Author's Note: Set immediately after Not Fade Away. I have not kept up with the comics, so the story is based entirely on series canon. Other characters may appear, but this is a Spike-centric Spuffy fic.
Chapter 1: The Human Condition
For all the damage he'd done, all the lives he'd taken, and all he'd been through since, Spike was still completely convinced becoming a vampire was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
And this…this was the worst.
When it happened, it felt the way a snake must, shedding dead skin. But as the ash dropped away, leaving a trembling mess of fucking human in its wake, there was none of the relief of a molting serpent, just dread and disgust. Silence, too, from the sudden disappearance of Wolfram & Hart's army, their force no longer required after they'd done for the pathetic rebellion. Spike lay still, listening to nothing. Not merely the lack of noise, but the general absence of keenness, as though his ears were stuffed with cotton.
Odd, that. Newly mortal, a change so large and foul and mind-buggering he could barely stand it, yet what he'd noticed first was how quiet the world had become. Second, that he was starkers, which angered him primarily because he'd lost his duster―until he remembered it wasn't his (or, more precisely, hers) but a passable imitation. And third, an intense nausea, his stomach lurching, rioting against the blood that had filled it for the last century and change. Like a fawn not a half hour old, he staggered deeper into the alley before his knees gave and he hadn't the energy to rise, only to retch. Nothing came up, despite the churning in his gut.
The bout of phantom illness abated, but even when he felt strong—or strong enough, as full human vigor was a faint shadow of what he had possessed—Spike remained where he'd fallen. He could not bring himself to make any immediate move toward the future. Besides, the streets of Los Angeles were never empty; he wouldn't go unnoticed for long in his current state of undress.
He was eventually compelled to turn his head to keep the stinging rain out of dulled eyes (would everything be so bloody bothersome?) and saw Gunn lying a few feet away. Dragging himself over, Spike placed two fingers against the other man's neck, searching for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. But it was necessary to check, because he could no longer hear arterial blood pumping from a distance or smell the unique signature of a functioning body. He was accustomed to feeling human life, but there were huge blanks surrounding him now, empty spaces once filled by all the things his demon had known.
When he was certain there was no heartbeat, he muttered, "Sorry, Charlie Boy," and began to remove sodden clothing from inert weight. It was more of a struggle than he would have liked, his movements clumsy and stiff, but he managed to cover himself in a hoodie, trousers, and boots. None of it fit, and all of it made him feel strange. He was hyperaware of the fact that he was in a dead man's kit, something that had never bothered him before, pre-or-post-soul. Being human came with an extra set of sensitivities he couldn't feature himself adjusting to.
He started hoofing it back to his flat to pick up proper gear, including his duster: version three-point-oh. He began in a run that turned to a walk when he could no longer tolerate his throttled speed, the burning sensation in out of practice lungs.
Trudging past a package store, he decided to buy a fifth of whiskey and carton of cigarettes with cash he'd found in Gunn's pocket. Spike hadn't smoked since he'd gotten his old dead body back—he'd always been able to pick up and put down the habit easily—but he needed something to get him through the aimless hours ahead.
The female clerk side-eyed him as he approached the counter; he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored security camera above the register, looking like a drowned rat in oversized bloodied clothes. It was the first real-time glimpse of his reflection since 1880, and what a sight it was. He mumbled an excuse about taking a spill and tried not to fidget as the girl rang up his purchase.
Back into the downpour, he swigged bourbon straight from the bag-covered bottle and walked on. The liquor burned brighter than before; by the time he reached his gaff he was already buzzing, a pleasant early inebriation blunted as soon as he noticed his newly repaired door was ajar.
Stretching his muffled senses, he heard footsteps pacing the threadbare area rug. With no weapon and no idea what remained of his combat skills, he considered retreating, but there was no incarnation of Spike that would allow turning tail without some fight, so he pushed the door open.
He regretted it immediately, coming face-to-face with Buffy Anne Summers.
She looked beautiful and bewildered, her mouth rounding in shock.
