Spoilers for Season Seven

Title: The Burning Night

Rating: R

Genre: Future-fic, dark, angst

Author: DC – devils_symphony@hotmail.com

Pairing: Buffy/Spike

Status: Complete, one shot

Summary: In the year 3098, the fourth of January, in a lonely little apartment the landlord had forgotten about, the starved, alone Spike remembers things, like golden hair, smiles that made the night burn colours of the world, stupid and noble deaths alike, and gunshots ringing in his ears.

WARNINGS: A lot of character death, a lot of angst, some disturbing imagery, some harsh language.

Distribution: Really? Well, sure. Just email me with your addy.

Disclaimer: The characters are owned by Joss Whedon, no intention of infringing on copyrights, I'm not making a profit.

A/N: Okay, so, I was having a serious case of writers' block. SERIOUS MUCHO case. (For all that don't know, I'm working on a series called 'Morbid Curiosity' and I'm stuck. Badly.) So, I wrote this as an exercise. Enjoy. *bright smile* Also, Spike never died at the end of season seven. Shushums.

New York, 4th of January, '98

The apartment was furniture-less. In the year of '98, it was impossible for even the cleverest of demons to steal, and Spike had no money, not a dollar. The year had taken a turn to '98 (3098, that is) a few days ago. Happy New bloody Year. No one really celebrated it anymore – Spike remembered when people used to. There were streamers, there were songs, there were oaths and resolutions, kisses, hugs, and all that rot. Spike was never a part of it (and never wanted to be) but he knew how the whole thing was meant to go. But as the earth reached its 3000 years and so forth, no one really celebrated anything. Birthdays were given a vague acknowledgement, Christmas was an embarrassing thing your grandparents told about that their own grandparents had forced them to do when they were younger, and Easter...what's Easter?

The sun had started over the city skyline (there were no horizons now, unless you were out at sea), indicating that it was the morning. Cheerful sunlight streamed through the medium sized window to Spike's bedroom sans furniture. The vampire sat against the wall, hands resting on his knees. He wore a faded, loosely fitted, emerald green shirt made of klatch (a new sort of material that needed no ironing) where the sleeves ended just before the tips of Spike's ragged fingernails. Funnily enough, denim was still in fashion. Some things never died out. This denim was black and worn thin. Frayed at any edge, with holes in the knees from being slowly worn away. Old, worn shoes were kicked away in front of Spike, now getting illuminated by the sun.

It wasn't the fact that the clothes were too large. For Spike's natural size, they'd have been perfect. But after not feeding at all for six months, Spike was starting to look like a famine, a disease too commonly known in this world. Countries in the Middle East had been nuked, because a new disease had started up, thanks to the lack of food, malnutrition and general health problems. About a thousand years ago, people would have disagreed with such a harsh action. But now? Now no one cared. Bomb the disease-infested scoundrels, just don't expect me to pay via tax.

Absently, Spike ran a bony, slender hand threw his thin, ash coloured hair, cut crudely just above his shoulders. It hadn't greyed with age. It had simply faded. The vampire stared at his hand within the safe darkness of the recesses of the room. The skin was stretched, it seemed, as if shrinking to fit his skeletal frame. His skin was also porcelain white, and he was pretty much impossible to scar. He had tested this. Two days ago, in fact. Besides his clothes, his only possession was a switchblade. Two nights ago, he had cut his wrist, and watched dully as the skin instantly healed itself back up, like a zipper closing a pencil case. He had licked the blood off the blade and did it again. This wasn't a recent discovery, despite his latest testing. He'd discovered this about three hundred years ago. Ish. And he'd done it, perhaps once a week or more, ever since, a small flame igniting in his chest at the flicker of pain, and then nothing. Spike hadn't worked out what that flame was. Emotion? Doubtful. He hadn't felt that in a while. But it was starting to get to him.

Sometimes, with hurting himself, he felt things.

He'd remember, sometimes, of his life a thousand and a bit years ago. With her and her golden hair and her green eyes and her smile that set the night on fire... Yeah, he didn't need the knife to make him burn inside. He just needed to say her name... Buffy...

