Chapter Six: One Major Post-Apocalyptic Hangover

Three days later, the sun was just cresting the horizon; a new day breaking over the sleepy town of Sunnydale, California. The high school was quiet - well the remains of the high school were quiet. For the second time in less than five years, the school had been reduced to a veritable pile of rubble. Dark and deserted. Quiet as the grave.

Amid the fallen debris that littered what used to be the basement, something stirred.

"Ow! Bloody hell!" Spike exclaimed, as he pushed himself up on one of his elbows, and grabbed the back of his head with his free hand. The pain was excruciating. What the hell had he been sleeping on?!

Grudgingly, he forced his eyes open and tried to take in the scene around him. It was dark. He couldn't see very well. A thin shaft of light was shining through a jagged crack in the ceiling, offering the only source of illumination. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

His head was swimming. Where the hell was he? He couldn't remember anything, at first. There was something about a battle. A battle against The First. The Apocalypse. Oh God! The last thing he remembered was fighting a giant, stone-like demon, and then . . . then she called his name, he saw her face and . . ."

The blood rushed out of Spike's face, and he turned an even ghostlier white than his normal pallor. Buffy. Oh God! Where was Buffy?!

He pushed himself out of the pile of rubble he was lying in and stood on what was left of the basement floor. A cold draft instantly enveloped him, and he realized for the first time that he was naked.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" If this was someone's idea of a joke, he certainly didn’t think it was funny.

Cautiously maneuvering his way through the ruins - through memory and instinct - he found himself in a familiar corner of the basement. Rummaging through some old boxes, he found something to wear - a shirt and some jeans, but no shoes and nothing more to cover himself with. He had a vague memory of doing the same thing, the night he had first put his duster back on, the night he had "come back."

Frustrated by his inability to see in the dark, he felt his way along the walls, and made his way up the stairs. Something beneath his feet creaked sickeningly, as he crested the final step and found himself on the first floor.

There was light in the hallway. The warm, pink glow of sunrise faintly permeated the shattered, boarded-up windows and the holes in the walls. Spike scanned the area for any sign of life, but there was none. He wondered if anyone had survived the Apocalypse.

Sighing heavily, he brought his hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it in frustration. In a moment of calm and reflection, his hand stilled, and for the first time he noticed a small, muffled beat beneath his skin.

Spike pulled his hand away from his neck as if it had been burned. He stared down at his palm, unblinking, scared to wonder what it meant.

Stunned, his breath caught in his chest, he slowly raised two fingers to the side of his neck.

A beat.

He felt a beat.

And then another.

And then another.

A pulse was beating in his neck. It picked up speed as he stood there, timing it with his fingers.

His breath quickened. It took him a minute to realize that his chest was heaving and air was pulsing from his lungs in short, agitated bursts.

Spike's eyes widened and he dropped his hand from his neck. "Bloody hell," he whispered. It was all he could think to say.

With great difficulty, he forced himself to take one long, steadying breath. There had to be a reason for what was happening to him. A good, logical reason. Maybe this was hell. Maybe he was doomed to spend all eternity living in the school basement, burdened by his long forgotten humanity. Then again, maybe not.

Slowly, Spike managed to make his way down the hall. He pressed himself up against the inside wall, tying desperately to avoid the sunlight that was beckoning to him. If he had a pulse, if he had a heartbeat, if he was mortal, could the sun really hurt him? How desperately he longed to find out.

Inching along the wall, he noticed something shimmering a few feet in front of him - a small, unbroken window in a classroom door.

Keeping his eye on it - lest it disappear before he reached it - he moved up to the window, and turned to look at it. The lighting being what it was, he could make out the faint image of a man staring back at him. His reflection. Something he hadn't seen in more than a hundred and twenty years.

Now Spike's heart did begin to race. He could feel the blood pounding through his veins and there was nothing he could do to slow its course. Tentatively, he raised a trembling hand to the glass and traced the outline of the dark figure before him. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, watching the figure, squinting his eyes trying to discern any detail. There was little to see - just a dark, fuzzy reflection, watching him from within the glass.

Finally, Spike managed to pull himself away. If he had a heartbeat, and if he had a reflection, then what did he have to fear from the sunlight?

Turning around slowly, he took a cautious step forward. A stream of light cascaded over the tops of his bare toes, but he hesitated to step any further into the sun.

Holding his breath, he wiggled his toes, waiting to feel the familiar burn of sunlight on vampire skin. He felt no such thing. Just the comforting warmth of morning light on cool flesh.

Spike inhaled a sharp breath as tears came to his eyes. It had been so long, so long since he had felt the loving warmth of the sun against his skin. He didn't know how to react.

Overcome with emotion, he stepped forward, fully into the light. He closed his eyes, and reveled in the glorious sensation of the sunrise caressing his tired flesh. He felt like he was home.

Spike opened his eyes and wondered, for the first time, if he was in heaven.

Then he realized, that that wasn't possible. If he were heaven, Buffy would be by his side. There was no heaven without Buffy. No hell either, for that matter. She was his world. Where the hell was she?

Forgetting his shock at the new sensations, he took several confident strides closer to the broken window and stared out into the street. Sunnydale looked very much the way it always had. The high school was in ruins, but everything else looked like a picture postcard.

Spike rested his palms against the low windowsill and leaned forward, putting all his weary weight on his arms. He had to find Buffy. He had to know what had happened to her. What had happened to him. Was she still alive? Was anyone?

* * *

With great trepidation, Spike made his way out into the street. He knew the sun couldn't hurt him, but still, he flinched when he stepped out of the shadows and into the light.

Everything felt new to him. The morning breeze against his skin, the feel of the hard pavement beneath his bare feet. Everything smelled different too. As a vampire he had possessed an amazingly keen sense of smell, but somehow, being human, everything smelled sweeter - the air, the flowers, the trees. The world was alive for him for the fist time in more than a century. His blood hummed with excitement.

Following the path to Buffy's house, Spike kept a wary eye on the streets of Sunnydale. The town was relatively quiet. Occasionally, a car would drive past him, or he would see someone coming out to their curb to get the morning paper, but other than that, there was little activity on the streets.

No one seemed to notice him. No one cared that he was out, walking in the sunlight. People just past him by as if he were nothing special. His presence not even causing the slightest stir.

