147 Days by Firefly

The world had ended.

Or at least, he hoped so.

Spike had staggered over to the stairs to find Dawn, just as they all had, but before he could reach her he saw it. The body. The Slayer, Buffy, was sprawled spread-eagle out on the ground, her arms draped out and her hair askew. He had known it, known it from the moment he saw her take the plunge. She had dived off the scaffold and into the portal, still a vision of beauty and grace until the end. But the moment the portal had closed, sucking in most of the demonic creatures it had let out, he knew that she would not survive. That she was dead. Not even a Slayer could live through a fifty-foot plummet to the ground into such a large amount of mystical energy.

Still, knowing it didn’t help. He saw her lifeless body spread out on the ground, and a new emotion he had never felt before ripped through him. It was as if someone was tearing his heart into pieces, as if his insides were caving in. And…he cried. Spike fell to the ground and cried. It partly had to do with the pain in his left leg, but mostly it was because he had failed. He had not protected Dawn, and in turn he had lost Buffy.

"Oh, god." The witch was the first to speak. "Oh god, oh god, oh god--" Willow began to sob into Tara’s arms, losing all composure. Tara embraced her tightly and spoke in soft, reassuring tones. Tara was obviously the pillar of the two. She held them together, kept herself from falling apart. The strong one.

Giles stood in complete shock, unmoving, his face exposing his heartbreak. Spike had never seen the Watcher this way; he had always been collected and poised. He had always known what to do. But now even the Englishman had no idea of what to do. Xander looked on somberly, holding Anya close to his chest, his arms wrapped firmly around her. Spike’s leg…something was wrong with it…it wouldn’t move. A blinding pain raged through his body, a darkness threatening to wash over him. He closed his eyes, taking shallow ragged breaths, feeling the haunting thoughts in his mind closing in on him…

"Dawn!" Tara’s voice broke the silence. Spike’s eyes opened automatically to see the girl descending down the stairs, holding her sides in pain. She wasn’t crying or upset as she walked unsteadily toward her sister’s body. Spike had the urge to snatch her and take her away, to pull her away from the body. Tara rushed forward, leaving Willow to stand on her own. The witch looked so lost without her other half. She just stood there, sobbing, hugging herself and shivering. Tara touched Dawn’s elbow gently, stopping her from getting too close.

"Dawn, honey, come on, let’s go." Tara gave Dawn the smallest of smiles. The girl didn’t respond, but she didn’t protest as she was led from the scene. Spike sighed in relief, grateful that Dawn had been whisked away. She shouldn’t have to see Buffy that way; no one should have had to see Buffy that way.

But he had.

He was numb right now, but he knew he would feel it later. And it would hurt like hell.

Right then he gave into the blackness that was fighting to take him over, so he wouldn’t have to feel the pain anymore.

When he finally came to, he didn’t know where he was.

Spike opened his eyes, focusing them on the cemented ceiling. One of his eyes felt heavier than the other. He let out a long, low groan, but all it did was make his jaw ache.

"Spike?" It was a familiar voice that he recognized from somewhere. He tried to sit up, but every muscle screamed at him not to move, so he sank back down defeated. Footsteps resounded on the hard floor and came closer to him. He twisted his head over just enough to see Tara walking over.

"Hey, Spike," she greeted softly. She smiled kindly at him, holding forth a maroon mug with a straw sticking out of it. Spike responded with another groan, followed by a loud sigh.

"Mmph." He forced himself to roll over. Pain, it filled him from every angle. There was no escaping it. Tara’s smile dissolved, and she put forward the mug, poking the straw into his mouth. Spike automatically drank it in. The demon in him jumped to life, and he felt himself shift into game face as he greedily sucked the blood through the straw. When Tara looked away, Spike forced the demon in him back down, leaving the cup still half full. He was suddenly ashamed of his vampire appearance. He shook his head a little, switching back to his human face. Tara looked at him through the corner of her eye.

"Feel any better?" she asked sincerely. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"What…what happened?" The words felt funny, slurred maybe. "I mean…I remember…the fight. Just…afterwards I can’t--it’s kind of a blur."

Tara sat down on the edge of the coffin and began to explain. Spike found out that Giles and Xander had dropped him off at his crypt. This time he hadn’t just been thrown in the doorway and left to fend for himself; they had taken the care to place him on top of his coffin so he could rest. For the past two days, Tara had been stopping by to feed him. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness the entire time.

