Homeward Bound
By Mayfly
Rating: Tame, I tell you, tame
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, not my toys, but I'm gonna play
with them anyway.
Spoilers: Fanwank for Season 7
Summary: Home's the place that, when you have to go there,
they have to take you in.
A/N: the more I think about it, this may end up being a
prologue to another fic I'm writing. Who knows...



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Homeward Bound
***************


Night had finally come to London, and the rail stations
were bustling with revelers trying to catch the last trains
out of town. The tourists had long vanished for the night.
Paddington Station had once again been turned over to the
natives.

A group of American Students huddled over a map,
overstuffed backpacks never leaving their side as they
scurried to find shelter for the night while a throng of
drunken would-be hooligans sporting Arsenal shirts tried
their best to harass a poor bloke whose only crime was
donning Chelsea colors. And if you looked close enough, you
could spot a trio of Rubczek demons playing a game of
hearts in the shadows.

At quick glance, London hadn't changed much in the thirty
years he'd been gone. Sure, many of the nuances had
changed. The angry punk rock of the Seventies had long
yielded to the throbbing sounds of techno. Cell phones had
become de rigueur and the euro loomed unwelcome on the
horizon.

But this London hardly felt like home. Hadn't in decades.
His old haunts had either been leveled by the Blitz or had
long been swept away in the name of industrial progress.
Everything seemed harsh and bright. For a moment, he longed
for the day of gaslights and cobblestone streets.

Home or not, it was a place to start. After months of
meandering his way though Africa and Europe, surviving on
the kindness of both the living and undead, it was time for
Spike to finally start the final leg of his journey and
make his way home, wherever that was. He'd wandered long
enough like a ghost, floating through the world without
ever truly being seen or leaving his mark. He'd been a
phantom long enough and it was finally time to rejoin the
land of the living.

He glanced briefly at the timetables on the wall and made
his way to the ticket counter. Digging into his front
pocket, he pulled out a wad of crumpled bank notes and
handed them to the cashier. "Single to Bath," he quietly
requested as he waited for his ticket and change.

Slinging his pack over one shoulder, he made his way toward
the platforms. He easily blended into the crowd. Another
ragged traveler among the herd of backpackers criss-
crossing Europe. His trademark black attire had been traded
for convenience. His black boots were long gone, and more
comfortable hiking boots had taken their stead. His slim
black jeans had been replaced with a faded pair of blue
Levi's he'd won in a card game in Tel Aviv, and he was
drowning in a marl colored sweater he'd found abandoned in
a hostel somewhere along the way. It was a size or two too
big, and its cuffs were frayed at the wrists. But as the
autumn chill started to settle across Europe, it had
quickly become a prized possession.

He wasted no time finding his train. Last one out for the
night, it was half-empty. Suited him fine as the last thing
he wanted to do was stomach another crowd. He wasn't sure
if the chip in his head still worked, but it didn't take
much these days for a blinding headache to blossom behind
his eyes. Tonight, the guilty culprit had been the bustling
cacophony from the city around him that had jarred his
senses.

Finding a pair of vacant seats, he flung his heavy backpack
into the seat next him and hoped the others would take the
hint and find a different place to sit. The damn thing
seemed to grow heavier with each detour of his travels. But
it was his only connection to the rest of the world these
days. Two pairs of clean socks, his long, black t-shirt,
and an extra set of jeans.

He'd tucked away a weathered copy of Inferno under his heap
of clothes. Quite fitting, he'd thought when he found it in
a used bookshop a few weeks back. Dante had nailed Hell
right on the head. Made Sunnydale and its supposed
Hellmouth seem like a five-star spa. It wasn't the fire and
brimstone that had been preached in sermons for ages. No,
Hell was a personal journey that was cold and barren. It
was a lonely void where you froze into a solid mass with
only your past transgressions as company, where you hope
that you, too, will be devoured by the beast just so your
suffering would end. He'd spent the past few months there
enduring his own personal Inferno, and the tattered book
had become his passport. He'd seen the inner circle and it
was high time he climbed out.