"Spike?" she started, taking a step forward. "It's really you?"
He wanted to run. He didn't want her here. He didn't want her to know. She extended a hand, and he worried she would touch him. She hit him instead, the open-handed slap of an insulted woman. She'd done the same once before, after he'd been too flip about her tin soldier's exploding heart. The same day his love for her had revealed itself to him in a dream.
He'd still dreamed of her, all this past year.
He sighed. "Hello to you too, pet."
"Don't," she said, shaking her head forcefully. "What the fuck, Spike?"
She was always easier to talk to in his dreams.
Buffy hadn't allowed herself to believe that Spike was back. She'd assumed Willow's coven had it wrong, that it couldn't be two ensouled vampires and a God King taking out the members of an evil secret society to thwart an eviler law firm's apocalypse.
She'd wrapped herself in incredulity the entire plane ride from Rome to L.A., and the cab ride from LAX to this apartment complex. Shielded herself with skepticism even after she'd walked into this busted-up basement unit and was confronted with compelling circumstantial evidence: beer and blood the lean contents of the fridge, a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide by the kitchen sink, ten—ten?—identical leather dusters hanging in the closet. When she'd begun to feel dizzy and sank onto the bed, the pillow greeted her with the scent of his hair pomade, the sheets covered in whatever cologne he used to make himself smell so damn good.
It was too much; she'd shot up and started to pace, her mind unspooling all the possibilities of why the hell Spike would be here working with Angel instead of returning to his place at her side.
And then he was standing before her, wearing his patented self-satisfied expression and someone else's clothes. And whose blood?
"You'll have to be more specific, Slayer. There's a whole lotta what the fuck? 'round here."
"You're supposed to be dead."
"Was that. Same as always," Spike said, his tone peculiar. Almost…wistful? "Of course, you mean 'dust'."
"Yes. I—" she started to say I saw you, except she hadn't. He'd made certain of that. Still, she was sure he hadn't walked out of the crater. She'd watched for him.
"Was that as well."
As with everything he'd said so far, this was reluctant, grudging. He stepped around her to the small table, poured brown liquor into a used glass, threw it back in one long swallow and refilled the cup. He ripped into the carton of cigarettes and removed a box, busied himself packing the tobacco. She waited, but when it was clear he had no intention of elaborating, she prompted,
"And?"
"Didn't take."
"Is that all I get?" she huffed, crossing her arms so she wouldn't strike him again. How exasperating he could be.
"You wanted more?"
For a moment, she wondered whether he was only referring to their current conversation (if it could even be called that), or their whole miserably ill-timed relationship. She pushed it aside.
"I think I deserve some kind of explanation, after all this time."
"Buffy."
He lit up with a plastic Bic, tilting his head like he might have kissed the flame if the cigarette weren't between them. Like he might have kissed her, if something—she didn't know what—weren't between them.
The quiet was insufferable; she could hear the paper burn off his Marlboro as he took a deep drag.
"What?" she asked, impatient and agitated.
"I reckoned becoming The Chosen One of Many would humble you, but it appears your narcissism knows no bounds."
Shame rushed her, flooding her until she remembered her indignation, caught it like a lifeline, balled it—and her hands—into fists.
"That's not fair. I've missed you. I've mourned you."
"Have you?" He looked unconvinced. Then, with a shrug, uninterested. "Well, no need to do either, anymore."
He took his drink to the couch, sat down heavily. His behavior made no sense. Even if she had let herself imagine their reunion, this was certainly not what she would have predicted. He didn't seem mad at her. He didn't seem anything at her. How could that be? Spike had never been indifferent to her, not for a moment.
"Seriously, what's going on? What are you doing here?"
He looked up at her with those piercing blue eyes, his brow slightly furrowed. "Could ask you the same."
"Willow told me there was some big supernatural brouhaha going down. Said Angel was involved…and you." Buffy picked her way over bits of broken drywall, lamp, and CDs to sit beside him on the couch. There had obviously been a fight here, but somehow the details didn't feel important. She couldn't think past Spike's presence. "I contacted Giles. He had no idea about you, but he said he'd heard from Angel. And about him. That he's on the wrong side."
