Exploration

Somehow, she had miscalculated. In her recollection of last night, she remembered Spike's cold, motionless body pressed against the ground – his eyes open, but lifeless. Buffy was certain, standing before the empty pedestal, that she was the sole survivor of the nights' events. Although her memory was hazy, the feeling of absolute isolation was clear as day. Drusilla had slipped into the light, Angel was impaled and then sucked into hell, and Spike was dead on the ground.

It felt so real, so immediate. She couldn't have been wrong.

But Spike stood before her, impatiently tapping his one good foot as he leaned against a makeshift crutch. Although his leather duster and dark jeans hid the damage underneath, Buffy could tell that – although he clearly didn't die – he had come awfully close.

"Well, Slayer?" Spike questioned, irritation evident in his voice.

Unanticipated anger surged through Buffy. "What the fuck, Spike?" she spat. "Where are we? What happened to me? What did you do?" Animosity tinged every word, and Buffy glared at him with a furious countenance.

Instead of countering her verbal attack, Spike roughly hurled a pile of material at her. Never taking her eyes from the vampire leaning against the door frame, Buffy picked through the pile. It was a misshapen men's sweater – a red, piled Hanes number – and a pair of faded cargo shorts. In any other situation, Buffy would've gagged and made a beeline to the nearest boutique; but she was acutely aware of the coagulated blood cemented to her clothing and the large, vertical rip straight down the side of her shirt.

Apprehensively, Buffy eyed the clothing, and then Spike, then back to the clothing, and once again to the door frame. As if sensing her predicament, Spike let out a large huff and ambled away from the room. The battered blonde sighed, running her hands over the rumpled fabric in front of her. She was no stranger to mid-day wardrobe changes but knew this time would be a challenge. Cautiously and slowly, Buffy raised her right arm above her head. She hissed in pain but carefully began tugging at the tattered shred of cloth that used to be her favorite shirt.

After five minutes of struggling, interspersed with a fair amount of swearing and crying out in pain, Buffy had succeeded in removing her top. She glanced down at her torso, and her stomach churned. Dozens of deep red gashes ran across her tanned skin, some still bleeding from the previous night. Dark bruises dotted her rib cage, and she was certain several of them were broken. She glanced at red sweater and hesitated – what sense would it make to put it on, when it would just get covered in blood?

While she was mulling over her limited choices, her hand skimmed over a gauzy cloth. Buffy lifted the dusty cargo shorts to discover a roll of bandages slipped into of the pocket. A sigh of relief escaped her, and she began to meticulously bandage her wounds. As she made her way up her chest, Buffy realized that one of her bra straps had been crudely by Angel – Angelus' – sword. Without another thought, she unhooked the remainder of the bra, flung it off, and began to work on the cuts scattered across her previously unmarred décolletage.

Once that mission was completed, Buffy steeled herself for her next Herculean task – getting her ruined pants off and slipping on the large pair of cargo shorts. To do so would require her to stand up, something that she was not looking forward to. In retrospect, it was a really dumb idea to wear skinny jeans.

Counting to three, Buffy held her breath and stood up – she immediately fell to the ground and let out a surprised yelp. She stilled, struggling to ride out the waves of pain and hoping that Spike didn't storm back in to see what was taking so long. Three full minutes had passed, and the room was still completely silent. If Spike had heard her cry of pain, he had no intentions of checking up on her. Buffy lifted her arm up and gripped the side of the steel cot. She had fought huge, creepy demons before… surely she could change her clothing.

Dragging herself up to her knees, Buffy hesitantly stuck out one leg and stood shakily up. She swung herself up onto the bed and began to slowly pull off her jeans. A few minutes later, she was garbed in the ensemble Spike had crudely tossed at her. Patiently, Buffy waited for Spike to return to the room.. but he didn't.

An hour passed. Buffy was growing impatient. There was no way she could hobble out of the room unassisted, especially not knowing what was on the other side. "Spike!" She yelled. Couldn't he at least have tossed her a walking stick? He wouldn't just toss her some clothes, and then take off… could he?

Another fifteen minutes ticked by. "Spike?" Buffy sighed, a vocalization suggesting a mix of desperation and dread. Again, Buffy reminded herself, she literally saved the world last night – she could get out of this room. Standing on her sturdier leg, Buffy surged forward, dragging the more damaged limb behind her. Within three minutes, she reached the door, pausing to regroup as she leaned against the decayed wood.

Realizing she was at the threshold, Buffy slowly craned her head around the door frame. A short hallway extended to the right of her, and a concrete wall about ten feet to her left. Bracing herself, Buffy ambled down the hallway, alternating between each side of the wall for support. When she reached the end of the hall, she quickly noted a small, disgusting bathroom to the right, and a larger room the left. Presuming that the restroom was not an exit, Buffy chose to continue heading left.

She hadn't noticed before, partially from breathing heavily and swearing under her breath, but soft voices were emanating from the room. While she couldn't make out the words, the voices didn't seem threatening, but almost… dramatic? Limping forward, Buffy finally made her way into the large room, her eyes instantly landing on an ancient television set. The image on the screen was static-y; two people were speaking to each other, wildly gesticulating.

The rest of the room consisted of a steel door - which Buffy had quickly taken note of – a kitchenette off to the right, a small desk against a wood paneled wall, and a worn floral couch. The Slayer glanced around – weighing her options. Her stomach growled in its emptiness – when was the last time she ate? - and she still was bleeding from her wounds. Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst idea to rest on the couch for a few minutes, and then raid the kitchenette for food.

Slowly, but with resolve, Buffy ambled toward the couch. So absolutely exhausted from the exertion, she allowed herself to flop over the arm of the couch, falling free onto.. a body.

"OI! Slayer!"