Ten Thousand
by wisteria

14. Home



Spike could just imagine the U.S. Customs officials' reactions to his luggage. "You spent nearly four weeks outside of the country, and all you have now is one backpack?"

Maybe he should've acquired more stuff. He looked over the array spread out on the hotel bed: nearly thirty photographs, two cameras, CD player and discs, an umbrella, gloves, and a half-dozen books. With a thud, three of the books joined the pile of junk in the corner.

Loud laughter from the telly caught his attention. He glanced up at the sitcom he'd been half-watching to make the time pass faster. Looked to be some Brit ripoff of "Friends", though the dialogue was racier. He'd never much liked comedies – soap opera melodrama was far more his style – but this one had caught his eye because one of the actresses was the spitting image of Drusilla. Even sounded like her. He'd stared at the show for ten minutes before convincing himself it was someone else.

He wondered what Dru was up to these days. Strange how he didn't miss her one bit. He knew she wasn't dust, though. When that happened, he'd just know. Still tied, they were, even if the thread was now worn and frayed.

She was part of the old world, anyway, and he didn't want to go back there. All about moving forward now, he reminded himself. Gonna make a change, even if....

With a grimace, he cut off that train of thought. Eleven hours in the air was more than enough time to think about all that. Not much else to do up there anyway.

Spike turned back to the junk on the bed. As he picked up the cameras, he thought about tossing the digital. Bloody waste of money; he hadn't used it once. Still, he couldn't bring himself to toss it. He stuffed it in the backpack. Maybe he'd give it to Clem as a thanks for taking care of stuff back home. The demon would probably love it.

Once almost everything was in the bag, he spread the photographs out on the coverlet. Most of them made him cringe. All those shots of him looking like a fool, the flash and his forced smile making him resemble a jack-o-lantern. "Toss 'em or keep 'em?" he asked aloud.

Two photos stood out: the ghastly first snapshot from Prague, and his grin at the 'net café in Amsterdam. The others were horrid, but those two felt real. Wasn't that why he'd bought the camera in the first place – to see the real him?

Finally, he slipped those two pics in his backpack and tossed the rest in the rubbish heap.

A glance at the window told him that the sun had finally set behind the thick curtains. About damned time. Ever since last night, he'd been jumping out of his skin, ready to get on the road – or in the air, as the case may be.

He'd have to camp out overnight at Heathrow, but it had to beat sitting in this depressing hotel room any longer. According to the agent at Thomas Cook, the noon flight to LAX was an $800 "bargain". Damned time zones didn't allow for any nighttime flights. Maybe the airport would inspire him to figure out a way to avoid the sunlight on the plane. Charming the flight attendants had worked last time. With any luck, it'd work again.

Definitely time to get out of here. He was sick of the stasis of travel. Sure, monsters awaited in Sunnydale, but he was smart. Confidence flowed through him now. He'd kick their asses.

Puffed up with a strange sense of excitement, he picked up the bag and walked out the door.






Thank God this was the last buggering train he'd be riding on for a long while. If he survived the next apocalypse and the only transportation option was the rail system, he'd just walk.

The damned Piccadilly line was taking forever to get out to Heathrow. Last stop had been South Ealing, and when he looked up at the route map, he saw there were still another eight stops to go.

Temporary insanity had caused him to choose the Tube over a taxi to the airport. One last train ride for posterity. Seemed like a good idea at the time. He'd forgotten how the jerky motion of the rails rattled his bones. If Sunnydale was the hellmouth, then trains were hell's intestines.

Tuning out the other passengers' noise didn't work. Some asshole had been harassing a woman for the past three stops. "C'mon, love. You know you want a bit of knees-up with me," the bloke cooed. The woman kept protesting. Bully for her.

A loud female scream made Spike wince. Bully, indeed. The hooligan was now in her face, his hands grabbing her shoulders as he screamed insults at her. Abject fear spread over her face. "Take me back, Karen! Please!" was quickly followed with, "You whore!"

Spike blinked as nausea coiled in his belly. Oh, God. He panted by reflex. Oh, holy fucking shit!

Terror spreading over Buffy's face as he gripped her shoulders. "I'm gonna make you feel it!" Pushing his knee between her legs. Grabbing at her robe. She only let herself love him when he was inside her. Gotta make her feel, gotta be inside. Love me, love me. Take me back!