She didn't quite believe that either, but this whole situation was baffling, so she wasn't ruling it out.
Spike glared into his glass, sucked in smoke. "Not the wrong side. Made a show of goin' that way, but the old man came through in the end."
"In—in the end?" Buffy stammered, her throat tightening. "What does that m—"
She stopped, noticing her image on the reflective surface of a cracked disc at her feet.
Noticing Spike's image next to her own.
And when she'd slapped him, she swore his skin had felt…hot.
She grabbed his wrist, found a pulse throbbing beneath the pads of her fingers.
"Spike," she said breathlessly, searching his face. "You're—"
He snatched his arm away, propelled himself from the couch and lurched into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him as he said,
"It means your Angel is fuckin' gone."
He couldn't bear it, the feel of her fingertips on his skin, the way she'd looked at him in amazement. Bending over the sink, he gripped the edge of the basin, porcelain cool and immovable in his grip. He wanted to break it, wanted to pull the whole poxy thing out of the wall and hurl it across the room. But what had once come easily to him would now be a significant feat, and the idea of trying and failing was too sad. Instead, he stood panting and staring at himself in the mirror.
You're alive.
He'd thrown Angel's ending in her face so he wouldn't have to hear the word. It had been cruel of him. Funny how every version of Spike knew how to be cruel. Even to her.
Several minutes passed, long enough that he began to wonder whether she was still in the apartment at all. Half hoping, half dreading, no way of knowing for certain. Couldn't sense her the way he used to—another once-essential part of him forever muted.
When he heard her knock at the door, he couldn't be sure if it was as soft as it sounded to his ears.
"Yeah."
She stepped into the bathroom. "That was a good try," she said, lowering the toilet lid—with a quick grimace at the spent cigarette floating in the bowl—so she could sit. "A year ago, I would have left."
"Wasn't lyin'. He's ash."
"I believe you, and I will grieve for him. But not at this moment." Her gaze was unwavering, her eyes dry. There was no tremble to her voice. "Not instead of figuring out what is going on with you."
He had counted on her placing Angel ahead of him. The fact that she had chosen to stay precisely because he'd assumed she wouldn't roused something in him that had lain dormant since he'd decided not to board that boat to France. Hope. He'd carefully folded and put it away like an old shirt, too beloved to part with, too ragged to risk wearing any longer for fear it would fall apart at the seams.
He shut it down. What good would it do him now?
"Not much to figure. I'm bleedin' human."
"I gathered." She rose and stepped behind him, peering over his hunched shoulders, catching his eye in the mirror. She lifted a hand, let it hover above the glass, as if convinced his reflection would disappear at her touch. "How?"
He explained the events of the last several hours as best he could, watching her watch his lips while he spoke.
Back in the alley, fighting a losing battle, ridiculously outnumbered, and yet still a fight, so he couldn't complain. He and Illyria were the final two standing―Gunn having bled out early, and Angel burned up in the breath of the dragon he'd set his sights on―but that didn't last long. Big Blue got blindsided by a giant, its axe slicing through her and her body armor, cleaving her from head to foot. In the pause that followed, distracted by the sight of the God King divided, the wet smack of her lifeless form collapsing like split wood to the pavement, a spear pierced Spike's long-still heart. And he dusted, yeah, but not the way he should have.
"Ok…there's the 'how'. But why?"
Why the PTB's had seen fit to blight him in such an appalling way, he did not know, nor did he want to. He'd had no real interest in being restored all pounding heart and pulsing flesh, beyond wanting to beat his grandsire to the punch. It was aggravation at being dismissed as the vampire-with-a-soul in question that had goaded him into pursuing some divine objective; before that he couldn't give two fucks about atonement and redemption. The sole reward he'd sought stood inches away, gaping at him.
