NOTE: As of June 29, chapters 1-9 are up on ff.net. Because the chapter-forwarding feature isn't working, just type "http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=830838&chapter=4" and so on to get to the new chapters :).


Ten Thousand
by wisteria

3. The Nile



Spike had no idea where Whistler had gotten mac 'n cheese – the good kind, with the foil packet of Velveeta – in Uganda of all places, but he was damned grateful anyway. The stuff had never tasted so good, and Lord knows he'd had enough crappy macaroni last summer when he was Dawn-sitting.

It was good to be around another demon with a taste for American junk food. Clem was the only non-human back in Sunnydale who didn't make fun of it.

Ah, homesickness. Spike figured that he was officially homesick, but things were still screwed up enough back there that after having far too long to think about it that afternoon, he decided he was best off staying away for the time being.

It was because of the nightmares.

Never really had been the nightmare sort. Hell, Buffy and her cartoon friends would say that his whole existence was a nightmare, sod 'em. Back in the day, what they would've considered bad dreams, he'd just called "fun yet to have."

But as he tossed and turned on the crappy sofa in Whistler's living room, he had nightmares. In them, he was doing things like beating Buffy senseless, turning Dawn, watching and laughing as the whole world exploded into flames. God, so much had changed for him in the past two years. Weren't those supposed to be good dreams for the average vampire?

He would've said that it was the soul, except he'd been having dreams like that since he left Sunnydale five days ago. On the way to Frankfurt, he royally pissed off the rather charming flight attendant who had done such a good job of keeping him in a dark corner of the cabin. Woke everyone up with his screams, and ended up huddled under a crappy plane blanket for the last four hours of the trip.

Part of him wanted to go back and make things right again, to tell Buffy that even if she never wanted to see him again – even if she followed up by shoving a stake in his chest – he would never again be the kind of man who could do such things to her.

The other part of him was scared shitless by the prospect of facing her or any of them again. Fear of what they thought of him was a strange new emotion. He didn't think he liked it, but there it was, all the same.

Whistler got up and went into the kitchen for more tea. When he'd left, Spike glanced over at the phone again. For twenty minutes after he'd awakened from the latest batch of nightmares, he'd had his hand on the phone, trying to decide whether to call them. He wondered what was going on there. Things had been a bloody mess when he left, and not just because of the whole bathroom thing. Most of it had to do with him, what with the Anya screw-up and Dawn hating him.

Better to just stay away, but he couldn't stop staring at the phone. He wanted to know for sure.

Whistler came back in with a fresh pot, and Spike's attention was drawn away from the phone. Good. Another attempt diverted. Not knowing was better than the alternative; at least this way he could imagine rather than know for sure that everyone was happier he was gone.

"So, where are you gonna go?" Whistler asked around a mouthful of tea.

"Huh?" Spike refilled his own mug. Bloke could make a damn good cuppa, he had to admit.

"Unless you're planning to pay rent, you're going to have to vacate. I'm due in South Korea soon. Something about demon soccer fans who are trying to throw the World Cup for the Brazilians. Me, I couldn't care less, but The Powers That Be are big England fans."

Spike chuckled for the first time in hours, and it felt kind of good. "As well they should be."

"Seriously, though. You're probably dying to get back to the Slayer. Gotta show off that shiny new soul of yours." He shook his head. "Man, still can't believe that, of all the girls in the world, you're with her."

All Whistler had to do to snap Spike out of his funk was bring up Buffy. Figured. "She's bloody amazing. Even if I'd never touched her, I'd still want to be around her. That's the sort of woman she is."

"I'll take your word on that one. Only time I've ever been face-to-face with her, she knocked me into a wall." He paused and Spike laughed. Whistler continued, "Saw her once before that, but not all that much. So yeah, never really seen the softer side of the Slayer. Or of Sears, for that matter, but that's another story."

Spike took a long sip of the tea, feeling the way it flowed down his throat like honey. Good stuff. Better than blood, even. "She's got magnificent –"

"—Tracts of land?"

That earned Whistler a loud laugh. Just thinking about her made Spike almost happy again. "I was going to say 'reflexes'. Girl can fight better than I can, and I've had a century of practice. I'm supposed to want to kill this Slayer like the other two I did in, but when we go out patrolling, I'm right there trying to dust anyone who'd dare lay a finger on her. And she's so good at it that there's no vampires left for me to kill once she's through with 'em."

Absence did make the heart grow fonder, even if the nightmares wouldn't leave him alone. When he snapped out of the memory-fuzz and looked up, Whistler was gone. He came back with one of the blood bags Spike had stashed in the fridge. Spike took it with a nod of thanks, and poured it in the empty glass next to the teapot.

Whistler sat down and finished off the macaroni, then dunked a French fry into some ketchup. The demon ate more human food than Spike did, but Spike was glad for it. Sure beat all the crap the vendors were selling down in the market yesterday.

"Gotta say I'm surprised, Spike. I never would've expected that little kid to get so good at her job. Hell, I remember telling Angel that she was going to have a tough time of it."

