Ten Thousand
by wisteria

6. The Mediterranean



Finding inner calm in a world of bombs, hate and information overload was a tricky thing. Nothing would ever leave you alone until you told yourself "fuck all" and retreated into a bunker somewhere in the mountains. Then you'd drive yourself crazy by scribbling manifestoes and naming each of the trees outside your front window. But was it really insanity if you were alone and perfectly happy with your lot in life?

That was the conclusion Spike had reached as he watched the sunrise from under a thick blanket and concrete overhang on the shores of the Mediterranean.

Five hours later, though, he was caught between wanting to go find himself a bunker, and wanting to find himself a rifle and shoot each and every customs official and ship steward keeping him from getting on the goddamned boat. He had no idea why they were doing the screening over here instead of once the boat got to Greece, but he didn't care to ask.

Easy to be calm when the sun was rising and everything was so damn lovely that Spike wanted to learn how to paint or buy some bloody postcards and send them to the handful of people he knew. Far more difficult when the idiot representative of the Greek Immigration Authority kept staring at Spike's – fake, courtesy of some friend of Clem's – British passport as if he'd never laid eyes on one before, and asking for the eleventh time why Spike couldn't take the blanket off his head. Spike was this close to vamping out and biting the bastard, chip be damned, but that would probably ruin his chances of getting through Customs.

"Mr. Randall Giles," the git repeated, "you say you are only planning a short stay in Greece? You are aware, Sir, that we cannot allow you to import five bags of blood."

When Spike got home, he was going to chop Clem into little pieces, then get Red to resurrect him so Spike could kick his ass all the way to bloody Mexico. But first, he was going to find out where the hell Clem had found out about that stupid name from the even stupider amnesia spell.

Spike clenched his teeth, trying to think of yet another excuse. Then he finally gave up, reached into the backpack, and tossed the bags overboard. "Fine," he growled. "No more blood. Happy now?"

Good thing he'd had a bright idea that morning, when the ship's scheduled departure time of 7 a.m. turned into noon. He'd thrown the blanket over his head like a cape and skulked into the lobby of the biggest hotel he could find. The gift shop stocked toiletries kits and hot water bottles – Spike had no idea why on earth a tourist in Egypt would ever need one – and he had poured three of the blood bags into them. After paying, of course. That was the worst thing about the soul: he'd started to nick the stuff, then he saw the surveillance camera up on the ceiling. A year ago, he wouldn't have cared one whit. Now, though, it was just too damned much trouble.

Customs Git Number Two started poking through the backpack again, and Spike adjusted the blanket with one gloved hand and held up the umbrella with the other. Umbrella! Bloody hell, he felt like Mary buggering Poppins. Still, it did a better job than the blanket alone. The bloke looked at the hot water bottle then up at Spike, who put on an approximation of innocence and said, "Arthritis."

Heaven forbid the guy believe him. "You mean to say that you have a sun allergy and arthritis? Why did you come to Egypt, then?"

Spike didn't have an answer for him; at least, no answer that the man would believe. Time for the last resort. He sucked up his pride and burst out into hysterical laughter. See? I'm a moron who has stupid diseases. Point and laugh if you want, but let me in!

That did the trick. The official stamped Spike's fake passport and waved him onward.

As Spike zipped up the backpack, juggled the umbrella and blanket, and shoved past Customs, he muttered, "Help, help, I'm being repressed."

The cabin he'd reserved was easy enough to find, and he shoved the key in the lock nearly hard enough to break the metal. The impact of his foot on the cabin wall caused a dent, and damn near broke some bones. Felt really, really good, though. For the first time since leaving Sunnydale, he missed the Slayer. Not because he was in love with her, but because he could fight her. He was jonesing for a fight in the worst way. All this forced passivity was grating on his last nerve. Spike hadn't seen any demons or vamps in Africa – which was a surprise – but maybe some would show up in Greece. He could sure use a good kill right about now.

Spike threw the backpack on the bed and reached inside for the shampoo bottle full of blood. Took a long sip of it, even though he knew he should probably be rationing it. First stop in Athens would have to be another blood bank. The human stuff still tasted odd, but it was easiest to get. The fact that bagged blood was easy to nick was a scandal. One would think the Red Cross would do a better job of things. Still, much more simple than hunting down a cow or dog or whatever. He was feeling seriously primal right now, but killing animals with his bare hands was way too Deliverance for his tastes.

Once the bottle was half-empty, he finally gave up and collapsed on the bed. He was bloody exhausted. Crossing national borders had been so much easier in the old days. Who needed a passport when you could just snap a neck or two and be on your merry way? He'd passed through Customs in three African countries without any problems so far. Hell, even the blokes in Frankfurt on the flight over hadn't given him that much lip, and Germans were usually such sticklers for proper documentation.

The headache slithered across his temples and set up residence in the middle of his brain, probably making good friends with the chip. He could just hear it saying, "Wow, you mean ol' Spikey can get a migraine from something besides me? Yay!"

He closed his eyes and was surprised to discover that while he was exhausted, he wasn't sleepy in the least. But he still had a good eight hours before sunset, and it was either sleep or read the crap magazines he'd gotten at the hotel. The only good thing about the delay was that he should arrive in Athens around midnight, instead of before sunset.

