Betad by Carol and dawnofme


Banner by dawnofme


Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to me - they are used purely for fun and not fiancial gain






Chapter Twenty-Two



All Alone


Spike wandered slowly through the sewers. He couldn’t believe he’d just walked away from Buffy like he had. God, he loved her so much it hurt, but if he’d stayed, things would’ve gotten even worse. He couldn’t stand all the tension; all he wanted was some peace before all hell inevitably broke loose again in the form of Maggie and Adam. It felt strange to be walking along, alone, going where he wanted to go.


He finally arrived at his old crypt. As he stepped up into the lower level from the sewer tunnel, his unbeating heart sank - the place looked trashed. He climbed the ladder to ground level. It was even worse there. Everything breakable had been smashed into tiny pieces, including his TV and his refrigerator. Graffiti had been sprayed all over the walls, the door hung lopsidedly on its hinges and to make matters even worse, the whole place reeked of piss. The vandals - not vampires or demons, but humans, most probably teenaged boys - had left their mark.


“Great, just great,” said Spike.


He sat down on a ledge and to his amazement, he started to cry. He couldn’t stop, his body racked with sobs. When finally he could cry no more, he wiped his face on his t-shirt and looked around his former home again. It was the only place that he’d really felt he’d belonged in years. He’d seen the best and worse of Buffy here, as had she of him.


“Christ, where’d that all come from?” he thought, but knew it was a reaction to all he’d been through over the past year. Walking alone of his own free will was seemingly the catalyst; the fact that his ‘home’ was ruined emphasised what he’d lost in that time. He may be immortal but a year was still a long time to suffer as he had.


He stood up, shook his head rapidly to clear his thoughts and went to see if his ‘safe’ had been discovered in his absence. He went over to the back corner and pulled out a couple of bricks revealing a space about a foot square. In it was a black metal box, which he pulled out and opened.


“Yes,” he said, as he saw the contents were intact.


He took out a pile of dollar bills and counted them carefully - just over three thousand dollars. There were also two silver rings that he put on and a silver necklace. He held the necklace in his hand and looked at it before putting it in his jeans pocket. He’d been going to give it to Buffy the last night before he’d been recaptured, but when she’d ended it with him, he’d just put it back in the box and got pissed.


Right at the bottom of the tin was a faded old photograph, a bit blurry as photography was in its infancy when it was taken. It showed a couple and a young boy of about twelve. It was Spike, or rather William, and his parents. He looked at it for a long time; his father had died the following year. He wondered - would his life have been different had his father lived to old age? Would he still have been regarded with the contempt he had been, that had forced him out onto the streets that fateful night when he’d met Drusilla? Or would he have been a stronger man and not the hopeless romantic, author of poetry of such mediocrity as to draw such scorn?


He felt tears start to sting his eyes again. He stuffed the photo into the back pocket of his jeans.


“Christ, Spike, don’t be so pathetic,” he said to himself, voice echoing in the crypt.


He looked at the cash, trying to decide whether to take it all or leave some here since it’d remained unfound despite the crypt being ransacked. It was unlikely it would be found now. Unlikely, Spike decided, didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen, so he split it between his pockets. He put the now empty box back and pushed the bricks into place.


Spike stood up and looked around. There was no way he could stay here, but where could he go? Not only was it daytime but it was a bright sunny day at that. With no blanket to hide beneath, he wouldn’t last two minutes if he tried to stay above ground. He started to wish he’d stayed put and took his chances with the Scoobies. He hadn’t known he was going to leave until he'd said it. He’d meant to try to make peace with Giles but saw from the way he looked at him that it was useless; a lost cause. So where could he go? He still reeked of the potion used to expel the Lorac Bug, then he had a thought and he smiled.


“Good idea, Spike!”


He jumped down into the tunnels and made his way to the underground entrance to Willy’s Bar. He needed somewhere to stay until dark. Since most of the clientele naturally smelled worse than Spike currently did, he’d blend in just fine. Hopefully, without his beloved duster and bleached hair, no one would recognise him.


He walked into the bar - the bar keep wasn’t anyone he knew. So far so good.


“Pint of O neg and a Jack Daniels,” he said, disguising his English accent with a passable Southern one.


“Sure thing,” replied the barman. “New in town?”


Spike just ignored him.


“Twenty bucks,” he said, putting the drinks down in front of Spike.


“Twenty bucks!” exclaimed Spike. “Bit steep, isn’t it?”


“Where else in town can you get that combination of drinks in a safe environment?”


“Good point,” replied Spike. He pulled out a couple of twenties from his pocket and gave them both to the barman. “Bring the same again when you see the glasses are empty.”


He chose a table in the darkest corner - even though it was early in the morning, there were about thirty-five customers. Willy’s Alibi Room never closed and it was never empty. Spike took a sip of the blood. It was the good stuff. He tried not to think about where it came from, but there was no animal blood on the menu here. He’d buy some to take out when it was dark; not wanting to have to risk stealing some from the hospital or reverting to pig’s blood from the butchers.


The barman brought over his second round of drinks almost at the same time Spike put down the empty glasses. Good service was essential for any bar staff working there. If you pissed off a customer, they didn’t just forget the tip, quite often, they ate the culprit. Consequently, Willy’s had the best service in the whole of Sunnydale.