Lost in his thoughts, Spike hadn't realized the train had
left the station until he gazed out to the blackened
countryside. "Ticket, please," the uniformed agent asked
drawing him from his reverie. Without saying a word, the
vampire automatically dug into his coat pocket and pulled
out the little orange card from the pages of his forged
passport. Long after the agent had punched the card and
made his way to the next rail car, he clung to the
passport. On paper, he was a person, but in actuality he
still felt as real as the forgery in his hands. Sure, he
walked and talked like any other on the train. But no
matter of paperwork would change the fact that he was still
a demon, a monster with a history littered with murderous
mistakes and unforgivable stupidity. Soul or not, he
couldn't deny his true existence.

Exhaustion had become a familiar bedfellow and hunger a
constant companion. He was nowhere near the skeletal stage,
but his clothes hung looser on him by the day. The pint of
bitter and plate of curry in London had taken the pangs
away, but it had been nearly a fortnight since he'd had any
blood and his stomach roiled in empty protest. Unlike the
Hellmouth, reliable supplies of blood had been few and far
in between. Wandering as a nomad had only made the search
harder. Granted he could have easily found a meal of rats
deep in the bowels of the Underground, but he hadn't sunk
that low yet. Damn it, if he was going to masquerade as a
human, then he was going to feed like one. Only animals fed
on vermin. He'd gone to sleep hungry many a night, and he
knew he could hold out a little longer.

Like clockwork, the snack cart made its way down the aisle.
Nothing ever sounded appealing - overpriced crips and
tasteless chocolate bars. "Something from the trolley?" the
portly employee asked. Too bad they didn't sell a pint of
O-negative. For that, he'd easily hand over a king's
ransom.

Spike fished a golden pound coin out of his pocket and
settled for something on the menu. "Tea, please," he
requested, waiting for his change.

For as pricey at is was, the steaming drink hardly lived up
the label emblazoned on the side of the paper cup. Yes,
technically it was 'leaf tea.' It was warm, and wet. But
after that, it was a tasteless substitute for such an
English mainstay. More like floor sweepings steeped in hot
water. Couldn't believe he had just wasted nearly a pound
on the drink. But he was too tired to complain, and he
savored its warmth as it permeated though the cup and
warmed his chilled hands. Blowing away the steam, he took a
sip and settled back into the seat while the tea cooled
just a bit further.

If only life could be so simple to complain about a bad cup
of tea, he mused to himself. It was the least of his
worries. The train would be pulling into Bath in no time,
and he wasn't quite sure he was ready to face the scariest
part of his journey. A twinge of icy dread suddenly knotted
his stomach as he thought about reconnecting with his past.
How do you atone for over a century of inexcusable fuck
ups, for betraying your loved ones and vanishing without a
trace? At one time he thought that knowledge would come as
a package deal with the soul. But no, as he learned along
the way from Africa, it was something that came from
within. Epiphanies were never free, he added with a swipe
through his tangled, grimy hair, the last of its platinum
cut off six weeks ago by a half-blind demon in Budapest.

But had nowhere else to turn, and he was running out of
options. For the moment, Bath seemed far less intimidating
than Sunnydale.

God, he was tired. His whole body ached for even a few
minutes of sleep, and it was so tempting to rest his head
on the rattling window and doze for just a few minutes.
But the last thing he wanted to do was drift off. That's
when the dreams came. They always did. Haunted memories
that came unbidden, grotesque reminders of what he'd
squandered. It had been months since he'd heard her voice.
But in the folds between reality and sleep he could still
hear it full of fear and seething anger.

**"Ask me again why I could never trust you?**

His eyes snapped open, and Spike awoke with a strangled
gasp as tepid tea sloshed on his lap. "Bloody hell," he
muttered to himself as he surveyed the mess and tried
desperately to draw as little attention to himself as
possible. Fortunately, the other occupants in the car were
either asleep themselves, too inebriated to care, or lost
in their own private little worlds.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. Long enough for
the memories to find him, that's for sure. With a shaking
hand, he absently took a sip from the paper cup. Cold and
bitter, like everything in his life these days.

It didn't take long before the trail pulled into the Bath
station. Spike crushed the empty paper cup and tossed it in
his seat as he rose and looped his arms through his
backpack and exited the compartment.