1630 Revello Drive.

Spike stopped in front of Buffy's house and surveyed the scene. The sun was now an orange-yellow, hovering just above the horizon. It couldn't have been later than six-thirty a.m.

The lights were all off. The house was dark.

Falling back on habit, Spike cocked his ear toward the house and tried to listen for any signs of life. All he heard was the incessant chirping of the birds perched in a nearby tree. He couldn't hear anything from inside.

Spike tried not to panic. He didn't have supersensitive hearing anymore, he reminded himself. It was perfectly logical that he shouldn't hear anyone moving about. He seemed to be mortal now. And apparently, his gifts were restricted to those of the mortal coil.

Moving away from the front of the house, he made his way to the back porch. He had to know if Buffy was still alive. He had to know if she was safe.

The grass was cool beneath his warm feet - cool and wet with morning dew. As he crossed the lawn, he felt patches of moist earth squishing beneath his toes. It was a surprisingly pleasant sensation.

Mounting the stairs cautiously, he came to stand in front of the back door. He rested his hand on the knob and just prayed that it was unlocked.

His breath catching in his chest, he turned the doorknob

It wasn't locked.

Spike exhaled a relieved breath as he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The kitchen was dark. Quiet. The clock on the microwave read 6:15.

Spike treaded lightly across the cold linoleum. His stomach growled as he moved past the center island, his eye catching the tempting site of a brimming bowl of fruit. God, how long had it been since he had eaten? How long had he been gone?

Spike made his way to the calendar on the wall, and stared at it, unblinkingly. The year was still 2003. The month still May. Either he hadn't been gone more than a couple of weeks, or there had been no one around to change the calendar. Spike preferred the former option over the latter. If no one had been in the house in weeks, why was there fresh fruit on the table?

In spite of his stomach's protests, Spike pulled himself out of the kitchen and made for the stairs. If Buffy was still alive, she was probably sleeping. He had to see her.

Blood pounding in his ears, Spike made it to the landing, to the second floor of the house, and stopped. All of the doors were open.

With slow, measured steps, he moved farther down the hall, coming to stand just beside the nearest open door. It was the Nibblet's room.

Spike inhaled a hard breath and held it in his lungs, as he leaned forward and took a peak inside. He didn't think he had ever been so relieved in all his life. There, curled up snuggly in her bed, was Dawn. She had kicked her blanket off in her sleep, and her arm was wrapped securely around a pillow, clutching it like a teddy bear.

Spike wanted to go to her. To fix her covers and stroke her hair. To touch her and make sure that she was real. But he couldn't. She probably thought he was dead, and it wouldn't do to have her waking up in the middle of a deep sleep and finding him standing beside her bed. She'd scream, and then Buffy would come in and stake him before he had a chance to explain.

Stake him?

Spike realized for the first time, that that old threat wasn't going to work anymore. Buffy couldn't kill him if he was human. As much as she might want to at times.

Buffy.

Spike pulled himself away from Dawn and moved across the hall. He had to know if Buffy was safe.

The few feet that separated the two doors seemed like miles. Spike could have sworn time stood still as he made his way to Buffy's room.

Stopping just beside the open door, he brought a trembling hand up and gripped the door frame, leaning on it for support. He knew that if he inched forward, just the smallest fraction, his question would be answered. He'd know for sure whether Buffy had lived or died.

Spike closed his eyes and leaned forward. He tried to convince himself that everything was all right, that whatever he saw, he could live with it. Somehow his body wasn’t convinced.

Breaking out into a cold sweat, his heart thrumming against his ribs, he forced his eyes open and surveyed the darkened bedroom.

His heart stopped. It skipped a blessed beat, as his eyes lit on Buffy.

She was curled up in her bed, safe and secure, the faint sheen of tears glistening against her cheek. She had cried herself to sleep.

Spike wanted to reach out and touch her. To hold her. To pull her close and never let her go. But he couldn't. He knew it.

She had her arms wrapped around something - clinging to it, holding it lovingly against her chest. Spike took a tentative step forward to get a closer look at what it was.

His duster.

A small sob broke in the back of his throat. Buffy was alive, and she still loved him! Oh God! What could he do?

His legs threatening to cave beneath him, he fumbled his way out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He couldn't let her see him. Not yet. He'd give her a heart attack if she woke up and found him hovering above her. He needed to retreat. Regroup and find a way to break the news to her gently. He didn't want to hurt her. He had to find a way to make his presence known without doing her more harm than good.

Chapter Seven: Footprints on the Doorstep

"Hey, has anyone seen the bowl of fruit that was on the table last night?" Dawn asked as she searched the kitchen. "How am I supposed to have oatmeal without bananas or apples or something to nullify the numbing taste?"

"I don't know," Buffy said, as she sat down on one of the stools and started filling up on the hot porridge. Ever since she had woken from her little self-induced coma, she had had a ravenous appetite. "Here." She handed Dawn a small, open jar. "Why don't you put some cinnamon on it? Just as good as fruit."

Dawn looked at her sister strangely. "This is paprika. Jeez Buffy, can't you tell the difference?'

Buffy's face fell as she stared down into her bowl of warm cereal. "Oh," she said flatly. "Well, that would explain the strange, peppery taste." Buffy just shrugged and went back to eating.

Dawn rolled her eyes and went to the spice rack to get the cinnamon. Sitting down beside Buffy, she let her bunny-slippered feet beat against the railing on the stool. "Still doesn't explain what happened to the bowl of fruit."

"Maybe Giles took it. Or Willow. Maybe they're doing a spell. Either that, or they're really, really hungry."

"Who's doing a spell?" Willow asked as she entered the kitchen, fully dressed and ready for the day. She moved to the counter to make herself a cup of tea.

"Oh, we just thought maybe you and Giles were trying something. There seems to be some fruit missing," Dawn supplied, looking up from her Quaker Oats.

"Nope. Don't know any spells involving fruit. Hey, maybe Giles does," she said, turning and looking at them over her shoulder. "I don't know, something to do with Andrew, maybe?"

"This coming from our resident lesbian?" Buffy asked, slightly surprised.

"Well, even I have to admit, Andrew is a bit fruitier than most. So," Willow joined them at the table, "what's the plan for today?"