Spike tore his eyes away from his wrist, towards where the sunlight beamed out of the window, onto his boots, making the dark blue carpeting seem lighter in tone. He tossed the knife aside and struggled to get to his feet. No use. He was too weak. A vampire, maybe six hundred years younger than him, wouldn't be able to move from the starvation – but Spike was strong now. He was truly a child of the millennium. He felt like he couldn't die. Some would find that a comforting thought. Spike felt like screaming in frustration. After a few more efforts of trying to stand, he gave up, and crawled towards where the light was, stopping just before it. With morbid curiosity, he reached out a hand, chuckling mirthlessly, as the translucence of his skin seemed to glow, before pale grey smoke curled up from his outstretched fingers. He only felt it burning as small flames ignited on his palm, spreading up his fingers, stopping at his fingernails. Spike pulled it back, and the flames just disappeared unnaturally. The skin hadn't even blistered. Growling in frustration, Spike put his hand out again, and kept it there for half a minute, before hissing in pain and pulling back. Now, he gasped. The pure whiteness that was his flesh was now red and raw, and he almost cried with delight. Colour! He wasn't just the epitome of pale!

He gave a choking sob, running his other hand over the wound, shaking uncontrollably. God, he was feeling. Inside and outside. He had colour. He wasn't just pure white. God, in all his years, Spike had convinced himself that if he kept cutting down, all he'd find his whiteness, like trying to cut through milk. But no, he had colour, he was solid, he was fucking real! There were real tears in his eyes now, which was a wonder. But he hadn't cried in a long time, so he figured he had some liquid to spare.

Spike sat back in wonder, watching as the burn healed in front of his eyes. Raw red, lighter, pink now, peachy, oh god, human flesh! And then white, bloody, bloody white. He sighed, closing his eyes now and wiping away the tears. If anyone saw him now...

Huh, who could? Everyone he had ever known was dead.

Images played out inside his head, like those holographic movies they had brought out a hundred and forty years ago. Yeah, Willow, she was the first of the Scoobies to die and stay dead, in Spike's books. How had she died? The millennium vampire struggled to remember. Oh yes. Once an addict, always an addict. She'd tried to destroy the world once before. Three years later, she had tried again, after flipping out because her Slayer-honey had died. It hadn't worked, obviously. Vi, one of the Slayers that had helped saved the world, was the one to bring her back to normal redheaded Willow, the only one from the previous army to keep in contact with the Scoobies, setting aside Kennedy. Three days later, it had been Dawn to find Willow hanging from the curtain frame, a silken but strong scarf around Red's neck. The brunette hadn't stopped screaming for a few minutes, which is where Spike had come in, the second one to witness Red's dead body. Being the closest, he'd run in when he had heard Dawn's screams, and instantly cut Willow down, before trying in vain to comfort the young brunette.

In the present day, Spike shuddered, remembering that. Dawn just wouldn't stop screaming.

Andrew, the little sci-fi freak, had been the next to snuff it. Spike had been surprised that the little twit had survived this long. It wasn't a noble death. He'd attempted to help on a patrol. He'd got his head cut off instead. Spike hadn't been there, but Buffy had told him the details she hadn't shared with her faint-hearted friends. And then Xander. Spike had actually grown to like the boy over the years. Now, Harris's death was what Spike called stupid. He had been there for that, standing next to the Slayer, who was chatting light heartedly to Faith and Vi. It was just after sun set and the boy was walking across the road towards the girls and Spike. To this day, Spike remembered his words.

"Now, you'd think that ketchup would be free."

Spike had laughed, since the girls hadn't noticed. Xander's hands were full with McDonalds take-away bags, complaining about how he had to buy packets of the red sauce for a dollar a piece. Spike had started to remark that they should probably blame Bill Gates (a running in-joke between the two men), when... One eye gone, on the wrong side. If Xander had two eyes, he'd probably have leapt out of the way of incoming Mitsubishi. But no, only one.

"Now, you'd think that ketchup would be free."