Dazed and shivering, Spike unclenched his fists and saw blood blooming in the crescents left by his fingernails.

The woman screamed as the man continued to yell and paw at her.

Fight or flight instinct seized Spike. He'd never been one to flee, but now he wanted to throw himself off the train and find a corner where he could sob and bleed until spent. Even with his eyes shut, he could see that woman's face. It shifted into Buffy's.

'Gotta make it right this time.' The thought came out of nowhere and fought the nausea and pain. Hadn't the past weeks taught him anything? "You get to make yourself good enough for the Slayer," Whistler had said all those nights ago. Was he good enough now?

He opened his eyes and felt strength flood through him. Almost there. Not good enough yet, but he could be.

Bracing himself against the train's motion and his own inevitable migraine, Spike stalked over to the bastard. His first instinct was to lash out with words. Read the asshole the riot act. But he'd been that man before. Still was, deep down, as much as the soul tried to overcome it. He knew that fists worked better than words when fighting a beast.

As he pulled his arm back, Spike felt a rush of power mixed with something he thought might be righteousness. It was strange, both ennobling and foreign. He'd suss it out later, though. More pressing matters to attend to.

Spike threw all his strength into the right hook, and he felt the man's eye socket shatter with the impact. The man crumpled to the ground, knocked unconscious.

The chip still did its evil magic, throwing Spike backwards into the bench. He couldn't help but roar at the migraine coupled with the sting of the spot where his back had hit a metal bar. Yet even as the pain screamed inside him, he still felt the power. It was almost good.

He wondered if he'd made it right this time. Punching a potential rapist in the Tube couldn't begin to atone for what he'd done to Buffy, but maybe it was a start. Maybe it was all just a series of steps, like doing the right thing tonight. Apologizing to Buffy when he saw her again. Striving to be a person worthy of her, even if she couldn't love him back. Getting a soul to keep him from ever hurting her again.

When he heard "Stand clear of the doors" over the loudspeaker, he realized that the train had come to a stop. He hadn't noticed; his body was still shaking.

Spike looked over at the unconscious man on the floor, then up at the woman shivering with sobs. She looked up at him, and though she didn't say thank you, he saw it in her face.

"I'm sorry," Spike muttered. But instead of the woman across the train, he was apologizing to a woman five thousand miles away.

Another step.






By the time he'd made it through check-in at the British Airways counter at Heathrow, his body had stopped shaking and he felt almost normal again.

It was half-ten, but a handful of shops were still open. He decided to take advantage of the fact; gave him something to do before he'd have to settle in for the long wait.

Spike realized he had no gifts for Buffy and Dawn. Wasn't that what humans did when they traveled? Buy lots of souvenirs that nobody wanted? He definitely wasn't human, but he'd been traveling, after all. He could almost hear Dawn's voice asking, "What'd ya bring me?"

If he were lucky, they'd forgive him when he got home. If he were really lucky, they'd take him back into the fold. Spike didn't know how much luck he deserved, but he could at least make them smile. If he could only get that, he'd be happy.

What to get, though? Since he wouldn't be going through Customs until just before the flight, duty-free was out of the question. Sure, he planned to stock up on cigs and some top-notch whiskey and Scotch, but he doubted Buffy would appreciate either. He went into a shop full of Brit-themed goods then promptly left. Everything was beyond appalling.

The green-and-yellow shop looked like the safest bet. Spike cringed when he entered; it was full of girly stuff like lotions and perfumes. He'd never figured out why women loved all that crap, but they did anyway, so he browsed for something suitable. Dawn would probably like a gift basket. He grabbed the first one he saw, not really knowing which was her favorite scent.

Buffy was more difficult. She'd always tried to cover it up with myriad synthetic perfumes, but her own scent was so much more beautiful. In the curve of her knee, the small of her back, she smelled of spices, the tang of sweat, of warm blood and life. No chemicals could cover that.

She liked them, though, so he picked up the biggest gift basket he could find. Spike had no idea what "moonflower" was, but it seemed like her. She was his night rose. Always would be, even if she were never his again.

Panic ensued when he went to the till and couldn't find his credit card. Nearly turned out his pockets until he remembered sticking it in his backpack for some stupid reason. Though he had few new possessions to show for it, he'd blown a good chunk of change over the past few weeks. Still, he had enough left to make Buffy's life easier. When he got home, he'd call Visa and add her name to the card. Maybe stick it in a bag with the lotion stuff. And just maybe she'd get off her high horse long enough to accept it in the spirit in which it was intended.