"The others…Dawn, Anya…" His voice trailed off. "How are they? Is the Nibblet okay?"

"She’s fine," Tara answered quickly. "They’re fine. Anya had a concussion, a few bruises, but nothing too serious. Dawn…well, it’s been hard. But she’s been doing okay, considering."

"Oh." Spike coughed violently, trying to sit up. It made him too dizzy, so he laid back down tiredly.

"You should probably get some rest," Tara suggested. "There’s a bottle of whiskey right here, so if you’re up to it you can have some. Giles said it would kind of help the pain, I guess." She stood up and began to walk away.

"Wait!" He sat up again, ignoring the lightheadedness. "Just…one more question."

"Sure." She looked at him expectedly.

"So…it’s over?" he asked faintly. "No more Glory? No more impending apocalypse?"

"Nope, not this week," she replied gently, smiling warmly at him. "Take care, Spike."

Tara turned and walked out the door, letting it swing close behind her.

When he woke up again, his entire body hurt ten times worse.

His rib, the bone was poking through the skin…he could feel it bleeding, feel the artificial life leaving his body. The witch had wrapped it up with a bandage, along with about five or so more deep cuts on his body, but it didn’t stop the pain. It took him awhile to remember where he was, what had happened. He didn’t know anything. All he knew was that he needed a cigarette. Yeah, he needed a fucking cigarette, that was it.

"They wouldn't let me help." Dawn’s petulant voice broke through to him. "I mean, I know her fashion sense better than anyone. I've stolen her clothes often enough."

Spike rolled onto his back, staring up at the cemented ceiling, trying to block out the sound of Dawn's voice. He couldn’t look at her; her eyes were the same color as Buffy’s. And she was babbling like a goddamn idiot, sharing all the funeral preparation details that Spike would rather gargle holy water than hear, but he wasn’t about to tell her to shut the hell up. The funeral was scheduled for two hours after sunset, just long enough for Willow and The Poof to drive back from L.A. That would give him plenty of time to get good and intoxicated before the event. No way was he facing it sober. No fucking way.

"And Willow was all like 'but Buffy hated that dress, she'd never forgive us if we buried her in that,' and then Tara just said 'for God's sake, Willow, just pick out a dress already' and you should have seen the look on Will's face. She looked like Tara'd slapped her or something. And then she started just screaming and crying and stuff started flying all over the room like in that movie Poltergeist. I figured it was time to bail."

She took a sip of her first beer, wincing at the taste, as he finished draining his sixth. He tossed the bottle behind the coffin. They would kick his ass if they knew he had been giving the Nibblet alcohol hours before her older sister was to be buried.

"Can I have a cigarette?" Dawn asked abruptly, her voice a mixture of apprehension and eagerness. She looked anxious, as if he might refuse or even reprimand her. He sat up, taking one from the pack, and then tried to light it. She watched as he fumbled with the lighter a few moments before taking it from him and lighting it herself. He watched silently as she popped one out of the carton and handed it to him. He held it weakly until she lit it for him.

She coughed slightly at the first drag, then smoked in silence, watching the smoke curl around her fingers. "I feel like I shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what?"

"Be here. Like I was made to open a door that's closed and locked for good." She stared at the wall and blinked hard. "Kept alive to save a world that doesn't need me and wouldn't notice if I was gone."

He took an inhale of his own and then stubbed it out on the concrete. "I know how you feel."

He hated funerals. Couldn’t stand them.

He couldn’t remember his own, of course, but he could remember waking up in the cramped space, gasping for breath and only able to breathe in the dead air of the coffin, stale and sour. He hadn’t realized that breathing was no longer necessary, not until he had clawed his way out of the coffin and through the damp dirt up to the solid ground. There had been a burly Irishman sitting on his headstone, straddling it with his legs, smoking a cigar and grinning at him.

"She was going to meet you here," he had explained, "but she forgot."

They always forgot.

((You taste like ashes))

He fucking hated funerals. As if remembering human life was something important. Recognizing death as if it was something monumental. Bollocks. Fucking melodramatic humans. Just part of the process, that’s all. He’d get through. Only a quick stop, and then there'd be alcohol waiting for him back at the crypt.

