If - Spike
He stops somewhere on the outskirts, and he's finally run himself ragged. If he breathed, which he doesn't, his lungs would probably have burst by now. If he was human, which he isn't, he may have dropped dead miles ago. And if he had looked back, which he hasn't, he might have turned back long before he even left the graveyard.
Spike lets himself drop to the ground, and he holds for a moment, pauses his marathon out of Sunnydale. His clothes are bloodstained and dirty, and his hands aren't much better. If anyone had stopped him, which they hadn't, they would have thought him a murdered. Which, of course, he was...way back when.
If he knew where he was going, which he doesn't, he would still be running. L.A., maybe pay a visit to the sire. Or, maybe back to the east coast. New York. And he suddenly remembers his coat. Leather duster, nabbed it off a dead slayer. Nikki, if he remembered correctly. Her son, the cocky annoying principal. Dead. Dead, dead. Deader than dead. Gone. Like everyone else. And Spike staggers to his feet. Or maybe he'll just run until the sun comes up. Just run, until it burns and he bursts. Literally.
Yeah. Maybe.
He's running again, and if he had any plan of seeking shelter, which he doesn't, he would have looked by now. And it's getting lighter in the sky, the cloud cover from the rain storm that has him soaked lifting. He's running and his muscles burn and his head is turned off. And the sun isn't far away and it's...beautiful. Yellow, orange, pink. And he can't remember the last time he just watched the sun rise, not covered by a blanket, not from a dark-draped window. Just, like this, outside. Maybe one hundred, two hundred years, eternity.
And if Spike had changed his mind at the last minute, which he hadn't, it would have been too late. Because as the burn set in and his skin sizzled, he stopped running. He stood, and he closed his eyes, and he didn't scream.
And then he was just...gone.
