Chapter Six: One Major Post-Apocalyptic Hangover
Three days later, the sun was just cresting the horizon; a new day breaking over the sleepy town of Sunnydale, California. The high school was quiet - well the remains of the high school were quiet. For the second time in less than five years, the school had been reduced to a veritable pile of rubble. Dark and deserted. Quiet as the grave.
Amid the fallen debris that littered what used to be the basement, something stirred.
"Ow! Bloody hell!" Spike exclaimed, as he pushed himself up on one of his elbows, and grabbed the back of his head with his free hand. The pain was excruciating. What the hell had he been sleeping on?!
Grudgingly, he forced his eyes open and tried to take in the scene around him. It was dark. He couldn't see very well. A thin shaft of light was shining through a jagged crack in the ceiling, offering the only source of illumination. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.
His head was swimming. Where the hell was he? He couldn't remember anything, at first. There was something about a battle. A battle against The First. The Apocalypse. Oh God! The last thing he remembered was fighting a giant, stone-like demon, and then . . . then she called his name, he saw her face and . . ."
The blood rushed out of Spike's face, and he turned an even ghostlier white than his normal pallor. Buffy. Oh God! Where was Buffy?!
He pushed himself out of the pile of rubble he was lying in and stood on what was left of the basement floor. A cold draft instantly enveloped him, and he realized for the first time that he was naked.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" If this was someone's idea of a joke, he certainly didn't think it was funny.
Cautiously maneuvering his way through the ruins - through memory and instinct - he found himself in a familiar corner of the basement. Rummaging through some old boxes, he found something to wear - a shirt and some jeans, but no shoes and nothing more to cover himself with. He had a vague memory of doing the same thing, the night he had first put his duster back on, the night he had "come back."
Frustrated by his inability to see in the dark, he felt his way along the walls, and made his way up the stairs. Something beneath his feet creaked sickeningly, as he crested the final step and found himself on the first floor.
There was light in the hallway. The warm, pink glow of sunrise faintly permeated the shattered, boarded-up windows and the holes in the walls. Spike scanned the area for any sign of life, but there was none. He wondered if anyone had survived the Apocalypse.
Sighing heavily, he brought his hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it in frustration. In a moment of calm and reflection, his hand stilled, and for the first time he noticed a small, muffled beat beneath his skin.
Spike pulled his hand away from his neck as if it had been burned. He stared down at his palm, unblinking, scared to wonder what it meant.
Stunned, his breath caught in his chest, he slowly raised two fingers to the side of his neck.
A beat.
He felt a beat.
And then another.
And then another.
A pulse was beating in his neck. It picked up speed as he stood there, timing it with his fingers.
His breath quickened. It took him a minute to realize that his chest was heaving and air was pulsing from his lungs in short, agitated bursts.
Spike's eyes widened and he dropped his hand from his neck. "Bloody hell," he whispered. It was all he could think to say.
With great difficulty, he forced himself to take one long, steadying breath. There had to be a reason for what was happening to him. A good, logical reason. Maybe this was hell. Maybe he was doomed to spend all eternity living in the school basement, burdened by his long forgotten humanity. Then again, maybe not.
Slowly, Spike managed to make his way down the hall. He pressed himself up against the inside wall, tying desperately to avoid the sunlight that was beckoning to him. If he had a pulse, if he had a heartbeat, if he was mortal, could the sun really hurt him? How desperately he longed to find out.
Inching along the wall, he noticed something shimmering a few feet in front of him - a small, unbroken window in a classroom door.
Keeping his eye on it - lest it disappear before he reached it - he moved up to the window, and turned to look at it. The lighting being what it was, he could make out the faint image of a man staring back at him. His reflection. Something he hadn't seen in more than a hundred and twenty years.
Now Spike's heart did begin to race. He could feel the blood pounding through his veins and there was nothing he could do to slow its course. Tentatively, he raised a trembling hand to the glass and traced the outline of the dark figure before him. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, watching the figure, squinting his eyes trying to discern any detail. There was little to see - just a dark, fuzzy reflection, watching him from within the glass.
Finally, Spike managed to pull himself away. If he had a heartbeat, and if he had a reflection, then what did he have to fear from the sunlight?
Turning around slowly, he took a cautious step forward. A stream of light cascaded over the tops of his bare toes, but he hesitated to step any further into the sun.
Holding his breath, he wiggled his toes, waiting to feel the familiar burn of sunlight on vampire skin. He felt no such thing. Just the comforting warmth of morning light on cool flesh.
Spike inhaled a sharp breath as tears came to his eyes. It had been so long, so long since he had felt the loving warmth of the sun against his skin. He didn't know how to react.
Overcome with emotion, he stepped forward, fully into the light. He closed his eyes, and reveled in the glorious sensation of the sunrise caressing his tired flesh. He felt like he was home.
Spike opened his eyes and wondered, for the first time, if he was in heaven.
Then he realized, that that wasn't possible. If he were heaven, Buffy would be by his side. There was no heaven without Buffy. No hell either, for that matter. She was his world. Where the hell was she?
Forgetting his shock at the new sensations, he took several confident strides closer to the broken window and stared out into the street. Sunnydale looked very much the way it always had. The high school was in ruins, but everything else looked like a picture postcard.
Spike rested his palms against the low windowsill and leaned forward, putting all his weary weight on his arms. He had to find Buffy. He had to know what had happened to her. What had happened to him. Was she still alive? Was anyone?
