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You Can Have My Isolation



You can have my isolation
You can have the hate that it brings
You can have my absence of faith
You can have my everything





He sits in the chair, smoking, watching her sleep.

He takes in her long, shining hair; glowing like firelight in the muted coming rays of dawn.

He takes in her soft, pale skin, now bruised and marked. He can see imprints of his fingers on her arm. He knows there are others on her hips, back and ankles, even though he can't see those. They aren't marks of pain, they're marks of passion.

He smiles. She now bears his mark. Two perfect holes, bruised and scabbing over at the moment no doubt, but in a few days, that would be gone, replaced with scar tissue that would never fade, never wash away. She is *his*. No matter what happens, no matter what anyone thinks or says.

She is is, will always be his. And she isn't afraid to show it.

She has so much courage. More even than he, but he'll never tell her that.

After all, what had he ever done but become the image that someone else wanted him to be? He became a killer, as Angelus taught him to be. Calculating and ruthless.

But never cold, to Angelus' disdain. Angelus had viewed the killing as an art, with the millions he slaughtered as his canvas. William had never been able to do that. William didn't want it to be impersonal. William had wanted to kill those deserving of death. William had wanted to study; to become judge, jury and executioner to the lowest of the low.

But no. To Angelus, people were food and presentation was everything.

So William had folded himself up and put himself away, like a suit of clothes. He'd taken off 'William' and donned a new ensemble, Spike. Spikecould be cold, Spike could be heartless, Spike could be anything Angelus wanted him to be.

Spike could dish it out and take it back and not say a word.

Of course, William had always been there, in that closet in his mind, trying to be remembered. Even Spike could only take so much of Angelus before he'd need to rebel. Need to scream, need to shout, need to head out on his own for a few days and let William out of the closet, so to speak.

But then, being the perfectly trained puppy that he was, Spike would go back to Angelus and take his punishment. Punishments that he learned to tolerate, sometimes even enjoy.

Spike had become the perfect lover for Drusilla. For everyone.

He'd been the gentle but passionate romantic that Drusilla needed her white knight to be.

He'd become the strong playmate that was loving but not hurtful that Angelus needed him to be. He'd often wondered what Darla had done to Angelus in their time together that made this need so strong in him. He'd always seemed so afraid of getting hurt. Physically and emotionally. He wanted an equal - almost. Angelus always demanded being the dominant one, but Spike always felt like Angelus needed him to be a little rebellious. So that's what he'd become.

And Darla? Darla had wanted to him to be her pupil. She'd wanted to teach him everything she'd learned in her chosen human profession. And he'd learned his lessons well. He'd gotten to where he could make even Darla cream her knickers with just a look. He didn't remember himself as being anything especially nice to look at when he'd been human. But Darla fawned over his looks. His hair, his eyes, his cheekbones, his hands. Taught him to use every single muscle in his body to fullest advantage.

Because William had been cultured and refined as a human, he was more the sort Darla liked to take with her when she was scheming some rich aristocrat. Spike, being partly William, could walk the walk and talk the talk. He fit in places that Angelus, with his working class background, never could. Spike became, through his cultured tones and his pretty face and his newly acquired skills in being the perfect whore, Darla's accomplice; the handy diversion when one was called for.

But that wasn't who he was now. He wasn't a killer, he wasn't a lover, he wasn't a prostitute. He'd only become all of these things for other people.

Or was he? Maybe he was - is, a bit.

He doesn't know anymore.

He looks over to Red's sleeping body.

What is he then?

'M a neutered vampire with no reason for unliving. Except one.

He's a vampire, therefore a killer, if only by necessity. But it wasn't necessary anymore. Now he gets his food by takeout.

And thanks to Red, no more pig swill.

Bagged isn't warm and alive and pulsing, rushing down his throat; but it's better than pig or cow. So many things are better since Red came into his life.

I don't have to pretend; don't have to be something 'm not.

His whole existence had turned upside down the day he'd been chipped. He was a killer who didn't kill. A lover who didn't love. A whore with no one to satisfy. He had no family, no associates, no one he could talk to, communicate with, discuss where to go or what to do.

So he'd done the only thing he could think to do. And it had all been because of her. She'd shown him compassion when he couldn't bite her. She'd felt sad with him, not for him. She hadn't staked him or called out for the slayer. She'd talked to him and tried to find the reason for the problem.

So he bit the bullet and went to the group of humans who had the most reason to hate him for help. And hate him they did. But they'd stilled helped.

