AN: OMG! I can't believe it but I've mucked up chapters. This is actually part one and the one I posted earlier today is part two, so, because I'm an idiot, I have this to fix and those reading actually get two chapters faster than I'd bargained on! I'm sure that makes you all mad as hell! Feel free to tell me about it

Part One

They'd walked a long time the previous night. Walked until Spike had found an abandoned motorcycle filled surprisingly with a full tank but covered ominously in blood. Without a word he handed their crossbow to Buffy to string across her back, propped up the bike, sat and waited for Buffy to climb on behind. The shock of the motor starting had Buffy gripping him around the waist, her head resting into the back of his jacket with an ease he appreciated after the years it had taken to achieve. Revving the throttle, Spike allowed one hand down to squeeze hers reassuringly, then returned it to the handle bars as he kicked off.

The freedom from talking was a welcome relief. He loved talking to Buffy, loved looking at her and in their current climate they had little else to do. Other than kill the dead. Once upon a time he'd have thought this life with her would be one of perfection—killing monsters with her permanently at his side. Their isolation changed that a bit, as did her near death almost a month ago. It should have been the moment where he reminded her that he loved her, but the words had never made it past the garbled speech in his head that he'd prepared in case she hadn't made it. He'd held it inside, fearing that she'd realise how terrified he was that she was going to die for the third time. Realise, and be angry at him for not having faith in her.

He'd been a fool. He should know better than anyone by now that his girl wouldn't go down without a fight. She'd copped a fatal blow that day they'd fought the First, the day he'd disintegrated into dust, and she'd kept on living. Against every set of odds in this new world they found themselves in, she'd been bitten and survived. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but he wasn't going to question it. It was what it was, and he was bloody grateful, all things considered. He had the love of his life snuggled into his back, her warm hands unconsciously stroking his belly and making him hard enough to burst the zipper of his jeans, and she was wonderfully, totally alive.

They'd travelled until Spike could feel Buffy's arms loosen around his body and he knew she needed to sleep. She could barely keep her eyes open as they dismounted the bike at an abandoned house, both of them immediately reaching for their weapons the second their feet hit the ground. It was quiet, Spike leading her into the house with his short-sword at the ready to shaft any unwelcome undead nit between the eyes. The house was miraculously clear and with his sensitive hearing, Spike proclaimed them safe for now. Buffy had completed her own quick sweep of the surrounding area, and he almost crowed in delight when she returned to him with a few apples in her hands, scythe hanging at her waist.

"Can you believe there's an apple tree out back?" she said, smiling like she'd discovered gold lining the pavements. Spike grinned, relieved she'd found some food so easily.

"Fruit? If you'd found a blood tree out there, Slayer, I'd have been more impressed."

She kicked his boot playfully before taking a huge bite, laughing as juice spilled from her lips. She moaned around the mouthful, then made her way through the house, her hand stroking his abs in familiarity as she walked past. Spike watched her walk, marvelling at her strength and courage as she wandered from one room to the next, scanning for the safest place to bed down for the oncoming day before collapsing on the couch in the front room. They didn't bother to try and board anything up, just made sure the curtains were closed. They had no need for anything but rest, and for the first time since this nightmare began, Spike thanked whatever God allowed him to be undetected by the ravenous horde that seemed to be everywhere. He seemed to be an undead deterrent and that kept Buffy safe. Mostly.

Her apple finished, Buffy curled up on one side of the couch, her lids already lowered as she drifted off to sleep. Spike covered her with his coat, and then inspected their weapons before he could allow his own forty winks. He needed to maintain the scythe and sword, their sharpness being essential to their survival—Buffy's survival. He'd snagged a crossbow from somewhere, not long after all this began and then the lethal looking knife he unclipped from the holder at his hips joined the group. In a flash he'd checked out the kitchen, looking for cloths or rags to clean the gore off with. He found a stack of tea towels and decided they'd be a good addition to their stash, taking them back to put in Buffy's bag of tricks. He took the sharpening stone from the pocket of his duster as Buffy slept and frowned when the Slayer didn't move. She didn't even flinch as the metal of first the scythe, then his knife struck the stone and his brow furrowed in worry. He knew they were pushing hard, trying to find somewhere safe in this inhospitable world, but he worried how long a human could really exist when constantly on the run. He was immortal; he could probably keep up this pace indefinitely, though the thought made him shudder. He knew Buffy could run longer than anyone, but even she had her limits.

He believed they would find a place—find people that didn't want to run them through with sharp implements the second their backs were turned, though the event of a Zombie Apocalypse seemed to turn human nature on its arse. They were both strong, warriors in a world that suddenly needed all the warriors it could get, so Spike knew they'd make their way somehow. He was just nervous, not wanting to tempt fate and have Buffy bitten again—have to sit terrified that the next time slayer healing wouldn't be all it was cracked up to be. She was a tough one, his girl, but even he had to admit she couldn't survive everything.

Hours passed with him contemplating their fate, his own body submitting to fatigue the second Buffy opened her eyes and went to find the loo, her newly sharpened scythe in her hands. She smiled at him gratefully before leaving the room, and Spike fell into unconsciousness on the couch.