Whatever movie-of-the-week image of Buffy's funeral he might have cultivated in his mind, the event itself proved to be something of a disappointment. He kept on the edge of the group, hiding in the shadows, chain-smoking, while Angel stood next to the casket as if it was his God-given right. That was enough to piss Spike off from the get-go; silly Spike, to think he had any rights in this matter when he'd never even fucked the lady in question before conveniently leaving town. No, it certainly wasn't supposed to turn out this way. In one final, humiliating display of bad taste, they got into a fistfight at her graveside following the funeral.

He wasn’t too clear on who had started it. Too little sleep, too little blood, too much tequila had left him too worn down to notice, or even care, for that matter. When he sobered up, much later, he remembered what had set him off. Angel had said he’d had no right. No right to have been there when it happened, and no right to be there now. And Spike wished it were true. Wished that it had been Angel, instead, on that tower.

Angel wouldn't have fucked up.

And he realized, of course, that the fucker had a point, that he had no sodding place there. But he'd be damned if he was gonna stand there and listen to that bloody wanker say so when he had been a hundred miles away when it happened. It was a really fucking bad idea, he knew, but couldn't bring himself to care. Kicking Angel's ass--or getting his ass kicked by Angel, whichever it was--made him feel alive for the first time in five days.

He kept expecting Red to do her "separate" bit again, but she stared right through them both as if they weren't even there. It’s as if she’d given up trying to fix everything. He punched Xander in the nose when he and some scrawny, mini-Giles with spectacles attempted to pry the two vampires apart and was rewarded with a instant splitting headache to supplement the black eye, and ribs cracked for the third time in two weeks. He could hear Dawn weeping hysterically in the background.

((Not now, Spike, *please* not now))

Not now. Not while it was so inappropriate, so fucking inconvenient, and she was oh so sacrosanctly dead. And he never had wanted this, to be the one expected to behave in front of the children. He had killed his parents and siblings well over a century ago and he didn’t want to be Dawn's big brother now. He couldn't stand to be around them anymore, to look into living, breathing faces marked with stupid regret, while the only one who really had meant anything to him besides the Nibblet was buried under the bloody ground. Fucking wankers. He wanted out, but he had made a fucking promise, hadn’t he? Damn idiot.

"He's sorry," Cordelia said, rubbing mascara tear tracks from her cheeks with perfectly manicured fingertips. "He won't say so, but he is. He feels bad about what happened."

And Spike wasn't sure if she meant what happened that night, or everything that had happened for the last hundred and twenty years, because none of it would have happened if he’d been allowed to live his meaningless existence as a pathetic human, but it hardly mattered anymore. In the car, the ex-Watcher mopped blood off of Angel's upper lip.

He didn’t deserve comfort. Neither of them did, but fuck it.

"It’s always something with that one," he reflected, shuffling a cigarette out of his pack. He stuck it in his mouth and somehow managed to light it. His eyes focused down his nose as he watched the end of the cigarette burn. He held out the pack to Cordelia, who stood next to him.

"Yeah, guess it is," she agreed. "Guess that’s how it’s got to be." She plucked a cigarette from him and leaned over as he lit it for her. He watched as she took a deep drag, her eyes fluttering close. He felt strange to be around her, to be around one of Buffy’s friends who he had probably at one point or another tried to kill. And then he knew, he knew that Angel was right. He didn’t have a right to be there. He shouldn’t have been there.

((Kill her. Kill her, Spike. Kill her for me?))

((I’ll dance with you pet, on the Slayer’s grave.))

Half curious, he looked around for someone to dance with. Someone to rejoice with. A long time ago he had wanted this day to come. Not anymore.

“There’s nothing in this town,” Cordelia suddenly mused, tapping the cigarette so the ashes fell to the ground. “Nothing but cemeteries and dead people.”

“Suppose so,” he replied quietly, watching Willow and Tara shepherd Dawn into a car. Xander and Anya were standing by theirs, and if he wasn’t mistaken, seemed to be arguing over something. Giles stood over the grave, eyes vacant, murmuring inaudible words to himself. Or maybe to Buffy. He didn’t know.

“But I mean, more in this place than others,” she continued. “Everyone here just sits. And waits. Waits to die. It’s such…bullshit. Y’know?”

“Maybe.” He glanced over at her, and suddenly he wondered briefly if she missed Buffy. Missed gossiping between classes and sipping frappachinos and dancing together at The Bronze, whatever the fuck they did together as teenagers. Of course she misses Buffy, he reminded himself. Stupid, idiotic human emotions make sure of that.