That got Spike's attention. "What do you mean?"

Whistler shoved another fry in his mouth. "Angel and I were there when she got called. Man, she was just a kid. Looked like a cheerleader or someone you'd see in one of those stupid teen sitcoms. I didn't think she was strong enough to hold a tube of lipstick – and she was definitely the lipstick type – much less a stake. Guess it goes to show that people will prove you wrong each time."

All of this was fascinating to Spike, but he wasn't sure he wanted to hear more. The trip down memory lane was great at first, but now just thinking about Buffy was getting to him. Too much to handle. Too many thoughts of what she could've been if her life hadn't gotten so bloody dark in the past year.

So he sat back on the sofa, pressing a hand to his temple. He felt another headache coming on.

The two men were silent for a little while longer; Spike was glad that as talky as Whistler could get, he also seemed to know when to keep mum.

After a while, Whistler repeated his earlier question. "Where are you gonna go?"

"Dunno." Spike took a deep breath; the taste of blood and tea was still in his throat. "I thought I was going to go straight back to Sunnydale, but now I think I want to just lay low for a while and figure all of this out."

"Good plan. Not that I want to kick you out, but it's getting close to sunset. If you're going to leave, now's the time." A pause, then, "You thinking of heading north?"

Spike realized he hadn't given it much thought. It hit him that he'd briefly pondered going up to Berlin again and maybe stop in Athens to see someone, but that was a hell of a long way away. So he just said, "Yeah."

Whistler walked over to a table near the front door. "For my money, I'd go with driving up the Nile. Great scenery. Locals who don't ask questions or speak much English. Cairo is a good town, and you can get a ferry there over to Greece, if that's your speed. I've got a map here if you want it."

He tossed it over, and Spike said, "Thanks."

"For what it's worth, I haven't heard anything else about you from the Powers. Lucky for you, I guess they're done with you for the time being." He went back over to his chair, then said, "So now it's all up to you."

Spike ran a finger along the crease of the map, but he kept his eyes closed. "Yeah, it's all up to me."





Nearly an inch of dust and grime coated his entire body – over the clothes, at least. When he arrived in Aswan two nights after leaving Kampala, Spike was dying to find a place where he could shower and buy some new togs, not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, Egypt wasn't up on Americana like 24-hour Wal-Marts.

There was only one option left.

He checked into the Isis Palace Resort at 2 a.m., rather enjoying the feeling of signing the credit card receipt. Made him feel like a rich guy. A vampire checking into a resort was bizarre beyond measure, but Spike swallowed the potential embarrassment. Didn't know why, but he was just in a mood to be somewhere nice for a change – well, someplace that wasn't coated in dust like yesterday's hovel in Khartoum.

Instead of going straight over to the bungalow he'd hired, he skulked around the main building until he found the guest laundry facilities. The lock was easy to jimmy. The tourists here were wealthy enough that they'd never miss a shirt or two.

Dismal pickings. He felt like a prat in khaki pants and white shirt that didn't fit quite right, but damned if he was going to get caught naked if some security guard stumbled in. He shoved his own clothes in the washer and sat down to wait.

Bored out of his mind, he grabbed the wet clothes from the washer when it stopped, and followed directions to the bungalow. Let the clothes air-dry or whatever; Spike just wanted to be somewhere where he could sit comfortably and do absolutely nothing. With every step, his body vibrated from the hum of the cycle. He liked the bike well enough, but not for two days straight.

And when he got to the bungalow... well, it definitely beat the crypt. It wasn't especially fancy, but it had a large bed, decent sofa, and full bath. Even a little icebox for the blood.

Spike went to it first, unzipping the backpack and opening the fridge. Then the first smile since Kampala spread over his face.

A mini-bar.

He shoved the little bottles aside after taking out a Stoli, then began to stack the bags. Still had fourteen, which should last him until Cairo.

Once that was done, he unscrewed the vodka bottle and emptied it in one dose. He could feel it go down each centimeter of his throat, and God, it felt good. Thank heavens for hotels in Muslim countries that catered to Western tourists. He refilled the bottle with water, letting himself sway a bit with the first hit of alcohol after days without it.

Still felt dirty, though. He stripped off the ugly stolen clothes and went into the bathroom decorated with the best in '70s chic. And that's when it hit him.

Spike didn't know why it was such a shock to see an empty mirror, but it was. It brought back memories that were both good and bad.

Stealing into Buffy's bedroom on the night of her twenty-first birthday and surprising her as she stood in front of the full-length mirror. Watching the lightning-quick flash of happiness play over her features when he touched her, until she smoothed out her face into a moue of annoyance. Feeling her acquiesce to his touch, as they both stared at her reflection. He had run his fingers through her hair, over her breasts and down her belly, and the intrigue and bemusement on her face didn't lie, even as the hands in the mirror pushed at the air and shoved him away.

Yeah, that had been a good moment.

But tonight, he didn't see anything in the mirror, even though he was there, touching his chest as if to reassure himself that he existed.