Once upon a time, Buffy had had friends. More than she knew, if she was honest, but less than she'd liked. She'd had a house, with a sister and a watcher, a vampire in her basement, a functional bathroom and a closet bursting at the seams with fashion. If she was truthful she'd loved all those things—including the vampire in her basement—but what she really missed was hot water and a fresh change of clothes. She blocked out the image of Dawn, because as much as Spike reassured her that her sister would have been protected by Angel, if not by her friends and Giles, Buffy was realistic enough to know he could be wrong. Probably was wrong. If she stopped to think too hard about her friends, she had a strong feeling she'd stop completely. Wanting to live in a world that was full of death was hard enough, but needing to live to give Spike his own purpose to go on, that was what Buffy was all about these days. She didn't need to spy on him to see he'd been checking out the sun. When she'd been sick and feverish, she'd watched him break, a little piece at a time, then caught him looking out the window with desire. Relief was painted clearly on his face and Buffy forced her body to fight the inevitable. If she died, he'd take that final walk, and if they were both gone, then who was going to continue looking for Dawn?

Buffy investigated the house while Spike slept. He didn't get enough of it and they were both operating just above empty most of the time, so she had to take the downtime where she could get it. She had a few clothes she'd managed to keep with her when the outbreak first hit. Thankfully she'd been wearing her favourite jeans and a brown leather jacket, and had enough foresight to have a small backpack with two spare changes of pants and tops, plus a generous supply of underwear, her toothbrush and toothpaste and a brush that she always packed for on the plane—just in case they lost her luggage. She'd learned the first time it happened, being stranded in a strange city with just the clothes on her back. On her meagre slayer salary she couldn't afford a new wardrobe every time they lost her things. She'd picked up a few extras in the houses they'd ended up in, though most of what was left were slim pickings at best.

This house had been owned by old people. She could tell by the one bedroom and the doilies that seemed to litter the house everywhere, like crafted snow that never melted. It was musty, abandoned, but Buffy could tell the old people hadn't died here. She hoped they'd been somewhere with family or friends, not stumbling alone out there as they died and turned. She hoped they'd been together, like she was now with Spike.

Buffy settled on the bed, her hand absently stroking the old-fashioned patchwork quilt in pastel peach, and looked around the room. It looked barely touched, a moment suspended in time while the world outside had gone crazy. A framed portrait on the wall showed a couple, probably in their seventies, smiling at each other at what looked like a cookout as someone eavesdropped on their moment and captured their love forever. Tears threatened to fall as Buffy wrapped her arms around herself.

It all seemed so hopeless, this life Spike and she were barely carving out for themselves. If they didn't settle somewhere soon, she didn't know what might become of them. It was stupid, dumb luck that put them in the middle of this without friends. Duty, always duty that left her alone or on the outside. Spike had just returned to her, barely having the time to apologise for not coming back earlier and for being Angel's right hand man in his latest foolhardy battle, before Giles had sent them away. It was under the pretence of hunting down more new slayers, but Buffy had known her watcher couldn't bear to see them possibly back together. Couldn't bear the guilt he felt at keeping them apart.

They'd landed in Atlanta after Giles's last discovery and had straight away headed out of the city, on the path of this newest slayer whether she wanted to know about them or not. Buffy had no idea how she'd missed the telecasts of this outbreak—that people were turning into zombies. Maybe she had heard it but thought she was dreaming. Buffy had encountered many things in her short life—including zombies—but nothing had really prepared her for a true-to-life zombie apocalypse. Nothing could have warned her of the scale in which the world would tumble. They'd been just out of the city, heading the opposite way to the majority of the traffic, when the bombs had hit. She remembered screaming as the impact had hurled their hired car forward, tossing it like a lettuce leaf in a salad bowl. When she woke up, Spike was dragging her from the car, blood pouring from her head down onto her face. And when she woke up again, they were in a house far, far away, but not far enough. Not out of Georgia, not away from the dead, not back to her family. They were stuck, and the only thing on their side was Spike's quick thinking to grab their weapons and her pack and get them the hell away from there.

As usual he'd taken care of her, and hadn't stopped since, even when she rightly should have died from that bite. The one she'd gotten the one time he wasn't watching her back. She knew he was almost crippled with guilt from her being hurt—she knew Spike loved her with a depth of feeling she'd never given him true credit for, or told him she felt in return. Apparently facing inevitable death wasn't even enough to scare the words from her lips. Every day that passed she felt she was closer to telling him, but that fear that he still wouldn't believe her kept the words bottled up.

Finally the tears fell and Buffy fell back on the bed, crying for her lost hot water and wardrobe, cried for defeat in Spike's spirit, and cried for the humanity she'd been unable to save when it truly counted. They still searched for the slayer. Who else could truly survive in a world such as this? It kept them moving, kept them focused and in charge of their own fate when the only alternative was to give up. Buffy had done that once before, and she was sure as hell it wasn't going to happen again.

She wasn't letting Spike take that walk in the sun. Not for a long, long time.