"We haven't decide yet," Dawn said. "Giles wants us to sit down in front of a big pile of books and figure out this whole Slayer thing. He left early this morning to go do research or something. He expects us to have unlocked all the secrets of the universe by the time he gets back."

"Oh what great fun," Buffy said sarcastically as she shook her head and rolled her eyes heavenward. "You know, if I had known the aftermath of the Apocalypse was going to involve so much work, I think I would have stayed catatonic. It was a lot easier."

Buffy pushed the crimson swirl of paprika around in her bowl. The last few days had been difficult, to say the least. She was trying desperately to put up a good front for her friends, but it only seemed to work about half the time. She didn't want to be seen as brooding or morose, those were qualities better associated with Angel. She just wanted to get through her grief without dragging everyone else down.

Giles was seriously concerned about there not being a new Slayer. He was working on several theories as to why no one had been called after Faith's death. He had narrowed it down to two options. Either, they had missed a Potential somewhere along the way, and there was now a very confused girl with superhuman strength living in the heart of deepest Africa, or some other godforsaken place. Or, there was no Slayer. No one had been called. The thought was frightening. Yes there was no Hellmouth anymore, but still, the world needed a Slayer. There were still vamps roaming around out there, even in Sunnydale. The world needed a new champion. Buffy wasn't sure how much longer she could keep it up on her own.

The days were the easy part. Willow, and Dawn and Xander, all crowded around her, and made sure to keep her busy. They had taken her out to The Bronze, the second day she was conscious. They were having a special party to celebrate the high school being burned down. Again. Most people in Sunnydale didn't know what had really happened, or how many lives had been lost.

The nights . . . well the nights were a different story. Buffy found it impossible to fall asleep without first crying herself into a pitiable stupor. Her heart seemed to break all over again, every time she thought about Spike. The pain was becoming unbearable.

There was a part of Buffy that didn't want to go on, with him gone. But being the only Slayer, she had no choice. It was her duty. She had to protect Dawn, protect her friends. Even if it meant that she was, once again, just going through the motions, she had to survive for their sakes. But it was becoming more and more difficult with each passing hour.

Buffy knew she wasn't the only one who was grieving. Willow was having difficulty getting over the loss of Kennedy, and even Giles seemed to be depressed over the demise of so many of the Potentials. Still, there were times when Buffy felt alone in her misery.

They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, and then the back door opened and Xander stepped inside.

"Morning all," he said as he closed the door behind him. He was carrying a big, all-too-familiar box in his arms. "I brought donuts."

"Oh thank God!" Dawn exclaimed, as she pushed her oatmeal aside and ran over to Xander. She opened the box in his arms and pulled out two powdery jelly donuts, one for each hand.

"Hold on there tiger. You sure you can handle that? Your sister'll kill me if you make yourself sick."

"Yeah. No problem," Dawn mumbled through a mouthful of donut, as she pulled away and propped herself back up on her stool.

"Jeez," Xander said, staring at her with amazement, "kids these days."

"Oh yes, as if you've never eaten two fistfuls of donuts at one time," Buffy said, finally looking up at him.

"At least I have the decency to use a napkin. Please Dawn, you look like Ronald McDonald after a hard night out partying."

"I do not," she protested, as she grabbed a napkin with one sticky hand and wiped the white powder off her face.

"So Buff," Xander said, sidling up and taking the seat next to her. "Did you happen to see the huge bare footprints right outside your back door?"

"What?" Willow asked, as she looked up absently at Xander.

"Yeah, there's some footprints out back, leading up to the back door. None of you noticed?"

"No," Buffy said slowly. "No one's been out back this morning."

Buffy got up from the table and went to the door. Opening it, she stepped onto the porch and looked around. There were indeed light, muddy footprints on the back porch.

Xander came up behind her and stared over her shoulder. "I guess it was a little misty last night. The ground was pretty wet this morning when I left for work. Looks like you've got yourself a stalker or something."

"Or a burglar," Dawn said, as she joined them. "Bet he stole the fruit."

"Come on you guys," Willow chimed in. "You're just jumping to conclusions." She knelt down on the porch and examined the footprints. "What are these, size ten? Eleven, maybe? Giles could have made these."

She looked up at the group. They all looked at each other with obvious cynicism.

"Okay, okay. So the chances of Giles going around in bare feet are less than good, but--"

"Less than good?" Xander asked. "There's a better chance of Dawn giving birth to a Pterodactyl, or of Anya giving up sex."

"So? Stalker?" Dawn asked, a slight squeak to her voice.

"I don't know," Buffy said, lowering herself to the ground beside Willow. "But whatever it is, we need to be prepared."

Chapter Eight: Scarred

Later that night, Spike was pacing cagily along the floor of his old crypt. He was at a loss. He didn’t know how to approach Buffy without scaring the hell out of her.

"You know, you could maybe, send her a note? A nice box of chocolates or something? Girls love chocolates."

Spike stopped pacing and glared at Clem.

"Okay," Clem said, putting up his hands defensively. "It was just a suggestion. No need to kill the messenger."

Clem had been living in Spike's old crypt for more than a year now, ever since Spike had left for Africa. He was supposed to just be keeping it warm for him, but Clem had sort of nested. It was now more his place than Spike's.

"What the bloody hell am I supposed to do? She takes one look at me and--" He threw his hands up in frustration. "I have to see her."

Spike turned and headed toward the door. Clem moved up and stopped him.

"Okay, so let's say you show up on her doorstep, right? What are you going to say? 'Hey Buffy, guess what, I'm not dead?' Is that going to be before or after she faints?"

"More like before or after she drives a stake through my heart. It's instinct with the girl. Maim first, ask questions later."

Spike descended the step back into the crypt, and began searching around for something to do.

"So, I was wondering," Clem began, as he watched his old friend warily, "were you thinking of keeping the new look, now that you're human? Or where you planning to revert to type?"

"Come again?" Spike eyed him quizzically.

Clem brought his hand up to hover just above his head. Moving it around he said, "You know? The hair? Were you thinking about keeping it all naturally curly or going with the bottle again? 'Cause you know, I kind of like it this way. Gives you a . . . oh, I don't know . . . sweet, vulnerable look."