"Was a prophecy. Somethin' Wesley discovered long before I came on the scene. But it was used against us." He summarized The Cup hoax, glossing over the fight, omitting the stake in Angel's shoulder.
"This prophecy? The…what's it…Shanshu? Angel thought it was meant for him?" she asked when he'd finished.
"'Course he did. Wasn't the first time he thought somethin' of mine was. Wouldn't have minded, for once."
Buffy winced. Spike side-stepped away from the sink, careful not to brush against her as he passed.
"I need to get cleaned up, get out of Dodge in case Wolfram & Hart decides that even one of us walkin' away from that alley was too many. Already died for The Mission. Twice."
A small, tired sigh. "Same here."
"I'd say that's enough for the both of us, innit?"
"I'll go outside and call Giles, arrange a safe house. We can lay low for a while."
Busying himself turning the shower knobs, he tried not to fixate on her use of 'we'.
When he turned around, she was still there, a pained expression on her painfully pretty face. "Spike, I…"
He tensed. Don't say it, baby. Not like this.
"Did you miss me?" she asked finally.
He exhaled. He'd been unintentionally holding his breath, his autonomic nervous system playing catch-up after a century of disuse.
"Every day."
"Good," she said, then left the room, closing the door behind her without looking back.
Spike undressed, eyes downcast, avoiding the mirror. Afraid if he saw his reflection once more, he'd break his fist putting it through the fucking glass.
He emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, clean but still wrong. His clothes felt like a costume, as if he were playacting at being Spike. But they were all he had, so he put them on, hastily stuffed more of them into a duffel bag along with the carton of cigarettes. He didn't bother with any other possessions, most of them broken, the rest replaceable. He swung open the fridge and picked up a blood bag, instinctively seeking the strength he'd always found there. He had the plastic in his mouth before logic could intervene, ripped a hole in it with blunt teeth and immediately gagged as the cold claret coated his tongue, sat thickly in his throat.
And then she was beside him, carefully taking the bag from his hand and placing it in the sink. "How about we get you some real food?" she asked, with a gentleness that made him want to cry and curse her in equal measure.
Grabbing the bottle he'd left on the table, he swallowed bourbon until he could no longer taste pennies. "Rather keep drinkin'," he said.
"Well, you need to start thinking of your liver." She made no move to stop him, but when he took another swig she continued pointedly, "And your kidneys, and your heart, and—"
"All right, luv," he grumbled, putting down the bottle and picking up his duffel bag. Whatever came next, he had no intention of returning to this flat again. "Food it is."
The rain had let up; they walked to an all-night diner in the neighborhood. Spike lit a cigarette on the way, ignoring Buffy's raised eyebrows. He'd think of his lungs later.
"I spoke to Giles," she said after a few minutes. "He's making arrangements. He'll call back with the details."
"What did you tell him?" Spike was still unsure of her plans. What she would want from him. What he would be able to give.
She shrugged. "The truth."
Oh? What's that, then?
He smoked instead of speaking. He wasn't ready to know.
They reached the restaurant, its garish neon-lit exterior flickering like morse code, a beacon to hungry drunks and insomniacs at 4 a.m.
He followed Buffy to a booth by the window and sat across from her, sliding his duffel bag under the bench seat with the heel of his boot. He eyed the laminated pictorial menu skeptically. Apart from the occasional Weetabix to bulk up his pig's blood, his food preferences had been limited to the sweet, spicy, or deep fried. Most else had the flavor of cardboard to the undead palate.
A middle-aged waitress materialized at his elbow and placed two sweating glasses of water on the sticky tabletop.
"What can I get you two?" she asked, pencil and pad in hand, jaw working overtime on a piece of sugarfree gum.
Everything about her was tired: rasping voice, wilted uniform, patchy makeup that failed to hide the lines etched into her face by gravity and the stress of this and every other shit job she'd ever held. Spike couldn't stop staring at her. He wondered how long before the weight of mortality began breaking him down. He wondered about an ordinary existence—ending in frailty, disease—and he wondered how Angel could have mistaken this bullshit prophecy for a gift.
