert. And that would really mean a lot more to me if I knew who Billy Idol was…"
Buffy crossed her arms over her chest. "Were you out? You didn't tell me you were going out."
Mimicking her sister's posture, Dawn sighed. "Hard to tell you anything when you're sleeping on the sofa. And chill - Willow knew I was going over to Janice's."
"For real?"
"Yes, for real! And, actually, as part of this stupid Spike thing." Shedding her jacket, she moved past Buffy and went towards the sofa, sitting down with a crunchy thud on the cushions.
"See, Janice's sister's boyfriend's best friend's cousin works the concession stand at the movie theatre, where one of the missing girls went…uh… missing. So, I showed her a picture of Spike and she recognized him right away. Said he called her 'Love' and tipped her a dollar for putting extra fake butter goo on his popcorn."
Xander shook his head. "That ties it Buff. Two for two. Three all, if you count your dust pile from last night."
Inwardly, Buffy winced. Xander had barely managed to keep the cold, self-satisfied edge out of his voice, but what she'd heard of it cut her to the quick, his silent, months-repressed I told you so's now creeping into his words. He didn't have to say another thing to issue his challenge: what would she do next?
Clearing a space on the coffee table, she took a seat across from Dawn. "The popcorn girl, she's sure it was Spike?"
Dawn made a face. "What part of 'recognized him from a picture' didn't quite do it for you?" Exasperated at the doubt in her sister's expression, she pulled a creased photo from her jeans pocket. "She picked him out in less than a second. Said it was him for sure - except without all the lumps and purple marks."
It was a picture from her last birthday party. Spike and Tara, playing cards, with Clem not so subtly looking over Tara's shoulder to see her hand. No one had bothered to ask him about the bruises on his face, or his still nearly-swollen shut eye. Not even Tara, who, that night, Buffy had caught sending more than one sadly curious look in his direction.
She stared at the photo. The others were silent, waiting for instructions. But how could she know what was the right thing to do? The evidence told one story. The chip in Spike's head supported another explanation - that the evidence was wrong.
Which to believe?
Which did she want to believe?
What do I want?
Anya's voice broke the silence.
"Not to press the point, but if we're going to do something, we should do it soon. The sun is down, and if Spike really is being bloody on a regular basis again, he's got a ready-made victim in Sue. So, do we wait for him to conveniently kill the outsider, or is it weapons time?"
Buffy's fist curled tightly around the photo.
It would always be this way. Her duty, coming before her conscience - before her wants. She'd wavered once before, and others had paid the price: the benefit of the doubt was a luxury she - and countless others - couldn't afford right now.
Her weapons chest was only a few steps away, partially hidden by the remains of a broken chair. Xander had sworn he could fix it. A little glue, a few dowels - it would be good as new. Lifting the carved top, she rummaged inside until she found what she sought. Pulling a lacquered stake from the trunk, she knew what she needed to do.