Spike growled. He took a step away from Clem and stalked toward the wall, looking at the mirror Clem had installed. Apparently, even if vampire's didn't have reflections, demons did.

Spike took a long moment to examine his face. It had been so long since he had actually gotten a good look at himself. It was frightening, finally facing himself after a hundred years.

God his cheekbones were austere. He sucked in his cheeks, highlighting their gauntness. Then he relaxed his muscles and made a face.

Spike shook his head and moved closer, examining each and every feature. His eyes were bluer than even he had remembered. His mouth wry and sardonic. Somehow he didn't remember William looking quite so worldly and cynical. But he supposed, time would do that to you.

He wondered for a moment, what would happen if he tried to vamp out. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew, but he had to try anyway. He concentrated hard, contorting his brow, narrowing his eyes. Nothing happened. Of course, he hadn't expected anything, but his instinct was to at least try. After all, bringing out the lumpies had been second nature to him for over a hundred years.

Slightly disappointed, he ran a frustrated hand over his smooth forehead. It was then that he noticed the curve of his left eyebrow.

He raised a finger to it and slowly traced the dark arch. It was completely unbroken, the signature scar he had carried for years gone as if it had never existed.

"Bollocks!" he cursed under his breath. He looked like a bloody poof! No scar. Stupid wavy hair. In spite of the new worldliness he'd gained with the passing years, he still looked like a soddin' poet. That was going to have to change.

Spike stormed over to the television set where Clem had left his dinner plate from the night before. In one swift move, he picked up the knife and clutched it defensively in his hand. He turned to glower at Clem.

"Now wait," Clem said, his voice trembling slightly. "It's not that bad. I think you look great. No need to kill me." He backed away nervously. "Wouldn't want to start your life off as a human with one murder under your belt on the first day. We're pals right?"

Spike set his mouth in a grim line and crossed back over to the mirror. In a single movement, he brought the knife up to his eyebrow and sliced into his own flesh.

"Oh God!"

He dropped the knife. It hit the floor somewhere near his feet.

Instantly, Spike brought his hand up to his brow and covered the open wound. He didn't remember anything ever being that painful. As a vampire, he had had an amazing threshold for pain. As a human, he was a pathetic ponce.

Cautiously, Clem came up beside him, offering Spike a bottle of peroxide. "Thought you could use this. You know? Clean up that nasty wound, and then take care of your hair? It's amazing what a little hydrogen peroxide can do really."

Spike swiped the bottle from Clem's fleshy hand and retreated to what was left of the lower level of the crypt. Clem had never bothered to restore the place after Riley had destroyed it. A whole bleedin' year and he hadn't bothered to clean the place up! Spike shrugged. It didn't really matter. At least it gave him a place to hide. Somehow, he felt a lot more comfortable among the rubble, than he did among the world of the living. There had been a time when he had desperately wanted to be a man, for Buffy. Now that he had gotten his wish, he wasn't so sure.

Chapter Nine: A History of Twentieth Century Vampires - Part One

The following afternoon, Dawn was sitting in the dinning room with Giles, going over some books.

"So?" she asked, leaning across the table and staring down at the text he was reading. "Find anything?"

"Not in the past five minutes, no." He didn't even bother to look up at her.

"Do you really think the Slayer line is dead? I mean, that Buffy's the last one? Kind of sucks, doesn't it?"

Giles looked up at her. Their faces were just inches apart. "Don't . . . you have . . . your own books, to look through?" he asked, through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I'm finished," she said, pushing herself off the table and back down into her chair. She picked up each of the books he had given her and proceeded to re-pile them on the table. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing," she said, as she moved each one. "They're all a big bust. Nothing on the Slayer line, no prophecies, nothing that's going to do us any good. So any new theories on this Slayer business?"

Giles sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. Removing his glasses, he began to clean them thoughtfully. "Well, there was one thing. If there is a new Slayer out there, I'm rather concerned about how she would be called."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, without a Watcher to find her - train her, apprise her of her duties - she may just be floundering. The Slayer may be out there, but she may be Watcherless. And that's as good as having no Slayer at all."

"Wow, way to go with the egotism Giles."

"It isn't egotism. A Slayer needs her Watcher. It's always been that way."

"So, you think that now that there's no more Council, there are no more--?"

"Watchers. That's right."

"Yeah, but you're a Watcher. Wesley's a Watcher. Surely one of you could . . ."

"We've both had our chance. The bond between Slayer and Watcher is a sacred thing. It can't be forced. Just as a Slayer is called, so is her Watcher. He or she was chosen before time to lead the girl on her path."

"Then how do you explain the Council firing you and playing a little game of 'insert the Wesley here?'"

He put his glasses back on and gave her a censorious look. "The Council was never known for its liberal thinking. It seemed easier to them to force Wesley on Buffy as a Watcher, than to accept what they saw as the rather unorthodox relationship I had with her. I was never a favorite with the Council to begin with. And in recent years, it had degenerated into a pompous, blowhard bureaucracy. They'd rather ignore known mystical truths, than not have their paperwork filled in correctly. All the 'i's dotted and such."

"I see. But how do you really feel?"

"There may be a Slayer out there just waiting to be discovered, but without a Watcher, who knows if she'll ever be found? Ever reach her potential?"

"And how do they make new Watchers?" Dawn asked.

"They don't. You're either born one, or you're not. I come from a long line of Watchers. Usually it's carried through a family line. There are certain families who have always been associated with the Council and the Slayers. If a new Watcher is called, he'll be from among those ranks."

"How will we know?"

"We won't. Not unless there's some miraculous sign from heaven or Buffy gets a vision. This may be the end of the Slayer mythology as we know it."

Giles leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, lost in thought. "Maybe you should go find Buffy," he suggested, as he began rubbing his temples in frustration. "Perhaps she's having better luck."

"All right." Dawn got up from the table and moved to leave the room. She stopped in the doorway. "Hey Giles?"

"Yes Dawn?" He opened his eyes to look at her.

"Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine. Just fine. Now run along and see if Buffy needs your help."

Dawn crossed over into the kitchen, where she found Buffy sitting at the island staring, misty eyed, at an open volume of text. "Okay, what's the deal? Some sad epic about demons and bloodshed?" Dawn moved behind her sister and tried to look over her shoulder.