Maybe once it got dark he'd take a walk around the deck or whatever. That was assuming he could convince himself not to just throw himself overboard. A good Mediterranean swim had to be better than this.

Bloody Customs gits, making him all mad like that.

He picked up a magazine and started reading.



"So, I hear you're happy now." He didn't look at her as he tossed a styrofoam cup out into the sea.

Long, blonde hair swung into his peripheral vision as she leaned over the railing. He stole a glance over at her; she was watching the cup bob in the boat's wake. The sea was gorgeous tonight, all sparkles and waves, but she was even more beautiful.

When she turned to face him, he looked away. "Yeah. We got things sorted out at home, and it gave me some time to think."

"What'd you think about?" His palms held a sudden fascination, and he read them like a book as he waited.

Her voice carried over the waves, the ship's motor, the emotional distance between them. She hesitated for a second, then said, "Mostly about what happened between you and me. All those things you said, like how I couldn't let myself love you, and how I was just fooling myself."

"And what'd you decide?" He wanted to push her further, to get her to speak the truth for once instead of hemming and hawing, but the moment was too ethereal for that. Might never have this chance again, after all.

Before he heard her words, he felt her hand on his back. It was a light touch, but his body was so attuned to her that each crescent of her fingernails felt like it was cutting into his flesh. She made him tingle and shimmer.

"I decided that you were right. I love you."

When he looked up at her, her whole body was shimmering too, just like his. Everything about her was white light, and he had to touch it, to feel it for himself.

As his hands traced the hard planes and soft curves of her body, she moaned and sighed in all the right ways. Against her lips, he whispered all the things he'd wanted her to listen to – not just hear – for so many months. "God, I love you. I want you. You're mine."

She said the same to him, and her whispers were louder than the waves.

Skimming along the open sea, they kissed, touched, felt. Holding her was a miracle, and his soul sang praises. Her hands moved down his arms until they were holding his, their fingers laced together. They kissed and kissed.

Along the shell of her ear, his tongue traced a faint line. Then he whispered, "This is all I ever wanted, Buffy. Not the sex, though that was good. I just wanted to hold you."

And again, she said, "I love you."

Her fingers tapped his back, like a heartbeat. He grasped them harder, his thumbs brushing over her palms, reading her lifeline.

Then he realized that something was amiss. Both of her hands were clasping his.

The finger tapped harder, and a loud voice said, "You all right, mate?"

Spike gripped the railing of the ship so hard that he thought he might break it. He tilted forward with a jerk, nearly coughing up all the blood he'd consumed earlier.

Shaking his head lucid, he looked up with dazed eyes at the voice.

"Bugger off," he muttered.

The guy was youngish, probably the same age as Buffy. Australian accent, and one of those backpacker anoraks. "Everything okay?" he repeated, and when Spike didn't answer, the man continued, "You should be careful. Phosphorescence can play some really nasty tricks on your mind."

Spike kept silent, hoping the man would go away so he could drift back into the fantasy. No such luck, though.

"It's a beaut, though, isn't it?"

Spike stared out at the sea, glowing like a million diamonds were under its undulating surface. Damned phosphorescence, making him think she was here with him. He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded.

Seconds stretched into minutes of silence, then the man finally said, "Cheers, mate," and walked away.

Alone again, naturally. Spike watched the phosphorescence ebb and fade, and he blinked back tears. For the first time since that night in Buffy's bathroom weeks ago, he wanted to just end it all. To jump into the sea and let the diamonds swallow him whole.

The temptation was overwhelming, and he grasped the railing so hard that he could feel splinters biting into his palms. Maybe not the sea, though. Nothing ever got solved at the bottom of the ocean. He could break the railing into a dozen stakes and shove one into his chest. His dust would have a burial at sea, carried away by the choppy waters.

Suddenly the boat jerked up and down as it hit a large wave, and he stumbled backward away from the railing.

Spike's back hit the steel wall with a thud and a crack, and he slithered down it until he was sitting in a heap on the deck. A semblance of sense was knocked back into him. The absurdity of it all hit him just as hard, causing him to break into hysterical laughter mixed with a few leftover tears.

God, so far 'round the bend that you're hallucinating, Spike.

He took a deep breath to calm himself down, but it only made him laugh harder. Even feeling like a royal idiot was better than how he'd felt a few minutes earlier. Suicidal? Please. He'd made it this far, hadn't he? Buffy was happy, which what he wanted. She might not forgive him for what happened at her house, but she was safe and smiling again. He just had to get through this and make his way home to her, then find out where they stood.

"Pull yourself together," he said aloud, and hauled himself back to his feet.

The deck swerved underneath him as he made his way back down to his cabin. Only another hour or two until the boat reached Greece. He'd had a century of traveling, of moving forward without looking back. He'd get through this. Go down, drink some blood, clear his head. Sort things out. Make plans for when he landed.

One last look at the sea before going down, though. In it, he could see the sparkle of her phantom eyes as she had told him she loved him.



END, Chapter Six

wisteria@smyrnacable.net