“You’ll figure it out one day,” she told him. “You’ll realize that getting the fuck away from here is the smartest thing anyone can do.”

After she said that, something seized him from inside all of a sudden, and all he wanted was for this to be over, because he didn’t fucking belong there. But then, when was the last time he had felt like he belonged? It hurt his head too much to think about it, and not because of the chip. But if he could leave, if he could sleep through the rest of the night and into the next, that would be Number Six. And Six would be new to him. That was worth something, right?

It had to be.

He wondered what it would be like to follow, to go to Los Angeles. Take refuge with a Grandsire who wasn't any less dead or grieving than he, and they could take their pain out on each other in spades and the hating would feel good, like something sharp and clean, like blood that flows in bright red trickles and never dries in dark brown patterns the way it does on concrete. Like something that still made sense. In the car, Angel angrily shoved Wesley and his handkerchief away, and Spike sighed, tossing aside his cigarette. He wished he could be like Angel, pushing love and affection away with a martyr's complexion. He wished he could walk away from love, let it slip away quietly, hardly causing a stir. Surely it must be easier to live that way, to love that way. But he couldn't. Spike reached out with both hands, grasping anything remotely resembling love with greedy claws, and pulled it tight to his chest, snarling at anyone who attempted to take it away. It had always been that way, and Spike knew he wouldn't go where he wasn’t wanted. He’d already died once this month.

"Go home, Cordelia."

“So that’s it, huh? After everything, you’re just giving up on her?”

Zoom out to reveal how fucked up your life is: You’re a defanged, castrated vampire standing in the Hellmouth's local one-stop grocery store with the dead Slayer's best friend's recently un-brain sucked girlfriend, arguing about your responsibility toward a teenager who doesn't technically exist.

He should have fucking stayed in Prague.

“It’s not like that,” he replied, fumbling with the two paper bags full of alcohol and cigarettes. He didn’t have a preference for the alcohol--he just grabbed as much whiskey and tequila as he could afford, because it was the only thing that could ease the pain. Emotional and physical. The cigarettes on the other hand had to be Camels. He never had cared before; it was usually Marlboros, they had an okay taste. But he’d heard it somewhere a few days ago that Camels would kill you the fastest, and he’d automatically switched.

Not like he could get any deader, anyway.

“She asks about you all the time,” the Pixie went on. “She thinks you blame her for what happened. No wonder she feels that way, after you totally blow her off. Us off.”

What the hell do you care? he wanted to shout. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to cause another scene, not like the Angel fiasco. He knew better than that by now.

“So, do you? Blame her?”

Spike didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh at her or spit in her face. Because, you know, of the sick irony of it all.

“I can’t. I just can’t.” Can't go back to the Summers house, full of dead memories of dead women who gave him axe-blows to the head and pipe organs to the spine. Can't go back to that house where he drank hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows and stole cashmere sweaters. Just can't.

“I know that you…loved her. That she meant a lot to you.” Tara’s voice softened, and her hard frown faltered. “The others don’t think so, but I do. But by staying away from Dawn--all that is doing is reinforcing what they believe. That you’re just a selfish monster.”

((I know I’m a monster…but you treat me like a man.))

Somehow that got to him, and he had to look away for a few moments, his throat tightening. God, what the hell had happened to him? What had he become?

“You know that she would have wanted you to. To take care of her. For all of us to take care of her.” Tara’s voice was strained, and then he looked at her, realizing she was holding back her grief. That she had been holding back her grief this whole time.

((I’m counting on you to protect her))

((till the end of the world))

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. “Fine, fine.”

And thus became a reluctant quasi-member of the fucking Scooby Gang.

“You know, you of all people shouldn’t be complaining about this.”

Xander shoved his way through the cluttered basement of The Magic Box. He kicked a spool of wire out of the way and glared at Spike. It seemed that was all Xander did these days, glare. Especially at Spike.

((Spike, I can't help myself. I love you.))

“I just don’t get why we have to find the goddamn thing.”

((Should I start this program over?))