Airports were supposed to be depressing places, weren't they? He remembered once hearing someone say that in a movie. As depressing as Heathrow might be to some, it was making him downright hopeful.

The gifts didn't fit in his backpack, so he walked through the terminal with his head high and a sack in his hand. Let everyone laugh at him for carrying a bag full of obviously girly stuff. Never would see 'em again anyway.

A glance at the departures monitors showed that he still had twelve more hours of waiting. At least the bar was still open for a bit longer. A beer or four would dull his senses and help him sleep later. Strange how he used to drink to dull the pain and forget it all. Now he wanted to drink to make the time pass more quickly until he was able to go home.

This new world of his was a strange place. At that moment, he liked it.






A good dose of charm worked every time. Still had the touch. He almost patted himself on the back.

Getting through the gate and onto the plane had been a dodgy prospect until he told two flight attendants a sob story about his deadly sun allergy. He didn't know whether his good looks or the prospect of "pus-filled blisters, smoke comin' out of my ears and pain like you wouldn't believe, love," had done the trick, but one of them had approached his seat shortly after takeoff and said that she was working on a way to get him up to first class or at least Club World. Spike had shifted the blanket just enough to make eye-contact, and he gave her his best smile and a "Thanks, pet." Would've kissed her to sweeten the deal, but she flounced away before he had to resort to that.

When a hand from the seat next to him tapped his arm, Spike had to bite back a growl. That upgrade couldn't come soon enough. He was stuck in a row with two kids whose age couldn't possibly be in the double-digits. Brother and sister traveling alone. Of course. Whining too. Where the hell were the parents to tell them to shut the hell up?

The boy kept tapping until Spike finally looked at him. "Pull the shade down," he snapped.

A few seconds later, he heard, "It's done, sir!"

Spike moved the blanket a few inches and was assaulted by the sight of two huge brown eyes and a shock of red hair. The boy babbled, "I'm Harry! Well, my name is really Henry, but I changed it so I could be just like Harry Potter. I've seen that movie twenty-three times. Have you seen it? My stupid sister says I should change my name to Ron because I have red hair, but who wants to be him? What's your name?"

"Your worst nightmare" was on the tip of Spike's tongue, but he bit it back. Wouldn't do to make an enemy of a seatmate. The brat would probably start crying and make the rest of the trip miserable. So he muttered, "It's Spike."

"Really? That's an odd name. You look odd too. Why do you have that blanket? Are you trying to sleep? Hannah is asleep, and that's why I'm mad at her. She's supposed to play games with me. That's what Mum said we could do on the flight. They're up in first class right now."

With a long-suffering sigh, Spike said, "That's where I'm trying to go." So I can get away from you, he mentally added.

Harry took a breath then kept on babbling. "You're going to first class? I'm going to Disneyland. My dad has to do business in California, and he said that me and Mum could spend four whole days at Disney. But not Hannah. She's mean."

Spike figured he'd done his duty, so he let the blanket drape back around him. Unfortunately, the kid had destroyed any potential for sleep during the flight. After trying for ten minutes, he finally pulled the backpack into his lap and started rummaging for a book to read.

When he realized the books were at the bottom of the bag, he gritted his teeth. He pulled down the tray table and started taking out stuff to get to the books.

Another tap on his arm. "What?" Spike growled again.

Harry chirped, "Oh, you have a camera! That's cool! Can I play with it?"

"Have a go," Spike said in hopes it would shut the kid up.

Once the book was out, he reached up to turn on the small overhead light. Then he noticed that most of the shades in this part of the cabin were down. Safe for the time being. He let the blanket fall to his shoulders, which he rolled to get out the kinks. Travel was a bitch.

He glanced over at the boy, who was enraptured with the camera. Spike let himself really look at the kid this time. The sister was still asleep, but Harry was wide awake, innocence and curiosity shining in his face. Young brows knit, he pushed at buttons and studied the old Polaroid.

Something in Spike melted. He wondered if Buffy had ever been this young and inquisitive. Free of the burden of slaying, before the horrors of her life had squashed her spirit. A smile flickered across his lips as he imagined what she must have looked like. Blond hair in pigtails, green eyes wide, maybe wearing overalls with mud caked on the knees. Her whole life ahead of her, just like this little boy next to him.

