Disclaimer: Not mine. Although if I could own Spike and *be* Isabel, I'd be a happy camper.
Summary: Spike's in Roswell and a certain girl having a crappy day looks appetizing.
|"Dear Isobel, I hope you're well and what you've done is right/ Oh it's been such Hell, I wish you well, I hope you're safe tonight." --Dido, "Isobel"
Isabel kissed the vampire back instead of pushing him away and running. Her arms were around his neck and she was close enough to feel his lack of a regular heartbeat. His body felt firm, and his lips were cool.
It was exhilarating, better than letting Chris Larkin go up her shirt in 8th grade.
She'd missed being close to someone. To anyone. It was the price to pay for who she was in life--Isabel Evans, the extraterrestrial, and at school--Isabel Evans, the ultra popular, untouchable beauty. She'd been the good girl while Max and Michael risked life and limb for their love stories. Maybe now it was time for *her* to take the risks? God, it felt good to take this one...
Spike's neck was smooth and cold under her fingertips and she played with the closely shaved ends of his soft, white-blond hair, urging his head down. Away from her lips.
"I'm on the menu *now*," she told him softly. The vampire's growl echoed through her skin, the vibrations made her toes curl inside her shoes.
"Funny, Miss Isabel. What if I get food poisoning?" he asked loftily, into her throat. What if? She hadn't thought about that.
"Then we pump your stomach," she suggested, laughing into his shoulder. "Ha bloody ha." Before she could react, he swept his arm under her knees and lifted her up, starting resolutely back towards his car.
"Hey! Let me go!" she demanded, kicking her legs half-heartedly. "This is kidnapping! This is alien abduction!" She was struck with the absurd urge to giggle. She *never* giggled.
"No, its not. Its take-out." The vampire gave her another one of his beautiful grins as he deposited her in the passenger seat of the DeSoto FireFlite. She offered him a lofty, impatient question in return.
"Now what?" "Well, since a feed is out...might as well trade one oral fixation for another," he mumbled as he slid into the driver's seat and rolled down the window. "Fancy a smoke?" he asked with a wicked chuckle.
"A smoke?" she repeated incredulously, with a tinge of disgust. He retrieved an abused hard pack of Camels from an interior pocket and tapped out two.
"Would it besmirch your honor?" he mocked. "I can't fathom that it would kill you." She wasn't about to tell him how she'd lectured Michael last year after catching him with a cheap package of Parliaments behind the Guerin trailer, how she'd made the cigarette disintegrate in his mouth and he'd choked on the disgusting ingredients.
"What the Hell...why not?" She accepted one of the offered coffin nails and held it lightly between her lips as Spike flicked open a Zippo and lit the other end.
"That's a girl." He nodded approval when she didn't cough and lit his own. "See," he murmured through clenched teeth, "the way I see it, a bloke and a chippy got only two things to do, besides the bite, in a car an' I don't ken you're the type to do the more active one on a first encounter."
"How would *you* know?" She exhaled bitter smoke and watched it curl out the window in thin, spiraling, lines. No, she wouldn't cough. She wouldn't flinch. She certainly wouldn't agree with him. She wouldn't give this cocky thing the satisfaction of knowing he had her pegged. It was as good as admitting that she deserved a crappy-assed night working at the CrashDown.
"'Cause I'm old and dead and I know women." Spike shrugged casually and tapped the edge of his cigarette out into the air. "The ones I haven't killed, that is."
"If you know women, then why are you in Roswell alone?" she shot back.
"Shut up, Miss Isabel."
She tapped out ashes and glowered at him with triumph. "Oh, that's right...you can't risk it. Guess you're weak in more than one way."
She waited for him to growl at her, for him to yell, for him to disagree and tell her what to do and where to go. She waited and smoked. It didn't take long to figure out he wasn't going to yell. Because she was right.
He watched her for several seconds in silence. The curve of her cheek was pale, almost translucent, in the lamplight that streamed into the car. Watching her ample chest rise and fall was a separate treat altogether. He consciously mimicked her motions, inhaling and exhaling when she did.
She was right. This luscious little piece of extraterrestrial veal was right. Why was he in Roswell alone? Was he still moping over Dru? Was he bored with Harmony? Really?
The truth was, he was seriously lacking in the un-life department. Kicking up dirt and aliens was an idle excuse to not be in Sunnyhell licking his wounds. Having a cig' with a moody, underaged, waitress was the most interesting thing he'd done of late. It was a glorious, unthreatening, little game that was nothing like the monotony of getting one's ass kicked by the Slayer.
Moments passed. Camels finished and thrown away, they sat together, staring out the painted over windshield at black streaks.
"Spike?" She turned to face him.
"Isabel?" He turned to face her. Their mouths meeting again was the natural conclusion.
He tasted ash and humanity--humanity despite whatever she was. It tasted pure and sweet and foreign. He broke away, morphed into his game face, and snarled.
The connection between them broke and he drew a fang across his lip. Blood erased the taste of her.
"Get out of the car," he said softly, dangerously.
"What?" Her gorgeous brows drew together, confusion clear in her eyes. He reached across her and opened the passenger door.
"Get out of the car or I'll break your pretty neck," he elaborated harshly. Before she could speak again, he shoved at her, and she stumbled out onto the dusty concrete--caught off-guard by his apparent 180.
He could hear her startled gasps for breath, her accelerated pulse. "Thanks for taking my order, Miss Isabel," he whispered into the night as he shut the door and fumbled for his keys.
It was time to leave the desert. Time to go home and be what he was meant to be: a bloodsucking bad ass.
Bits of rock and glass dug into her palms as she crouched on the ground. She knew at least one knee was skinned. The DeSoto peeled out of the parking space, narrowly missing her, and sped down the street.
She watched the red tail lights disappear into the darkness. Several minutes passed before she allowed herself to slowly stagger to her feet and shake off the shock of too many actions and images at once.
"You're welcome, Spike," she said to herself. "Come again soon."
Tomorrow night Liz and Maria would be working their shifts again. The boys would be hanging outm mooning over them, and urging her to go out since she'd been such a good sport.
Everything would be back to normal--tedious and annoying. Isabel touched her lips, wincing as she curled and uncurled her fingers. She stared down at the bloody scrapes on her hands and smiled. *Not quite.*
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