Buffy snapped the book shut. "It's nothing," she said, as she raised a hand to swipe at her teary eyes. "Just got something in my eye, that's all. I think it's allergies. You know, they said the pollen count was really high today? Don't you watch the Weather Channel?"

Dawn reached out and slowly pulled the book from her sister's grasp. She read the title off the spine label, A History of Twentieth Century Vampires.

Buffy grabbed the book from her. "Nothing about Slayers in here. At least, not from this century. I don't even know why I picked it up really. Guess I just thought it might give us some insight into where this whole thing was going."

Dawn sat down beside her sister and stared at the book in her hands. "He's in there, isn't he?"

"Who?"

Dawn leveled her eyes at Buffy in answer.

"Yeah." Buffy sighed. "He's in here." She opened the book and laid it flat on the table. "Pages sixty-seven through seventy-three. William the Bloody." Buffy stared coldly at the page.

Dawn craned her neck slightly so that she could see too. There wasn't even a picture, just a heading that read, "William the Bloody," with the word "Spike" under it in quotation marks. Beneath that, there was a timeline and several dense paragraphs of text.

"You know, I don't think I've even done any reading about him since he first appeared in Sunnydale," Buffy said flatly. "Never thought about it really. Thought I knew everything there was to know," Buffy said, her voice breaking.

Dawn heard her sniffle quietly.

"Maybe you should read it," Dawn suggested, staring back at her sister with genuine concern.

"Nah." Buffy closed the book and pushed it away from her. "Nothing in there I need to know. I already know how the story ends."

"Buffy, I . . . I just want you to know that it's okay. In spite of everything - what happened last year and all? I miss him too."

"It's just, we never really had a chance, did we?" Buffy asked, her eyes misting with fresh tears. "It was over and we never even had a chance to begin. It was over before it started. And now he's gone."

Buffy broke into a steady stream of tears, and Dawn moved forward, wrapping her in her arms. "It's all right Buffy. It'll be all right. I promise." A stray tear caressed Dawn's cheek as she leaned down to kiss her sister lovingly on the head. "I promise Buffy. I promise."

Chapter Ten: Sex and Cigarettes

Spike stood silently in the cemetery beside his crypt, now Clem's. He was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt and combat boots. The night before he had bleached his hair - twice - and he was finally feeling more like himself.

He had also spent a lonely hour in front of a mirror, picking at the wound on his eyebrow. He had tried to recreate the old one from memory, which had proved particularly difficult since he had never actually seen it himself. He remembered what it felt like though, that jagged line dissecting his eyebrow, and he thought he had done a fairly decent job re-scarring his flesh.

Spike pushed his back up against a tree and pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He lit it and brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. Instantly he began choking.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, as he flung the cigarette to the ground and continued to cough. Apparently, his very human lungs were not accustomed to his old chain-smoking ways. He was going to have to do something about that.

Once he had fully recovered, he pulled out another cigarette and tried again.

Inhaling slowly, he took in just enough to tickle the back of his throat. It was going to take some time, but he swore he'd get used to it. Buffy wouldn't like it of course. Now that he was human, the smoking could easily kill him. But what the hell? You only lived once. Twice if you were lucky.

Enjoying the feel of the cool night air against his skin, Spike leaned his head back and let his eyelids drift shut. His mind was surprisingly calm. The previous night, he had lain awake thinking, wondering how it was that he existed. Somewhere there was an answer, and he knew it was going to take Buffy's help to find it.

Spike exhaled a long stream of smoke as he continued to finish his cigarette. As much as he wanted to know how he had gotten there, there was one thing more that bothered him. Just who the hell was he?

Before getting his soul back, Spike had had a definite sense of self. He was a demon, cursed with William the Bloody Awful Poet's personality. Then, when he had gotten his soul back, he was man and demon. But now? He didn't know what he was.

The obvious answer was human, of course. But Spike didn't feel particularly human. He didn't feel like meek, mild-mannered William. The truth was, he didn't feel any different than he had his last night on earth, the night before the battle. Reason told him that the demon was gone, that he was a human man with a human soul. But his heart told him something different.

He still had all his memories. All the memories William had made, and all the memories Spike had made. It was just that now, there seemed to be no difference between the two. But then again, he had felt that way even before he had been resurrected. Somehow, he was an amalgamation of the two, man and demon coexisting, not just in the same body, but in the same entity. That demon was a part of his soul now. Just like William's personality had always been present in the demon. Actually, it was kind of a relief. Spike didn't want to lose his edge. Human or not, he was still a warrior. He still had to be able to protect the ones he loved.

Suddenly, Spike heard an unexpected noise off in the distance. Clem had gone out for the night. He wasn't due back for hours. Spike snuffed out his cigarette and hid behind a nearby mausoleum.

The noise drew closer. As it did, the sound became distinct.

Footsteps. Footsteps padding across the thick, well-manicured grass.

Spike inched closer to the edge of the monument, and looked around the corner, waiting for the being to come into view. It didn't take long for his curiosity to be appeased and for his heart to, once again, stop beating.

It was Buffy.

She was walking past his old crypt, staring blankly at it, as she past by. She was dressed in a long black skirt and a tight, plain black T-shirt, a stake held limply in her right hand. She was beautiful. Spike's first instinct was to step out from the shadows and reveal himself. But he knew better. He had to choose his moment wisely.

Shuffling her feet through the grass, she continued absently on her patrol. She made a sorry excuse for a Slayer. Spike was afraid she was going to get herself killed.

Taking the initiative, he lit another cigarette, took a quick puff, and then flung it to the ground, landing it right in front of her feet.

Startled, Buffy stopped and looked around. "Who's there?" she asked warily.

Quickly, Spike lit another cigarette and did the same thing. He was afraid his voice would scare her. He wanted to prepare her before she actually set eyes on him.

"Okay, so you think this is funny?" she asked, tightening her grip on the stake. "There is absolutely nothing humorous about litter. Didn't your mother raise you better than that?"

"Actually, she did," he said, his face still hidden.

"Spike?" Buffy's voice shook. Even from a distance, Spike could tell that she was trembling. "Who's there?"

"I didn't mean to scare you pet," he said, as he finally stepped out of the shadows.

Buffy's eyes widened as he took a single step closer to her. Her mouth moved impotently, trying to form words that just wouldn't come. She couldn't speak. She just stood there, staring at him.