Suddenly, Spike found himself telling the kid, "Keep the camera. I don't need it anymore. Take lots of pictures of Mickey Mouse."

The shouts of "Thank you!" made Spike wince, but he didn't mind so much this time. He reached back in the bag for the remaining two packs of film, then slipped them into the seatback pocket.

"How do you...?" Harry began, then his voice trailed away as small fingers fumbled with the strap.

Hidden reserves of patience helped Spike stay calm as he showed Harry how to pull up the flash and peek through the viewfinder. "Take a picture of me to practice."

Harry's hands wobbled under the weight of the camera as he aimed. It covered most of his face, but Spike saw a snaggle-toothed grin under the bottom of the black box.

Before Spike had a chance to decide whether or not to smile, the flash exploded in his face.

He couldn't help but grin at the boy's "ooh" and "wow!" as the camera spit out the photograph. Spike showed him how to shake the picture to make it develop.

Harry peered at the emerging image. "You look weird."

"That's just the picture doing its magic, kid. I'm not weird." The words came out before Spike realized it. He decided not to bother trying to suss it out.

"You keep this," Harry said as he handed over the photograph.

Spike looked down at it, surprised to see that he didn't look weird at all. If anything, he looked utterly boring. No smile, but no frown either. Just a man with pale skin and hair, and an unusual look of peace on his face.

Imagine that.

He kept staring as Harry played with the camera. The flight attendant's voice was a surprise. "Sir, something very fortunate has happened. You're quite lucky. These children's mother told my colleague in first class that she wants to sit with them for a while, so you're welcome to switch seats with her. It's far more posh up there. You'll enjoy it."

Spike returned her smile. "Thanks, love." Harry might've melted him a bit, but first class was enough to overcome the feeling. Plus, avoiding sunlight in one of those fancy demi-cabins was far preferable to huddling under a blanket for another nine hours.

He gathered his stuff and picked up the backpack. When he looked over at Harry, the boy was busy aiming the camera to take a picture of his sleeping sister. Spike stood and followed the flight attendant down the narrow aisle, doing an awkward dance with the children's mother as she squeezed past him.

"Thank you for trading seats with me," she told him with a friendly smile. Spike noticed that she treated him like any average person. He was surprised to realize that it didn't make him uncomfortable.

He nodded at her, then continued on to first class.






The wind whipped through his hair as he flew down the highway. Really should do something about it; four weeks without peroxide or styling stuff hadn't been kind to the 'do. Still, he liked the way he could feel the wind all the way down to the roots. Gave everything a feeling of wild speed.

Getting back on his old bike after all that time abroad had been great. Less welcome was the triple-digit long term parking tab at the airport. He'd argued with the clerk, but it was either pay the tab or walk home, and he wouldn't have gotten very far before sunrise.

While waiting for sunset back at the airport bar, he'd had a few drinks. Just for fortification's sake, of course. He'd been so confident since he left London, yet when he'd emerged from the Customs Hall into the late afternoon heat of Los Angeles International, he'd realized that this was it. No going back. Time to face whatever was coming to him.

First, he'd needed a drink. Spike had told himself it was to while away the time until darkness fell, but deep down he knew it was just bloody cowardice. Once again, he'd thought of those words back in Whistler's apartment. Was he good enough for her now? As he turned that over in his mind, he realized that being good enough for her wasn't the issue. Hadn't seen her in nearly four weeks. He'd passed through a dozen countries, met tons of people, some of them idiots and some of them very much worth knowing. Found his family again. Even made some friends. Hadn't wanted to bite a single one of them, even if he could. Hell, he'd helped a few of them out.

Spike knew he'd never be a man, but now he felt like a person.

He thought about that some more as his motorcycle sped down the road to Sunnydale. The route was part of his soul.

That made him laugh, and the air filled his mouth and tingled like mint. Yeah, his soul. Everything around him was part of his soul now. The air, the ocean a few miles away, the whole bloody world and the people and places in it.

Despite the wind roaring through his ears, he could hear Drusilla's voice singing in his head. "Now my birdie is flying for me."

And Spike flew down the road toward home. He remembered the old saying, "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours." He'd done so many terrible things, the worst one to the woman he loved. He'd thought that getting a soul would smother him, but he wanted it if only to keep himself from hurting her again.

Instead of weighing him down, the soul had set him free. Tonight he was coming back to her. He would always be hers, yet for the first time he knew that he was his own person. The voices in his head continued to sing, but now the voice was his own.