They’d found the body of it the other day, a tangle of wires and whatnot. Now they just had to find the head. That reminded him of how they had all returned to the tower, minus Dawn, to search the wreckage for it. No one remembered if it had been brought back to the house or not. Giles found a clump of blonde hairs in one pile of rubble, but they couldn’t distinguish which Buffy it had come from. Spike remembered seeing where the portal had once been and stopping there. He had envisioned the portal closing, Buffy falling to the hard ground, her head cracking on the solid concrete. He had imagined patterns of fluid spilling out from her fractured skull, kind of like fucked-up Rorschach ink blots that didn’t want to be interpreted.

((Should I start this program over?))

When she hit the ground, she was already dead. Willow reiterated that to him--to all of them--over and over. The mystical energy had been what had killed her, not the fall. Yet that didn’t mean anything to him. It didn’t help. He’d still seen it, seen her fall to the ground, so hard that she had bounced. And only if he’d been quicker, stronger, faster, he could have caught her before she fell. And they could have been sure.

((Should I start this program over?))

Xander pawed diligently through a heap of scrap cardboard and metal, his teeth grinding and eyes narrowing. Spike turned to one of the shelves and browsed through it distractedly.

“You know we need it,” Xander told him stubbornly.

“The hell we do!” Spike stopped and forced himself to keep his rage in check.

A brief moment of silence followed as Xander regained composure.

“We can’t do this without her,” he explained plaintively, firmly, and Spike knew he wasn’t talking about the robot anymore.

“Found it.” A quiet voice broke their arguing. Dawn stood behind them, cradling the head in her arms. “Ready to go home?”

Giles had that look about him.

Spike had recognized it last year with Captain Cardboard; it was the look people got right before hopping off like a skittish rabbit. Angel had done it, Riley had done it; he should have assumed that Giles would leave, too. Buffy seemed to have that affect on the male species. At least Giles had the decency to wait until the girl was buried in the ground.

It was another night in Sunnyhell--chasing down another vampire in the cemetery. Scoobies, patrolling, it had become a way of life for Spike by now. The suppressed rage he was forced to keep inside of him could be set free on patrol, allowing him to attack demon after demon, killing each one as if it would save her. No one commented on his all-out fighting style. He figured they thought he had always fought that way. But he hadn’t; he had used to have fun with it. He had used to like to dance with his prey for a little while, before rushing in for the attack. But out here it was all business, no time for playing. He found little joy in it anymore anyway.

This time the vamp was twice his size, and it was an all-or-nothing brawl, with Spike pinned to the ground. But neither of them had a weapon, because there was really no fucking point in two vampires trying to kill each other without a stake, which is the real reason that vamps don't attempt to fight to the death very often. Because it's all a big damn waste of time. So it was all punching and kicking and clawing and each trying to break the other's neck, when suddenly his hands were full of dust. He was still being held down to the ground by the Buffybot, who was straddling him.

“I like this position best,” she commented chirpily, stake in hand and a triumphant smile glowing on her face. “But I have many others, too. Would you like to try them out, Spike?”

He closed his eyes against the wave of nausea that hit him. When he opened them he could see the others out of the corner of his eyes, standing in stunned silence, watching in horror.

“Get off me,” he growled in a revolted tone, unable to look at her.

“You can make me get off you if really want me to,” she told him cheerily. “And I like it when you make me do things, Spikey.”

Her expression hadn’t changed, her eyes devoid of any hurt or understanding. How could he ever had thought of this--thing as Buffy’s equivalent? I can't do this, he thought, panic rising in his chest. Oh my God, I can't do this, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight and I just can't.

"Get the fuck off me," he snapped, and the Bot blinked in confusion. The Scoobs look sickened and horrified--all but one. And then it dawned on Spike. Willow hadn't fixed the bot, hadn't even attempted to fix the bot, and she did so on purpose. Because she was making sure he got what he paid for.

He was being punished.

"Oh Spike, you know I love it when you--"

He could feel the rage and fury threatening to burst inside of him even before Willow rushed forward to switch off the Bot at the nape of her neck. The Bot's eyes fluttered closed and her head sagged to one side. He shoved her off of his lap in one swift movement, sending her flying, and she clattered beside him in a heap of stiff plastic limbs. He sat up slowly, fighting tears. The others were stunned into silence and Willow looked panicked, terrified of what she had just allowed to happen.

"I'm sorry," she babbled, "I'm sorry, I didn't--"

The next thing he knew, he felt his fist slamming into Willow’s jaw, a loud crack resounding from the hit. And it felt good, good to know that he wasn’t all gone, that there was some part of him still inside this dead shell. He would be able to look at her the following few days, see the patterns of faded blue and purple, and know that he had put that there. That he had left some kind of mark.