Spike remembered that his throat and hurt when he'd yell the boy's name. Xander had turned to see the big blue monster bear down onto him. The bags skittered off elsewhere, and Spike ran out on to the road, the girls only just noticing. Buffy yelled Xander's name in the same volume Spike had. The rest was a blur. He remembered kneeling beside Xander, next to the Slayer, in front of Faith, and Vi, who was crying. A crowd had gathered, someone had called an ambulance, Spike had smelt the blood but couldn't see it... Xander hadn't seen the car. Xander had one eye. Xander died a stupid pointless death. Too stupid for a man who'd devoted his life from the age of fifteen to fight the good fight. Spike remembered the funeral. Buffy had cried and refused to be held. Faith had remained stoic, Vi had cried, and Spike had held her. Giles had wept, softly, quietly and discreetly. A few of the Slayers that had helped defeat the First those years back – Rhona, amongst them – had turned up, some crying in varying levels of intensity, some trying not to. A night-time funeral. When Rhona and Vi comforted each other, Spike broke down for the first and final time for Xander's death. Everyone but immediate friends had been surprised – Buffy, Faith, Vi and Giles all knew that Spike and Xander and grown to be friends. He remembered feeling useless and pathetic and awkward in the suit he was made to wear, standing a little way from the ceremony, leaning against a tree that Xander would be buried ten metres away from, crying like he hadn't done in years.

Spike shook himself from his memories. Giles had died, but he'd been in England. Only about a month after the ex-Watcher's death had he been told by a stoic Vi. Not long after, Faith, dark Slayer, never stopping to rest, fighting until she bled, starved and craved, died. Now, she was one that had had a noble death. Killed herself for the cause – the bloody, stupid, useless cause. Cleveland – the second Hellmouth and Giles had once mentioned – needed the blood of a Slayer to close. The Scoobies had tried everything, but ultimately, they needed to kill a Slayer for it to work. Only the power of a Slayer's blood would kill this particular Gate of Hell – the goodness the fluid represented, blood that had been shed for the fight, would seal it. While their backs had been turned, Faith had taken a knife to her throat. We don't know why she had sacrificed herself. Spike thought that she had always had a death wish, more than any of the Slayers in the world. Didn't matter now. Vi left the Scoobies, and Spike had never heard from her again.

Then, there was Buffy's death.

Sounds from outside drifted through the walls. Spike lay down on his side, too tried to keep sitting up. He grabbed his switchblade, pressing it absently against the palm of his hand, licking away the blood that trickled there, watching it heal, before he did it again, feeling the familiar spark that was, no, could be emotion. Buffy's death and come after Faith's, after Vi's running away... No. Not Buffy. Dawn. She was the one to go next. It had been the three of them. Buffy, Dawn and Spike. Dawn was an excellent fighter. Buffy – a thirty-two-year-old woman at this point – had trained her well, and Spike had filled in the missing gaps that consisted of fighting dirty. Dawn had been twenty-five when she had met her match. The girl was dancing with death – and stepping on death's toes. Dawn always had a reckless side to her that both Spike and Buffy tried to tame, but no. She had started down the path that was Faith's, instead of Buffy's. Finally, cockiness swelling her head, the woman that was once upon a time mature for her age and was now reckless and ignorant, and tried to fight what she couldn't. She'd taken on too many vampires at once – her death hadn't been stupid, like Xander's, nor had it been noble, like Faith's. It had been...horrific. Spike only knew what he was told by witnesses. After a lengthy battle with a pack of vampires in the place that was once a teenage hang out – the Bronze – and now a dingy but spacious bar, she had been dragged off, broken, bruised and bloodied.

After that, Spike could only speculate.

Dawn crumpled form had turned up on the Summers' doorstep a night later. Buffy had found her and had been silent. Spike had found her just standing there, looking down at her sister. Spike had dragged her inside, kissed her lightly and stepped out, shutting the door, leaning down to inspect the girl. She was naked, and her neck was clearly broken. Spike remembered looking around, furious passers-by hadn't seen what had happened but Spike realised that it would have been too dark. Dawn's lips were bruised, and so were her staring eyes. She'd been scratched at, beaten, hurt. Trying not to vomit up his last meal of cows' blood, Spike had gritted his teeth and checked to see if his worse fears were right, and they were. Dawn had been raped, multiple times by the looks of it. Additional things including broken fingers, no fingernails, no tongue, cane, whip and belt marks that were familiar to him. He'd held the body, taken it without going back in for Buffy, and had come back to find Buffy hysterical, holding a gun to her temple.