Free.

The headlight lit up a green sign. "Sunnydale – 9 miles."

All that confidence threatened to crash and burn at the sight. He gripped the handlebars until his tendons screamed, lest he be tempted to flee back to LAX and catch the first flight to nowhere. As the engine's hum counted down the miles, he chanted, "Keep going. Just do it."

The mantra had been repeated so many times over the past eight hours that it was permanently tattooed on the folds of his brain. Up in first class, he found himself unable to sleep or read. Kept thinking about what would happen when he got back to Sunnydale. A dozen different scenarios were concocted, each one more hopeful than the last. In the back of his mind he knew that hope was a luxury, but it strengthened him as much as the alcohol had.

By the time the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign appeared on the horizon, he was puffed up and ready to face whatever would happen. He slowed down a little as he approached, tempted to pull over and look at it. Finally decided not to; he had to keep moving, keep soldiering onward. He knew too well that confidence was fleeting.

Yet when he hit downtown, Spike found himself utterly frozen. Jabbed the kickstand with his toe and felt the engine shudder to a standstill. He looked around at the buildings, the handful of people locking up stores and walking home. The Magic Box was a couple of blocks away, but he couldn't go there and see those people, if they were even still around.

Strange how a half-hour earlier he'd been ready to face the world. Now he couldn't even face an empty storefront.

Glancing to his left, he spotted a pay phone. "Yeah," he thought. "Gotta hear her voice, let her know I'm back. If she hangs up on me, at least I'll know. Then I can go back to the crypt, wallow for a few days, then figure out another plan." He knew the reasoning was spurious at best, but it helped.

Digging in his pocket for change, Spike pretended he wasn't nervous as hell. He thought he found a quarter, but when he opened his fist, it was a damned 20p coin. Threw it to the ground with a scowl, then dug around some more until he finally found a quarter and dime.

His hand poised over the coin slot, he took a deep breath then froze again. Damned butterflies danced a tango in his belly. Spots flickering on the backs of his eyelids, he grimaced and growled until he got the confidence back. His brain chanted, "Do it."

Spike could count on one hand the number of times he'd phoned the Summers residence, but he knew the number by heart. He pretended his finger wasn't trembling as he punched the buttons.

One ring, another, and a third. When he heard a click after the fourth ring, he nearly hung up and fled.

Dawn answered – but it wasn't her. Took him a second to realize that it was the answering machine. His nerves stretched to the breaking point, his body deflated and he bit back loud laughter.

As her voice told him to leave a message, he breathed deeply and realized that he hadn't a clue what to say to them. Then a loud beep forced his hand.

"Hello... it's me." A pause as he shook his head at such a stupid greeting. God, all the bravado had fled his voice, and he sounded like an utter git. Try as he might to get back to his old persona, his voice stubbornly stayed faint as he continued, "Spike, I mean. I've been... away... for a while. Missed you two."

As the silence stretched onward, he realized that this was ridiculous. No way could he begin to reconnect with them over a recording on a machine. But as much as he needed to see them, the prospect of doing so right this minute was terrifying. Couldn't go over there tonight, but at least now they knew he was back. He'd wait for Buffy and Dawn's lead. If they wanted to see him, they'd seek him out. If not – well, then, at least he'd know.

Another deep breath, then he said, "Just wanted you to know that I'm home."






END, "Ten Thousand"


NOTES: That's it, folks. Use your imagination for what happens next g. I don't have any sequels planned; then again, I didn't plan a sequel to "Happiness", yet I've ended up with two of them. So, never say never.

I had one main rule for this story: Spike couldn't know about anything that had happened in Sunnydale since he left. No contact with any of them, aside from Clem's cryptic e-mails. Spike had to go through the whole process entirely on his own. That's why I felt it had to end this way.

So many people have helped me with this story that I couldn't begin to thank them all. I do want to thank Kelly for helping me visualize the last scene, Lesley for the UK and Amsterdam fact-checking, Moose and Mezz for fabulous beta, and especially Chris for support and inspiration the whole way through.

I'm leaving Friday for a week's holiday, so if you send e-mail and I don't respond immediately, that's why. I really appreciate everyone who's dropped me a line to tell me you've enjoyed "Ten Thousand", and I hope you enjoyed the conclusion!

And now, on to season seven!

cheers,
alanna