"Are you all right, luv? I didn't mean to frighten you. Actually, I've spent the past two days trying to think of ways to break the news without scaring you to death. Or getting a stake through my heart."

Buffy's eyes narrowed on him and she seemed to regain some of her instinct. "I don't know who you are," she said, as she moved steadily toward him, "but you're not Spike. Spike's dead."

Spike nodded reassuringly, compassion in his eyes. "I know. And I was. But now I'm back."

"No," she said coldly. "No!" Buffy raised her stake and lunged at him.

Quickly, displaying more agility than he might have expected of his human form, he grabbed her wrist and held her off. "Buffy, listen to me."

"No." She easily pulled herself out of his grip. "What are you? The First?"

"Not quite luv. Couldn't have touched you if I was."

Buffy stared down at her freed wrist. She could still feel the warmth of his touch burning her flesh. She looked back at him. "You're not Spike. Spike is dead. I saw him die with my own eyes."

"I remember," he said softly.

"No you don't. I don't know who you are. Or what you are. But this game? It isn't funny." She raised the stake again, tears glistening in her hazel eyes. "And now? I'm going to have to kill you."

She moved to drive the stake through his chest, but Spike grabbed her again, wresting it from her grasp and pulling her solid against his chest. He stared down at her for a split second, and then brought his mouth down to capture hers.

The sensation was mind-blowing. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Kissing as a vampire was one thing, kissing as a flesh and blood human was something else entirely. Suddenly, everything was more real to him. The feel of her body against his, the taste of her mouth, warm and sweet. Spike thought he could die right there in her arms.

At first, she didn't react at all. And then, slowly, she succumbed to the kiss, her hands clutching at his chest, her lips moving desperately across his. Spike slid his hands down around her waist and drew her closer. He wanted this to last forever. But it didn't.

Before they had even begun, it seemed, Buffy pulled away and slapped him solidly across the face. "I don't know who you are," she said, her voice shaking, her body visibly weakened, "but if you ever touch me again? I will kill you." She pulled away from him and took a few steps back.

Spike laughed to himself. "I thought you were going to do that anyway, luv."

"Don't . . . you ever call me that. I am not your love. I don't know what kind of monster you are, but when I find out, I swear to God I will make you pay for coming here like this. For taking Spike's form. For disrespecting the dead."

Buffy turned to leave, intent on storming out of the cemetery. His voice stopped her.

"It's nice to see that you really do care."

"Excuse me?" She spun back around on her heels and glared at him. "It's nice to see that I really care? Do you have any idea what Spike means to me? What he meant to me? He was everything." She shook her head absently, her eyes disconnecting from his. "I can't believe this."

She started to walk away again.

He couldn't let her go. He ran after her. "Buffy wait."

"Don't . . . you come near me," she said, spinning around and glaring at him.

"We have to talk."

"No we don't."

"Buffy," he grabbed her arm, in an attempt to stop her.

She pulled her fist back and slugged him in the face.

Spike landed in a heap on the ground. "Oh, bloody hell!" he exclaimed, as he brought his hand up to cradle his bleeding nose. "You know human Spike doesn’t really take these things as well as vamp Spike did."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Spike looked up to see Buffy standing above him, her legs apart, her hands on her hips. He swiped the blood away from his nose with the back of his hand.

"Oh right? Like you didn't notice. I'm not quite the bloodsucking fiend anymore. I don't have superhuman strength. And hey, did you notice, when you touched me? I wasn't as cold as soddin' ice."

Buffy stared at him, dumbfounded. Frantically, she searched her brain, trying to make some sense of what was going on. "Spike?" she asked, uncertainly.

"Yes it's me. Spike." He pushed himself up from the ground and began wiping the dirt from his clothes. "Remember? Spike? The man you're supposed to love? The man you're not supposed to want to kill anymore?"

"Well, I don't know about that." She looked up at him cautiously, still slightly wary. "What . . . exactly . . . is going on?"

"Hell if I know. Two days ago I woke up in the school basement, naked, with a heartbeat, a reflection, and somehow miraculously cured of my pesky little sun allergy. I don't know what's going on. All I've wanted was to get back to you."

Buffy stared up into his dark blue eyes, those same eyes that had been haunting her every night in her dreams. She wanted so much to believe that it was true. Suddenly, something he had said struck her. "You woke up naked?" she asked.

"As the day I was born, yeah. I don't know whose idea of a joke that was, but I wouldn't mind giving them a piece of my mind."

Absently, Buffy drifted away from him, trying to piece things together in her own mind. "You woke up naked? In the school basement?"

"Yeah?" he said, raising a questioning eyebrow at her.

"It's like the vision."

"What vision?"

Buffy looked up at him, intently this time. "The vision I had the night I broke out of my catatonic state."

"That was two bleedin' years ago."

"No. Not the time with Glory. Now. Last week. After the battle."

"Oh God, Buffy." He took a step closer to her, trying to offer her comfort.

Buffy pulled away and began pacing, still wracking her brain. "I saw you, in this vision. I saw you, naked in the school basement. That must have been it. That's why it was so dark. Spike," she stared up at him, "you're really here?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last fifteen minutes."

Her eyes searched his face desperately, looking for proof, wanting to believe that he was real. She knew it wasn't supposed to be possible, knew it could all just be a dream. But in that moment, she didn't care. Spike was alive. He was alive and real, and standing just a few feet in front of her.

Before another thought could even pass through her head, she closed the distance between them. Putting her trembling hands on either side of his face, she pulled him to her and kissed him.

Buffy closed her eyes, and lost herself in the warmth of his mouth. The sensation was so foreign. Spike's skin was warm - hot even. She moved her hands down his chest, groping and feeling every inch of him, trying to convince herself that he was real.

She could feel the beating of his heart, pounding against her own chest. Oh God! There was nothing like it. He was alive! Really and truly alive! Buffy nearly sobbed with joy.

Feverishly, she devoured his mouth, not ever wanting to let him go. She knew she would need to breathe soon, but she didn't care. Taking the initiative, she pushed him up against the side of the crypt and fumbled desperately to find the zipper on his jeans.

"Uh, Buffy luv?" Spike pushed her away from him a fraction of an inch. "Don't you think we could find a better place for this?"