The thought entered his head before he could push it away:

Should've told Lurky that I wanted to be human.

Spike stared down at his body, then up at the reflection that wasn't there.

"Bugger that," he growled at the mirror. He yanked on the shower spigot, stepping inside to let the hot water wash away the grime and help him forget.

As one hand rubbed soap over his arms and legs and then between, his body began to remember her. He sighed and continued. Made his flesh feel a little better, but made his heart feel worse.

The hot Nile water sluiced away the tears.




As hot as southern Egypt was during the day, at night a cool breeze came off the Nile and made everything feel softer. Although the hotel was only a couple of miles from the Aswan city center, it felt a world away from everything dark and modern. The Isis Palace had been built twenty-five years earlier, and it felt like the last days of disco, with its washed-out beiges and chipped gold paint. It might never pass muster back in America, but it had an air of permanence, of the trends that had passed it by while it remained solid on the banks of the Nile.

This was the peace that Spike found during his five nights in Aswan.

It wasn't entirely peaceful, though. On the second night, he fell asleep on the balcony as he watched the moonlight reflect off the river. Woke up the next morning when the ambient light startled him. He didn't get burnt, thanks to the fact that the chair was far enough back that the direct sunlight didn't reach him. But it was alarming, all the same.

Just after dusk on the third night, he ventured into town. The daily market was beginning to wind up, but Spike found a vendor who sold him two whole chickens. When he got back to the hotel, Spike drained the blood and drank it slowly, saving some for later. After two years in Sunnydale, the animal blood felt more real to him than the human stuff still chilling in the icebox.

He read books that he borrowed from people drinking at the hotel bar and sitting on the benches along the riverbank. Then when those were read, he bought some more at kiosks under city streetlights. None of the books were very interesting, but they helped pass the time.

Spike found that he liked the solitude of not knowing anyone and not having to explain himself. It gave him time to think, to figure out what the soul meant to him and what differences it would create in his life. After five days of solitude, he realized that he still had no idea.

At the end of the fifth night, he went to bed feeling unsettled and antsy. As he struggled to get to sleep, he wondered if his body was craving the chaos that he thought he was briefly escaping.




Buffy was atop him, rising and falling in that liquid way of hers. She kept saying his name like a chant, and he listened for any endearment in her voice. All he heard was anger. He reached up and tried to pull her close, to feel her soft hair on his cheek, but she shoved him away.

And then she froze, staring down at him with flushed cheeks and wild eyes. The room grew still, and he heard a faint thud. It wasn't her heartbeat; he knew that one well, and would let the memory of it lull him to sleep when he was alone.

She narrowed her eyes, and he stopped moving inside her, waiting for what she might do.

Then she burst into laughter. "Your heart is beating."

His hand flew to his chest. He felt the heartbeat.

She rose up and slammed down on him, the laughter shifting into anger. As she moved, she taunted, "Did you really think that would be enough? That you could get a soul and become human, and it would make me want you?"

Spike's eyes widened in horror. A heartbeat? No! That's not what he wanted! He just wanted her.

But it was too late to tell her that. Her hands slapped at his face and shoulders. With each blow, she yelled, "You're dirt! A thing! You'll never be good enough for me!"

He tried to clutch her to him, to show her that it was enough. That he still loved her.

And then she grabbed a stake, pressing it into his chest hard enough to break the skin.

That was it. "Bloody bitch!" Spike growled and shoved her across the room. As he clawed at her skin and threw punches at her face, he screamed, "I did it all for you! I got a soul for you! I became a fucking human for you!" He shoved his knee between her legs and reveled in her gasps and sobs. "Did it ever occur to you, you idiot, that you're too fucked up to understand any of this? Do I have to beat it into your bloody skull?"

The rage grew with each thudding heartbeat in his chest. She screamed and cowered, and he fed off her fear. And when the rage had spread through each cell in his body, he moved in for the kill.

Her blood filled his mouth, and he drank deep.





Spike screamed. His hand flew to his mouth, and he pricked a finger on the fangs that had emerged. He wanted desperately to shift out of game face, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

Kicking at the sheets tangled around his body, he fought with everything he had to get out of the bed, to be lucid again. Once he'd broken free, he paced the room, chanting, "Oh, God!" over and over until his throat was raw.

And then he remembered something else. He pressed his hand to his chest. It was still. No heartbeat.

But the blood screamed inside him. Not her blood, no. She was thousands of miles away, and good God, she had to stay there. He had to stay far, far away from her. He could still hear her growling, "I could never trust you enough for it to be love."

It was all too much, even if it was just a nightmare. God, what did it say about him and the dark urges lurking under his skin?

Spike stumbled into the bathroom and vomited.

As the sounds of his retching filled the tiled room, his mind chanted, "Gotta leave. Gotta stay away from her."

He crumpled into a corner of the bathroom and began to sob.

Gotta stay away from her.


END, Chapter Three.

wisteria@smyrnacable.net