Xander lunged forward automatically, moving to shove him to the ground, but Spike was already there. His head felt as if it would explode, and he curled up in the grass, his finger ripping at the blades in pain. That didn’t stop Xander from tackling him and getting in a few good punches. Finally Giles yanked the kid off of him. If Anya had been there, she would have been near hysterics, but she was back watching the Bit. Tara rushed to Willow‘s side, gingerly touching her face, only pausing to shoot Spike an icy glare.

Giles ordered everyone to go home and escorted Spike back to his crypt. Spike sat down on his coffin, popping open a whiskey bottle, gulping down a few swallows. He tossed it to the aged Watcher, who swigged down the rest easily. Giles then stared at the bottle, reading the label.

“You know that if you ever touch any of them again,” he began in a serious tone, “I’ll stake you myself, chip or not.”

“Yeah, I know.” Spike turned away, feeling as if he was going to crack into a million pieces, the way the casserole dish he’d thrown at the wall had. Only he couldn’t be put back together.

Not without her to complete him.

“In any case, I’ll talk to Willow about the robot,” Giles told him in a less harsh voice, sitting down on the edge of the coffin. “See if she can take the--ahem, ‘kinks’ all out.”

Spike nodded his thanks toward him, and the two sat in silence.

“Whoever said that times makes everything easier didn’t have a bloody clue,” the Watcher suddenly commented sullenly. Spike glanced sideways at him.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he asked flatly.

Giles sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging, before nodding. He twirled the bottle in his hands.

More silence.

“Y’know, she loved you,” Spike told him gruffly. He wasn’t sure why he had said it. Maybe because he actually felt sorry for the poor bastard, or maybe because he had always wished someone would say that to him. And in that moment he realized he resented all of them for that. They would always have a piece of her to remember, to cherish. All he had was faded bruises.

“Yeah, I know,” Giles replied quietly.

The two men sat together in silent company, and they both felt a little better.

She didn’t remember all of it.

Maybe her brain was so used to pain and misery that it wanted to block out everything that was too peaceful, too good. Or maybe she was just insane.

But she did remember feeling her mother there, nearby. No physical sensation, but a definite certainty.

And she remembered feeling done.

Finished.

Complete.

When she’d died, she hadn’t screamed. Even when she was sixteen, too young to die and definitely not ready, in the hands on The Master, she hadn’t screamed. As his cold talons wrapped around her neck, his chilling voice taunting in her ear, it had never occurred to her to scream.

When she’d been forced to kill Angel, she’d cried, for three months straight, it had seemed like. But she’d never screamed, not even when she had plunged the sword through his chest, watching as her first love was sucked into a swirling portal that led to eternal hell and damnation.

Finding her mother dead…she hadn’t screamed then, either. But God she’d wanted to. She’d wanted to let out a shrill piercing scream to shatter the air, but she still hadn’t. The world had tilted and her insides had come up, a mixture of milk and dry cereal, and she’d vomited instead. And when she’d come back, Giles had been there, and the opportunity to scream had slipped away.

Right before she jumped into the portal, she hadn’t wanted to scream. She was slightly apprehensive, frightened, even, but death had been something she was finally ready for. Something she could embrace and accept, possibly even yearn for.

Yet when the hands reached for her…well, they weren’t exactly “hands,” not in the literal sense, anyway. But they snatched at her ankles and pulled her down, away from the peace and finality of death.

((Osiris, Lord of the Dead))

Willow. She heard Willow. But where was she?

((Here lies the Warrior of the People))

She wanted to call out to her friend, but she had no voice.

She felt herself falling apart, crumbling away.

((Let her cross over))

Her breath was returning to her, vaguely familiar, and she was slipping away, back into a body whose skin was reknotting itself once again over rotted bones, restoring blood and organs, slivers of golden hair covered in dirt that had leaked in from the corners. She opened her eyes, gasping in shock, to find herself in a tiny prison. The acrid dead air coated her new, clean pink lungs, which were trying to find oxygen where there was none.

She dug her way out, clawed at the oak and steel, shredded it until it burst open and covered her in damp, dark earth. Buffy pushed herself through the dirt and ripped her way to the top. She emerged, once again whole, lungs heaving. She breathed in the rich air, breathing in life, collapsing to the ground.