But all in all, he'd lost everything that day. Everything that made him what he thought he was supposed to be. And so he'd become something else again. He'd become bitter and sad and pathetic. He'd sought out their company when the isolation became too unbearable, because he didn't have any other choice. Even Harmony didn't want him when she found out he was chipped. Hell, if he couldn't make it work with Harm, there was no hope of any other demon accepting his condition.

He looks over to the St. Andrew's cross against the wall. He smiles.

And then one day Red had come to bring him some blood and ask for a favor.



flashback




"Spike?"

Spike yawned, stretched and sat up, making sure his nude lower half was covered. He ran his hands over his face and scratched his scalp. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour, Red?" His internal clock told him it was about four thirty in the afternoon. Over two hours until sunset.

Bloody soddin' hell. If I walked in an' woke them up at four thirty am I'd be staked!

He saw her eyes widen at her first glance of his half-naked self and smiled. Darla had taught him so well he must do it without thinking about it.

"Um, uh, um…"

"Don't speak 'geek', Red. Spit it out in the Queen's English."

She looked a little affronted.

Girl has spirit.

"I am not a geek - okay, yeah, well, maybe I am, was! But hey, semi-powerful witch here!"

Spike rolled his eyes and silently chuckled, not wanting to hurt her feelings - too much. "Yeah, right. So, oh powerful and mighty Red, what's with the blood?" He stood, pulling the sheet with him, and reached for it. She held it back. He twitched an eyebrow, "You gonna drink it?"

She conceded defeat and handed it to him. "But there's a catch," she told him.

He threw the packet in the frig and turned back, "There always is."

She was staring at him again. He couldn't resist teasing her a bit. He stretched again, scratched his chest. Her mouth was gaping now.

"See something you like, Red?"

"Huh?"

"Earth to Red. Come in, Red." He carefully pulled the sheet up and around his whole body. As much as he wanted to play with her, he didn't think pushing her would be a good idea. Not this girl. He could set the stage, but he had to let her do the work.

Damn soddin' chip!

Her brain clicked back in. "Giles wants you to come to his place tonight. They've got a lead on the commandos and he wants to know if you saw something inside that lab. Something about a project 314?"

Spike shook his head. "Only things I saw were the inside of a plexiglass cage and the exit sign."

"Still-"

"Don't worry, Red. I'll be there," he assured her.

She was looking around his crypt now, desperate for something, anything else to look at besides…

"What's that?" she said, pointing to a large wooden "X" leaning against the wall. It had heavy chains hanging from the top and bottom with leather cuffs with buckles at the end of each of the chains.

"'S called a St. Andrew's cross, Luv."

Willow looked confused, "A what? A cross? Why do you have a cross in your crypt?" She looked concerned for him. "Is it hurting you? I could take it out… well, drag it out, it looks heavy."

Spike laughed, "No, pet. 'S not hurting me. Well, it's supposed hurt, that's the point of it, but no, you don't have to take it out. It's not that kind of a cross. 'Sides, it's Harm's. She left it."

Willow didn't know where to start, so she started where she always started when she was confused - in the middle.

"Not a cross? But you said it was a 'Saint something'? Do saint's have crosses? I'm Jewish, what do I know? And of course it's supposed to hurt, you're a vampire, crosses are supposed to hurt vampires. I'm not sure why. Why a cross? Why not a Star of David? Or a pentacle? Why would a cross hurt and not other religious symbols? And Harmony? Eww, Spike! You have really bad taste in women, you know that? It looks kind of expensive, why wouldn't she take it with her?" She stopped, catching her breath and he laughed.

"Sorry," she apologised. "None of my business, I know." She turned to leave.

"See you tonight, Luv?" he asked before she got out the door.

She turned and smiled at him, happy that all her babbling hadn't pissed him off. "Yeah, Spike. I'll be there. Seven thirty?" she confirmed.

"Can't wait," he told her and she left.

"I think my taste in women is improving, Luv," he said to the air after the door closed behind her.



end of flashback




Spike's reminiscing stops when he feels her eyes on him.

"Morning, Luv."

She smiles at him, the smile that would have taken away his soul, had he had one.

"You seemed kinda lost there for a minute," she says happily.

He does a slow perusal of her from head to foot.

"Not lost, Luv," he says, standing and walking to her. He lays down by her side and kisses her shoulder, then nips at it with blunt teeth.

"Not lost - Found."


You can have my isolation
You can have the hate that it brings
You can have my absence of faith
You can have my everything
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The authors own nothing. Joss, UPN, WB, etc. own Buffy, the show, the characters, the places, and the backstory. The authors own any original plots.