She looked up at him, slightly disappointed. "Don't you want me?" she asked, pouting slightly.

"Oh God, yes!" he declared. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him. "Can't you feel it?"

She could.

Buffy let her eyelids drift half closed, and let her mouth hover near his. She could feel his warm breath tickling her skin, and the sensation was driving her mad.

"Buffy." He kissed her chastely on the lips, and pulled back as far as he could. "Maybe we should go inside?" he said, cocking his head to the side, indicating his old crypt.

"What? Oh. Okay." Reluctantly, she pulled away from him. Eyeing him suspiciously, she said, "Are you sure you're really Spike? I mean, outdoor sports never seemed to bother you before."

"Yeah, well, as thrilling as being thrown up against a wall and mounted is," he said, moving closer to her, and gently caressing her cheek, "I think I'd like to spend tonight a little differently."

Buffy gazed up into his crystal blue eyes and found that she was slowly losing herself. If she couldn't be with him soon, she would die.

Gently wrapping her hand around his, she led him toward the crypt. Once inside, she closed the door behind them, and narrowed her gaze at Spike. Laying her hands firmly on his chest, she backed him up until he bumped into the edge of the sarcophagus.

"I know what you said. I know what you want," she said, staring up at him with an undeniable heat in her eyes, "but I can't wait. I can't take this slow. Forgive me?"

"Anything," he whispered, as she pushed him down onto his back and got on top of him.

"Slow later," she said, as she undid the button on his jeans, and then the zipper. "I promise."

Buffy readjusted her own clothing and lowered herself down onto Spike, impaling herself on his hard shaft. Closing her eyes, she began to ride him slowly, reveling in the sensation of his warm flesh pulsing inside of her. She had thought she was never going to see him again, never be able to hold him or touch him or see his face. It was a miracle that he was here with her now. And Buffy desperately wanted to hold onto that miracle with all her might.

She heard Spike moan beneath her, and she opened her eyes to stare down at his face. He was staring up at her, watching her intently.

Desperately needing to feel more of him, she lowered herself down to lay flush against his chest. Closing her eyes, she flicked out her tongue and slowly ran it across his bottom lip, glorying in the salty taste of his flesh. She pushed herself up closer to capture his mouth with her own, the abrupt movement driving him deeper inside of her.

Spike groaned. Wrapping one arm tightly about her waist, he gripped the back of her head with his free hand and drew her closer. He drove his tongue inside her mouth, penetrating her a second time. Buffy felt like she was going to explode.

Spike was beginning to tremble beneath her, and Buffy knew he was close.

In the heat of the moment, he moved to flip her over onto her back, but the sarcophagus was too narrow, and instead of staying on the soft blanket beneath them, they landed with a loud "thud" on the cold floor below.

Spike pulled away from Buffy for a brief moment. He searched her face to see if she was all right. The fall didn't even phase her. Before he could even blink, she pulled him down to her, and resumed their kissing.

Spike began thrusting inside her frantically, Buffy bucking her hips wildly, meeting each fevered thrust. She wanted to feel all of him. Every last inch of him inside of her. It was all she ever wanted. To be complete. To be complete with Spike.

With a deep, feral growl, he pushed inside her one last time. Instantly she felt his body spasm, her own cresting over the edge in response. She screamed out his name, over and over again, as she clutched him to her. She couldn't stop saying it. She had thought she would never see him again. And now he was here and he was hers, and she wanted the entire world to know it.

Chapter Eleven: The Invitation

Several hours later, Spike woke up to find Buffy sleeping soundly beside him. He pulled out of the comforting warmth of her embrace and pushed himself up on one arm, so he could reach up and grab the blanket and pillows off the sarcophagus. Once he had them, he arranged them around Buffy and snuggled in next to her.

Spike couldn't believe that this was happening, that he was here with Buffy and everything was okay. She had told him that she loved him the night before the Apocalypse, but now there was no Apocalypse coming - at least none that they knew of anyway - and she was still here beside him. She still wanted him, even if it wasn't her last night on earth. She wanted him forever.

Spike hardened his jaw and steeled himself against the nancy-boy tears that were threatening to come. There was no reason to cry now. Buffy was here, beside him. Everything was all right.

A few minutes later she began to stir. Spike turned onto his back and Buffy cuddled herself up against his side.

"Mmm. Spike," she whispered, half-asleep and half-awake.

Spike smiled and ran a loving hand up and down her bare arm.

"Spike."

He felt her eyelashes flutter against his chest and a moment later she was pushing herself up on her elbow to look down at him.

"Beneath you luv," he said. "Always beneath you."

"Isn't that the way you like it?" she asked, moving up and placing a sensual kiss against his lips.

"Sometimes. I can't really complain with you pet. The things you do." He captured a lock of her long blond hair and let it slip through his fingers slowly, memorizing the feel. "You make me crazy, you know that don't you?"

She smiled at him. "And you wouldn't have it any other way."

Lowering herself back down to the floor, she rested her head against his bare chest and placed her hand over his heart. Her eyes drifted shut as she silently marveled at the life beating beneath his skin. She could feel the steady pulse thumping against her ear, feel it thrumming against her palm. A small smile tugged at her lips as she let the muffled rhythm lull her senses once again.

Absently, she began tracing a circle around his heart with the tip of her finger, concentrating intently on the sound within his chest.

Spike brought his hand up and captured hers, stopping it's progress. "Buffy, luv?"

"Hmm?"

"You know I love you, don't you?"

"Yes," she mumbled contentedly.

"This . . . my being human . . . are you all right with it?"

"What?" Buffy opened her eyes and pushed herself up to look at him.

"I'm not Superman anymore. I'm not even bloody Batman. I have no superpowers. I can barely keep up with you."

"I thought you were doing just fine."

"Yeah, tonight, when anything would be good enough." He dropped her hand and pushed her away slightly, propping himself up on his elbows so he could face her. "But Buffy, tonight is just one night. Tomorrow, I go back to being a pumpkin and you'll still be the Slayer."

Buffy wrapped the blanket around her chest and sat up. "Where is this coming from?"

"I just want you to be prepared, that's all. You know, I always said you needed a little monster in your man." A bitter laugh escaped his throat. "Remember tellin' Captain Cardboard that. Now look at me. No better than him. I'm not a monster anymore. You need to know that you're stuck with a bloody poet."