And it was then, when Buffy cried out for god and nobody answered, it was then that she screamed.

“She’s kind of um…She's been through a lot...with the...death. But I think she's okay.”

Spike couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She was there, she was really there. He wondered hazily if it was a dream, that if the moment he reached forward to touch her, she would just crumble away to a pile of ashes onto the bloody carpet and it would be all his fault, because he was such a goddamn mess, and it’d always been his fault, but what if it was really her--

“Spike? Are you okay?” Dawn gave him a slightly nervous look.

“I'm…” His voice trailed off. “What did you do?” It was her, it was really her.

“Me?” Dawn repeated quickly. “Nothing.”

“Her hands.” And he realized. Realized what had happened.

“Um, I was gonna fix 'em. I don’t know how her hands got like that.”

No, Dawn didn’t know. But Spike did.

“I do.” He gazed up at her, still in disbelief, but it was coming clearer now. “Clawed her way out of a coffin, that's how.”

And he remembered, Boy William in a wooden box, ragged nails and bloody knuckles with newfound strength as he fought to free himself from his confinement. It had been over one hundred twenty years ago and he still remembered, God he remembered, but did you ever forget something like that? He remembered his hands scraping wildly at the coffin lid, kicking it as hard as he could, gasping for breath because he hadn’t yet realized he didn’t need to breathe. But what does it matter? Fear is fear.

“Isn't that right?” He was talking to Buffy now, studying the resigned expression on her ashen pale face, her eyes squinting as she adjusted to the dim lights, hands curled to her chest.

And he can still feel it returning to him, three days new a vampire, just a fledgling of a demon as he fought his way to the top, choking on dirt and feeling the maggot crawling on his skin and everything was dark, until he was out, sprawled out over the grave to see his grandsire casually sitting astride his very own headstone, and it was then that he understood that he was dead, but the demon in him was taking over. The glowing embers of Angelus’ cigar had been the only light in the dead of night.

((She was supposed to meet you here, but she forgot.))

“Yeah.” She looked away from him in shame, because there was nothing glamorous about being neither here nor there. “That’s…what I had to do.”

((They always forget))

And, oh God, he realized that they had just left her in there. Those fucking idiots forgot about her. They had no excuse. They shouldn’t have forgotten, those goddamn morons. What had they done to her?

“Done it myself,” he explained softly, his eyes traveling to her hands. Bloody knuckles, gleaming under the low lights, torn ragged skin. Her hands had used to be so small and perfect. The wounds would heal, but the scars would never fade. Not completely.

He wasn’t dreaming. She was there, she was really there.

But was she? Do you know where you are, Buffy? Do you know who’s sitting across from you, holding your hands? Where were you? Where are you now? Can you feel how much I’m trembling and shaking?

Her hands felt so small and lax in his own, not even the slightest quiver of movement. There was warmth radiating from them and into his own cold ones. Her eyes were vacant, empty. What was she thinking? Spike couldn’t remember much besides Drusilla’s fingers digging into him, a rush of pain and power, and then waking up to cold and darkness. But the time in between that…he hadn’t felt anything, or nothing that he could recall, anyway. What did she remember? He wanted to hold her hands forever; better yet, sweep her into his arms, and press her tiny body against his.

“How long was I gone?” she questioned, her voice faint.

Are you sure you’re really back? he wanted to ask.

“Hundred forty-seven days yesterday, hundred forty-eight today,” he responded automatically. “’Cept today doesn’t count, does it?”

And they stared at each other for a few moments, but he knew she wasn’t really looking at him. She wasn’t even there, not really. He wanted to reach into the emptiness of her eyes and pull her back out.

“How long was it…where you were?” he asked gently, still searching her face for remnants of the old Buffy. Where had she gone?

“Longer,” she replied softly.

He just nodded silently, understanding.

And then the others barged in, rupturing that perfect moment of silence, where she had seemed comfortable for a little while at least. A rush of words and talking and it was all too much, because goddamnit they always forgot, but they didn’t even know what they had done. The stupid gits. He couldn’t stand to even be in their presence, so he stood up and slipped away, knowing that they wouldn’t notice that he had gone. Even when he slammed the door in a brief moment of displayed rage, he knew not one of them would even slightly turn their heads.