Buffy ordered for them both, smiling brightly until the woman hurried off to call their order, then frowning at him. "Hey. Rude."
Spike gestured to his face. "Hadn't thought of that part yet," he muttered.
"Oh." Buffy's expression softened. "Poor Spike. You'll have to get old."
"Don't take the piss, Slayer," he said, cutting his eyes at her.
"I'm not. Really. This must be majorly weird for you."
"That's one word for it."
"You could use more words…if you want."
Unwelcome. Unwanted.
"What's there to say?"
Inexplicable. Intolerable.
"What you told me back at your place was the Great Illustrated Classics version. I'd like to know the whole story."
He scoffed. "You ever read The Metamorphosis?"
She reached for his hand on the table; he withdrew before she could make contact. He couldn't abide her touch. Hadn't she heard him? This wasn't his body.
She looked wounded, dropped her hand into her lap. "I meant the story about…everything. I still don't understand what you're doing here. How you're back. Why you didn't…I don't get it. You always used to want to talk to me."
Talk? It was all he could do to sit here without screaming.
"An' so we will. But…"
"Not now." Buffy ran a finger through the water pooling at the base of her glass. "Right."
The waitress returned bearing steaming plates. Spike averted his eyes until she'd gone.
"Steak and eggs seemed like a safe choice for you," Buffy said as she poured syrup on a tall stack of pancakes.
He began to eat, more for her benefit than his own. The food stopped the roiling in his stomach, but not the one in his skull.
"You can talk, if it'll help," he said.
Buffy seemed relieved at the suggestion; she proceeded to tell him all about life post-Sunnydale. She spoke of her flat in Rome, Dawn's schooling, Andrew crashing on her couch (but made no mention of The Immortal, for which Spike was grateful). She accounted for the whereabouts of the rest of the gang: Giles heading the newly reformed Watchers Council in England, Xander and Faith training a rotating group of Slayers at the Cleveland Hellmouth, Willow leading a powerful coven in Nepal. Spike listened, hmm'd and uh-huh'd at all the right points, but he felt no connection to the Scoobies anymore and could muster little curiosity about their affairs. If Buffy expected more from him, she didn't let on.
The electronic jangle of a ringtone interrupted her mid-sentence. She swallowed a forkful of pancake before retrieving a cellphone from her jeans pocket. "Hello? Giles, can you hear me? Sorry, where? No, that's perfect. And you'll make sure no one else is—ok. Thanks."
"So, where'm I headed?" he asked when she'd hung up.
"The safest of houses. Hammerfest."
"Hammerfest?" he echoed. "Norway."
"Yup." She took a last bite of her meal, then crossed the flatware in an X on the plate.
"End of May above the arctic circle. Means—"
"We can take a break from the forces of darkness, because there won't be any darkness."
There it was again. We.
"I bet that's something you never thought you'd see," she said. "We'll finally find out if you freckle."
There was an unsettling eagerness in her eyes, her voice. Like she was attempting to sell him on living.
"Buffy. I don't want…I can't...fuckin' hell."
She stood and slid into the booth next to him. He wanted to throw himself through the window to keep her away. He forced himself to remain still as she leaned against him, put first her fingertips, then her ear to his chest.
"The thing is, I'm not asking."
She sat listening to his heartbeat until the waitress brought the bill.
"For the lovebirds," the woman said with a good-natured wink.
Impossible.
Except Buffy didn't correct her.
A month, a week, even a day ago, Spike would have clung to the fact that she'd allowed the comment to slip by without amendment, as though that proved something. He didn't bother now. It wouldn't change a thing.
Buffy placed a credit card on the table, nodded toward his half-eaten meal. "Is that all you want?"
All he wanted was out. Out of this skin that felt too tight, too thin to hold him together, this body that felt more like a prison with every passing moment, every shallow, necessary breath. He didn't know how to exist in this manner; he didn't know how to exist as a man. But he was. And it was Hell in a way he'd never thought to imagine it.