Spike felt his eyes starting to close as he sat there after finishing his second pint of blood. The bar was warm and safe, so each blink lasted longer and longer until he was fast asleep.


Instantly, he was back in the dream, seeing his arm removed with the demon’s arm in its place. This time, as he was wheeled away, he saw the Professor smiling at him as he lay there unable to move. He saw someone else there, too, standing next to her. He tried to see who it was; was it someone he knew? Oh God it was…


He woke up with a start, knocking the table and causing one of the glasses to fall to the floor and smash. Every head turned in his direction. He ducked his head down, keeping his face hidden and quickly got up. He put ten dollars on the table to cover the breakages and rapidly made his way back into the sewers.


“What does that bloody dream mean? Who was that with the Professor?”


Spike had stolen a jacket that had been hanging near the tunnel entrance and decided to try to make it over to Buffy’s house. He knew it might be being watched but thought it fairly unlikely, as Maggie would know the Slayer wouldn’t have simply gone home. It was a risk he decided to take, as he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go; plus his jacket was there, and it always made him feel better when he wore it. It was like a combination of armour and a comfort blanket to him!


By sprinting as fast as he could, he made it into Buffy’s house by the door to the kitchen just as the jacket started to smoulder. He’d kicked in the door, tossed the jacket outside and pushed the door shut. He stood perfectly still, concentrating all his enhanced senses on the house. He could detect no evidence of the Initiative having been in there and he knew he’d be able to smell it if they had. It was a smell he didn’t think he’d ever forget.


He walked over to the refrigerator and opened it, pleased to see three bags of pig’s blood in there. That would do until he got some more. He’d rushed out of Willy’s, forgetting to buy some to take out in his haste. He closed the door of the fridge, made his way upstairs and into the bathroom. He turned the shower on to let the water heat up as he found a towel and stripped off. He stepped under the stream of water, turned the heat up some more and stood there, eyes closed, hands leaning against the wall, relishing the feel of the hot water on his skin. After about five minutes, he took the soap and scrubbed himself vigorously, getting the stench of the potion off him and scrubbing until his skin was red in his efforts to eradicate the past year.


Eventually, he stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in the large fluffy pink towel he’d found. He looked at the filthy jeans and t-shirt and decided that he’d have to wash them before he put them back on; they were literally the only clothes he possessed. So, still wrapped in the towel, he went back downstairs and put them in the washing machine after emptying his pockets and putting their contents on the shelf near the washer and bringing the cell phone back into the kitchen with him. He rummaged through cupboards until he found a half full bottle of brandy; he picked it up and brought it with him as he walked upstairs.


Spike went into Buffy’s bedroom, as always he was surprised at how ‘girly’ it was; a contrast to how she had to be when in Slayer mode. He sat on the bed, took a good slug of the brandy then put the bottle and phone on the floor near the bed. He then curled up on his side on the bed, savouring the scent of Buffy on the sheets.


As soon as he was asleep, he was thrown back into the dream. It was different this time. He was in a cell, naked, waiting for them to come for him, as he knew they would. The glass door to the cell opened, but there was no one in sight. Buffy. It had to be Buffy come to rescue him. He walked to the door and out of the cell, all the time expecting to be stopped but he wasn’t. He ran silently along, glancing back to see if he was being followed. He bumped into something in front of him and fell to the floor. He looked up in horror - Adam was there! Spike scooted backwards trying to get up. Without saying a word, Adam strode up to him and stomped on his right leg with all his might. Spike screamed in pain as it broke.


Spike fell off Buffy’s bed and scooted backwards until he hit the wall, his eyes flew open as he screamed, but the images kept coming…


Back in a cell, the pain from his leg was almost unbearable. He saw a gurney being pushed past. A figure was strapped to it. As it got level with him, he saw who it was – Buffy.


“No!” he shouted, both in his dream and in reality.


“You’re too late, Spike,” an unseen but familiar voice sneered. “You’re never able to stop it when it really matters, are you?”


Bewildered, Spike looked at the gurney again. Buffy turned to look in his direction for a moment, but her expression was blank. As she turned her head away from him, he could see a shaved area on the back of it, a couple of stitches closing the wound there.


“Christ, no! Buffy!” Spike yelled, dragging himself to bang on the glass as she was wheeled away.


He was banging on the wall of Buffy’s bedroom, locked into the vision even though he was awake. His right leg was held awkwardly as if broken. He stopped banging on the wall when he heard the cell phone ring. He looked around, eyeing the phone suspiciously when he spotted it.


“What’s a phone doing in here with me?” he thought, still unable to separate dream from reality. He picked it up and pressed the button to answer the call. He didn’t speak, didn’t put it to his ear, he just held it in front of him.


“Spike? Are you there? Spike?” Buffy’s voice emanating from it.


He looked at it.


“Trick, it’s just a trick,” he said.


“Spike? What’s a trick? Are you OK?”


“Too late. Always too late. Not smart enough. Let her die again.”


“What are you talking about? Spike, where are you?”


“No! Not telling. She’ll be hurt; she is hurt.”


He threw the phone to the wall and it smashed. Spike pulled himself into the corner again, grunting in pain from his ‘broken’ leg, eyes open, not seeing the inside of Buffy’s bedroom but the inside of an Initiative cell.


To be continued…