His anger lasted as he hurried down the porch steps and began to cut across the lawn, but all of a sudden it broke free, and he began to cry. He leaned against the tree, slamming his fist against the rough bark, because it was so fucking unfair, but life had never been fair to him, not even when he’d turned to a vampire, it still had enjoyed fucking him over again and again.

Ten minutes later, and the ex-demon and the halfwit emerged from the house. He turned away from them, wiping at his face hastily. He’d never minded Anya--she’d been nice enough, a little quirky, perhaps, but he could never figure out why a girl like her would be with a wanker like Xander. He hoped that they wouldn’t see him against the tree, but of course they did. How fucking convenient.

“What are you doing out here? I hope you're not going to start up your whole obsession thing now that she's around,” Xander sneered cruelly. Spike realized it then that the game was up. Everything he had done no longer mattered. Who had offered their backseat to bleed in when someone screwed up trying to kill a demon? Who had given out whiskey and tequila and his Camels when any of them would come to visit him, even though he was dirt poor and all they wanted was favors? Who had taken over the patrolling when they threw dinner parties at Xander’s cozy apartment, never once thinking to invite him? Who had stayed home and watched Dawn night after night so they could go to the Bronze and have a good time? He’d done it all and he hadn't bitched about it once, because he thought it meant something, that he was doing something she would have wanted, paying some kind of penance, and he mistook their strained politeness for appreciation when all they had been doing was baiting the super-strong bitchboy so he would return to save their asses once again. The game was up, it was so fucking up, and to hell with the bloody chip.

He slammed Xander against the tree, hoping the bark would cut through the whelp’s back, and it was worth the flash of pain behind his eyes to see the boy cower back fearfully, his eyes widening in surprise. His head was stinging, but what was one measly headache after putting up with them for the past one hundred forty-eight days? Anya let out a protective yelp, rushing to the side of her boyfriend. But it didn’t matter, because Spike wasn’t messing around this time.

“You didn't tell me. You brought her back and you didn't tell me.” And oh God, how could he let himself be getting choked up over this? He was so ashamed of the betrayal he was feeling, and it was so fucking unfair.

And this was where loving her had brought him to, what it had done to him.

“Well, now you know,” Xander retorted snottily, and numbers 1,655 through 1,662 were quickly added to the Ways To Kill Xander Harris List compiled in Spike’s head.

“I worked beside you all summer.” He wanted the words to mean something, for them to recognize the importance of it. He’d saved all of their sodding lives, more than once. They couldn’t have done it without him, even he knew that.

“We didn’t tell you. It was just…we didn’t, okay?” The kid was such a fucker, such a stupid, childish fucker, way in over his head.

"Listen," Spike snarled. "I've figured it out. Maybe you haven't, but I have." Because they had forgotten. Sure, Spike was frequently irresponsible and always immature, but they forgot that he was a hundred and twenty fucking years old, he'd seen death and horror and apocalypse that they couldn't even imagine, and he knew better. That there are some things that you don't try to fuck with; you just try to keep living in the wake of the collapse, the way he’d been trying to do every day for the last five months. And these stupid, ignorant children, even after years of living on a Hellmouth, still hadn't figured out happy endings were just a pretty, half-assed falsity. Especially that arrogant little bitch who thought she could take life and death into her own hands, who thought that it was okay to mess with people’s lives that way. "Willow knew there was a chance that she'd come back wrong," he said insistently, "so wrong that you'd have--" He couldn't say it; the words escaped him. "That she would have to get rid of what came back, and I wouldn't let her. If any part of that was Buffy, I wouldn't let her. And that's why she shut me out."

"What are you talking about?" Xander said nervously, eyes flickering. "Willow wouldn't do that."

"Oh," he replied slowly, drawing out the dripping sarcasm on his words. Willow had done that, and Spike knew she would do more. "Is that right?"

"You're just covering. Don't tell me you're not happy. Look me in the eyes, and tell me when you saw Buffy alive, that wasn't the happiest moment of your entire existence," the boy said defensively, and Spike snickered cynically. Xander was right, it had been the happiest moment he’d ever experienced…but he still didn’t get it, did he?

Did Xander think it was all better now? Did he think it was over? Christ, it was just beginning. And Spike thought--no, knew-- that they were all too daft to realize.

Consequences. Repercussions. Always.

And you pay and you pay and pay, but the debt never ends.

The End

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