The stars were out in full force. There was not a cloud in
the moonless sky. The wind had picked up since he'd left
London, and he zipped up the front of his second-hand coat
to ward off the biting chill. In the dark he made out the
clock by the empty ticket window - half past one - and
found the faded city map secured behind a thick, scratched
layer of plexiglass. Setting his pack on the ground, he
dug out the copy of Dante and retrieved the torn bit of
envelope he'd been using as a bookmark. "9 Rockliffe Road,"
the fragment read. End of the road, or just the beginning.
He wasn't sure. Spike squinted and wished for a little
better lighting as he tried to find corresponding street on
the map.

Target sighted, he tried his best to memorize the
directions, grabbed his pack and started the final leg of
his trek. This one would be taken on foot. He strode past
the lone taxi outside the station and walked into the
darkened night. Part of him wanted to prolong the
inevitable. The other welcomed the last precious moments of
solitude. He wouldn't call it brooding, but he was getting
damn close.

Bath had gone to bed, her shops and local pubs closed for
the night. In the distance the abbey rose above the Roman
spa, keeping silent watch over the town below. Even now he
had faint memories of visiting the town when he was a small
child. Family holiday if he recalled correctly, doing the
Victorian pilgrimage to take in the waters and all that
rot.

The streets were all but empty, and the faint scent of
burning coal from a fireplace wafted through the breeze. A
stray ginger-striped cat darted from a yard, paused briefly
on its journey to look him over before vanishing back into
the foliage. Most of the windows were darkened for the
night, but he could easily make out the flickering blue
glow of a television behind a pulled shade.

He kept time to the quiet cadence of his footsteps echoing
against the pavement. A dog barked plaintively in the
distance. It was such a stark contrast to the perpetual
motion and roaring chaos that was London. Not a single vamp
or demon in sight, he thought to himself as he passed a
small cemetery.

Thirty minutes and one wrong turn later, he finally found
his destination. The front garden was small, choked by
unruly ivy and weeds, and the curtain in the window
obscured the front room Not a single light was on. It's
occupant, no doubt, sleeping like the rest of the town.

Spike paused before heading up the front steps. If his
palms could have, they would've been drenched in a clammy
sweat. He swallowed against a parched throat. Four more
steps, how hard could that be? Facing the trials in Uganda
had been easy in comparison. Facing his past in a few
minutes, now that was terrifying.

He clutched the rail for a moment before making the ascent.
Could it be as easy as knocking on the door and saying,
"Hi, Dad, I'm back! Found a soul on the way home, can I
keep it?" and return like the lost, prodigal son? He'd be
lucky if he weren't staked on site. Hopefully the old man
would welcome him in just as he had the last time he turned
up on his doorstep shivering like a drowned rat.

His hands flexed nervously as he raised up a fist to
knocked on the door. Finally, after a deep breath, he
gently knocked and waited. Honestly, he didn't know what to
expect. But after receiving no response, he wrapped his
knuckles against the door a second time, his stomach
tightening in a knot as a light flipped on inside.

Someone trudged down a flight of stairs. He could hear a
heartbeat draw closer until it was directly behind the
door. Spike swore he could feel an eye bear down on him
through the tiny peephole. The front light blinked on, and
the door opened.

"Spike?" Rupert Giles incredulously asked through a yawn.

His voice suddenly lost, he stuffed his hands in his front
pockets. Glancing anxiously at his boots before turning his
gaze back at the watcher, he quietly asked, "Can I come
in?"

Spike wasn't quite sure what had transpired between them.
Glasses nowhere in sight, the older man squinted at him as
though shocked by the wraith standing on his stoop. Maybe
it was pity. Perhaps patience. But there were no stakes, no
angry words of condemnation followed by a slam of the door.
Instead, Giles tightened his blue terry robe and nodded his
head.

"Come in, Spike," he offered as he stepped out of the way.

The unseen and impenetrable barrier was lifted from the
doorway with those three little words. He knew his voice
would fail him. Once again he found himself blessed by the
mercy of others, knowing it was a debt that he may never be
able repay. Silently nodding his thanks, Spike crossed over
the threshold and closed the door behind him.