* * *
With great trepidation, Spike made his way out into the street. He knew the sun couldn't hurt him, but still, he flinched when he stepped out of the shadows and into the light.
Everything felt new to him. The morning breeze against his skin, the feel of the hard pavement beneath his bare feet. Everything smelled different too. As a vampire he had possessed an amazingly keen sense of smell, but somehow, being human, everything smelled sweeter - the air, the flowers, the trees. The world was alive for him for the fist time in more than a century. His blood hummed with excitement.
Following the path to Buffy's house, Spike kept a wary eye on the streets of Sunnydale. The town was relatively quiet. Occasionally, a car would drive past him, or he would see someone coming out to their curb to get the morning paper, but other than that, there was little activity on the streets.
No one seemed to notice him. No one cared that he was out, walking in the sunlight. People just past him by as if he were nothing special. His presence not even causing the slightest stir.
1630 Revello Drive.
Spike stopped in front of Buffy's house and surveyed the scene. The sun was now an orange-yellow, hovering just above the horizon. It couldn't have been later than six-thirty a.m.
The lights were all off. The house was dark.
Falling back on habit, Spike cocked his ear toward the house and tried to listen for any signs of life. All he heard was the incessant chirping of the birds perched in a nearby tree. He couldn't hear anything from inside.
Spike tried not to panic. He didn't have supersensitive hearing anymore, he reminded himself. It was perfectly logical that he shouldn't hear anyone moving about. He seemed to be mortal now. And apparently, his gifts were restricted to those of the mortal coil.
Moving away from the front of the house, he made his way to the back porch. He had to know if Buffy was still alive. He had to know if she was safe.
The grass was cool beneath his warm feet - cool and wet with morning dew. As he crossed the lawn, he felt patches of moist earth squishing beneath his toes. It was a surprisingly pleasant sensation.
Mounting the stairs cautiously, he came to stand in front of the back door. He rested his hand on the knob and just prayed that it was unlocked.
His breath catching in his chest, he turned the doorknob
It wasn't locked.
Spike exhaled a relieved breath as he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The kitchen was dark. Quiet. The clock on the microwave read 6:15.
Spike treaded lightly across the cold linoleum. His stomach growled as he moved past the center island, his eye catching the tempting site of a brimming bowl of fruit. God, how long had it been since he had eaten? How long had he been gone?
Spike made his way to the calendar on the wall, and stared at it, unblinkingly. The year was still 2003. The month still May. Either he hadn't been gone more than a couple of weeks, or there had been no one around to change the calendar. Spike preferred the former option over the latter. If no one had been in the house in weeks, why was there fresh fruit on the table?
In spite of his stomach's protests, Spike pulled himself out of the kitchen and made for the stairs. If Buffy was still alive, she was probably sleeping. He had to see her.
Blood pounding in his ears, Spike made it to the landing, to the second floor of the house, and stopped. All of the doors were open.
With slow, measured steps, he moved farther down the hall, coming to stand just beside the nearest open door. It was the Nibblet's room.
Spike inhaled a hard breath and held it in his lungs, as he leaned forward and took a peak inside. He didn't think he had ever been so relieved in all his life. There, curled up snuggly in her bed, was Dawn. She had kicked her blanket off in her sleep, and her arm was wrapped securely around a pillow, clutching it like a teddy bear.
Spike wanted to go to her. To fix her covers and stroke her hair. To touch her and make sure that she was real. But he couldn't. She probably thought he was dead, and it wouldn't do to have her waking up in the middle of a deep sleep and finding him standing beside her bed. She'd scream, and then Buffy would come in and stake him before he had a chance to explain.
Stake him?
Spike realized for the first time, that that old threat wasn't going to work anymore. Buffy couldn't kill him if he was human. As much as she might want to at times.
Buffy.
Spike pulled himself away from Dawn and moved across the hall. He had to know if Buffy was safe.
The few feet that separated the two doors seemed like miles. Spike could have sworn time stood still as he made his way to Buffy's room.
Stopping just beside the open door, he brought a trembling hand up and gripped the door frame, leaning on it for support. He knew that if he inched forward, just the smallest fraction, his question would be answered. He'd know for sure whether Buffy had lived or died.
Spike closed his eyes and leaned forward. He tried to convince himself that everything was all right, that whatever he saw, he could live with it. Somehow his body wasn't convinced.
Breaking out into a cold sweat, his heart thrumming against his ribs, he forced his eyes open and surveyed the darkened bedroom.
His heart stopped. It skipped a blessed beat, as his eyes lit on Buffy.
She was curled up in her bed, safe and secure, the faint sheen of tears glistening against her cheek. She had cried herself to sleep.
Spike wanted to reach out and touch her. To hold her. To pull her close and never let her go. But he couldn't. He knew it.
She had her arms wrapped around something - clinging to it, holding it lovingly against her chest. Spike took a tentative step forward to get a closer look at what it was.
His duster.
A small sob broke in the back of his throat. Buffy was alive, and she still loved him! Oh God! What could he do?
His legs threatening to cave beneath him, he fumbled his way out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He couldn't let her see him. Not yet. He'd give her a heart attack if she woke up and found him hovering above her. He needed to retreat. Regroup and find a way to break the news to her gently. He didn't want to hurt her. He had to find a way to make his presence known without doing her more harm than good.