Buffy reached out her hand and put it against his cheek, pulling his eyes toward hers. "Listen to me Spike. I love you. You. Spike. I don't care if you're not a vampire anymore. It doesn’t matter to me. And you're no Riley. Sure, we'll have problems. But we'd have problems anyway." She let her hand drop and stared at him hard. "And I seriously doubt I've seen the last of the demon in you. I mean come on? Who knows how to piss me off better than you? It's like a gift!" She moved closer to him, leaning her chest against his. "I'll always find the evil in you, Spike," she whispered softly. "I promise."

She closed her eyes and kissed him again. Spike pulled her closer and slid back down on the floor, taking Buffy with him. Turning her over on her back, he got ready to make love to her all over again.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

"Oh, I love the night life. I got to boogie on the disco 'round, oh yea!" Clem waddled into the crypt singing at the top of his lungs. He padded over to the fridge and began rummaging through its contents.

"Bloody, bloody hell," Spike cursed, as he pushed himself off of Buffy and rested back on his arms. He stared up at Clem with murder in his eyes, waiting for the floppy giant to notice them. "Ahem," Spike cleared his throat.

"Spike?" Clem asked from the other side of the sarcophagus.

Obviously, though they could see him, Clem couldn't see them.

"Hey buddy." Clem moved around to see what was on the other side of the big stone box. "What're you doing down there on the . . .? Oh, sorry, my bad," he said. He raised a wobbly arm to shield his eyes. "Hey Buff, how you doing?" he asked without looking at her. "Life been treating you well?"

"Just fine Clem," she replied, her tone slightly amused.

"But I'm not," Spike bit back. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were out for the night."

"Well I was. You know, was gonna stay out all night? Get down and boogie?" He shook his fleshly figure in illustration. "But there was this really nasty chaos demon, getting slime all over my hot wings - so disgusting. I figured I'd just come back here, eat in my crypt in peace. But I can see . . . well," he peeked around the barrier of his arm for a brief second, and them quickly shielded his eyes again, "that I'm not going to get much peace tonight. I'll just be going then." He turned to leave the crypt.

"No wait," Buffy said, stopping him at the door. She reached down under the blanket and felt around for her clothes. "We'll be out of here in a second. No problem."

"Like hell we will!" Spike moved to get up, but Buffy reached out her hand and stopped him.

"I'm sure we'll be a lot more comfortable at my house," she said reasonably. "Now I'm sure Clem will give us a minute to get our things together and get out of his way. Right Clem?" she called across the room, never taking her eyes from Spike's.

"Oh yeah. Yeah Buffy. Whatever you need. Take a minute. Take two minutes if you like," he stammered, as he felt his way to the door, his eyes still covered. "I'll just be outside."

They heard the door close, and Buffy removed her hand from Spike. She found her bra and panties beneath the cover and started getting dressed.

"It wouldn't have killed him to find another place for the night."

"No. But it wouldn't have been right. I thought you wanted things to be different," she said, turning her head and staring at him quizzically. "Does it get any more 'different' than my bed?" She pulled on her jeans and zipped them up.

Spike just stared at her. "You're taking me home?"

"Duh," she swung her head heavenward and rolled her eyes. "God you vampires - ex-vampires," she corrected, "can be so dense. How did you ever survive a hundred years of living - non-living - being so completely and totally lacking in common sense?"

"I have plenty of common sense," he said resentfully, as he jammed his left leg, and then his right, into his jeans.

Buffy stood up and finished zipping up her boots. "Oh right. You know what sounds like a real good idea? Chaining a girl to a wall and telling her you love her. Now that will really win a girl over! Where on earth did you ever learn your people skills? The Manson Family Guide on How to Make Friends and Influence People?"

Spike stood up in front of her and pulled his black T-shirt over his head. "Oh, like you're the little social butterfly? How many vampires have you had for boyfriends? Let's count." He brought up his left hand and numbered them with his fingers. "First there was soul-boy. Boy that was a stroke of genius! Totally normal in every sense of the word. Not only a vampire, but a bloody poofter! Poor, poor Buffy." He shook his head at her sympathetically.

Buffy crossed her arms over her now clothed chest and glared at him. "And what about vampire number two? It's not my fault he was a total sadomasochistic psycho. What the hell did I know? I had just come back from the dead."

"Well now we're even."

They stood there in an awkward silence for a long moment, neither one knowing exactly what to say.

Finally, Buffy spoke. "Do you have any other stuff here?" she asked. "You should get it before we leave."

Spike shook his head, in serious denial. "You can't be serious about this. Taking me home to little sis? She hated me before, she's not gonna--"

"She doesn’t hate you," Buffy interrupted him. "She was just angry. She misses you so much Spike. She'll be so happy to see you she won't even remember that she was angry."

"Right bloody chance of that happening. She's too much like her damned sister. Bitty Buffy till the end."

"Are you coming?" She cocked an eyebrow at him in question.

Spike sighed and gave her an exasperated look. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever." He walked past her and made for the door. "I'll get my stuff tomorrow. Which . . . reminds me." He turned back on his heels and stared down at Buffy, who had been following just a few steps behind him. "I want my soddin' duster back. I said the Nibblet could borrow it. Not give it to her sister to use as a second-string Mr. Gordo."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "How did you know about that?"

"I'm psychic," he said, turning back toward the door. "I just want it back."

"Wait a minute." Buffy reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him around to look at her. "How did you know about the duster?"

"It doesn’t take a bleedin' genius to--"

"How?"

A ragged sigh escaped his lips and his shoulders dropped ever so slightly. Buffy let go of his arm and Spike pulled back a little, dropping his eyes. "I had to see you. I had to know that you were okay. The morning I woke up, I went to your house. Crept into your room and watched you sleeping. Not as easy as it was when I was a vamp. Couldn't hear you breathing through the walls. Couldn’t sense your Slayer self with instinct." He looked up at her, his blue eyes deep with emotion. "All I could do was seek you out and look at you with my own eyes. I had to know that you were safe. That you were alive."

"Spike." She moved forward and captured his mouth in a hungry kiss. When she pulled away, she whispered softly, "Come on. It's time to go home."

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