Spike had opened the door after getting rid of Dawn's body – it had never occurred to an ex-murderer like him to call the authorities – to find Buffy wailing, crying loudly, barrel to her head, shaking. "Buffy, please," he said before anything.

"Everyone's dying, everyone's gone," the Slayer whimpered, her face red and tear stained. "I'm alone."

"No, luv, please," Spike had pleaded, stepping closer. He wondered where she had got the pistol, but he figured that it was probably useful at times. Not at that moment, though. "I'm here, I'll take care of you," he assured, stopping an inch away from the sobbing Slayer. Unable to speak, Buffy leant into him, one around his neck, the other still holding the gun to her temple. Spike held her, convinced that she'd put the gun down, until the ear-shattering BANG rang out. "No," he whispered, a whine in his ears, almost deafened by the gun's blast at such a close range and with sensitive vampiric hearing. The smell of blood was sharp, and he let her fall. He saw the exit wound, ripping apart her beautiful, angelic face. Shaking, he knelt down, holding a trembling hand over it, the aroma of her blood driving his senses crazily. He hadn't noticed that he couldn't hear anything for the time being. He remembered holding her close and sobbing like a schoolboy, stroking her hay coloured hair, trying to keep the warmth that was quickly ebbing away out of her body. No more life, he was alone now.

He'd carried her up to the bathroom, undressed her, bathed her, tried not to look at her dead eyes. He found an old nightdress that was probably Joyce's, but it seemed appropriate. It was lacy and white and she looked like an angel if you didn't look at her wound. She looked rumpled, as one does when redressed inexpertly after death. Spike had left the bath, lined with the Slayer's red. The Slayer. She topped them all. He'd lain her in bed, and after a hesitation, he had done so next to her, leaning his head against her cooling chest, falling asleep. The night after as the smell of death became over bearing for his heightened senses, he'd ran from Sunnydale, never to return again.

Buffy...

It was January the fourth, in the year 3098. Spike lay on his stomach, head turned to the side, one armed crooked up and acting as a pillow, the other folded under him as he stared at his boots in the sunshine, thinking thoughts that he hadn't tried to remember for hundreds of years. The flicker of feeling that ignited in him occasionally was a raging inferno and he didn't try to stop the tears from flowing. He had no one. Everyone he had ever loved was dead. He was alone. He'd survived for so many centuries, and for what? It was a cruel torture. Six months ago, he stopped feeding simply because he couldn't be bothered. A few minutes ago, he'd burned himself to see colour on his skin. Three hundred years ago, he'd cut himself to see what would happen. Six hundred years ago, he had stopped bothering to breathe. One thousand and ninety-seven years ago, he'd fallen in love with what was supposed to be his most hated enemy. Times had changed.

Struggling to his hands and knees, the sobbing that made his body shudder making it harder to move, he crawled towards the window, and he lay down in the sunlight. It took a few seconds for the pain to kick in, but for those blissful few seconds, Spike felt warm. Memories from two thousand and more years ago flashed back, of when he was a human adolescent, visiting his cousin's farm down south of England (what a wasteland that was now), during the summer, lying in the sun that would be covered with cloud just as quickly. For a moment, Spike felt happily human. And than he began to burn, and for the first time in a millennia, Spike felt at peace. Truly, truly at peace.

Even as flames ignited on his body, he rolled over and sat up with some difficulty, opening his eyes, seeing only white. It hurt like hell, but it was refreshing, almost, like he needed the pain. He was dying, and he knew it, and he welcomed it, laughing mentally like a child might. And then he saw her. Sunshine hair cascading down her petite shoulders like a waterfall of liquid gold, only cool, not burning. She wore white, but what, he didn't know, because as he sat in the middle of the apartment bedroom, all he saw were her glowing green eyes, her smile set the night sky on fire, streaks of gentle gold and white streaking across the ebony, like a summer breeze in the winter chills. Took you long enough... Her voice seemed to appear in his head, like she had said it, but the words had skipped the actual getting to his ears. Come with me, William.

He went with her. The night burned. The sunlight sang. The gun of his memories fell silent. And in the year 3098, the fourth of January, in a lonely little apartment the landlord had forgotten about, ashes blew away in a warm breeze that seemed to come from nowhere in the forlorn, dying world.

End