(Author's Note: Despite the epilogue, the sequel to This Is The Way The World Ends will be very Spuffy and begins not very long after this story ends in chapter 58. Only several months will pass between them. I'm not dealing with a lot of the later events of Season Four because they just aren't going to happen. Adam and the Initiative are already dealt with. The sequel will be called 'The Worlds Revolve' and will deal mostly with a slightly skewed Season Five, a completely off-cannon Season Six/ Crossover with Angel Season Three [which is why Angel got to make it this far, if you were wondering] and I'll blather on more after you finish this one…)
One Hundred and Eight Years Later….
She was dead.
It had only been three days. She was dead. His mind couldn't move past the words. His body felt heavy and leaden. He had been operating on automatic pilot since he had awoken with her cooling body next to his. He had shed tears, too many to count, but the despair had not faded.
And he didn't have time to wallow in it. He had a duty lurking just ahead. They buried her yesterday and today he was on a train.
They had quite a few friends to come to the funeral, woman from her social groups that marveled at her lack of wrinkles. She always looked far too young for her age.
But all the important friends, the Slaying friends, the lifelong friends, were long gone.
Buffy had outlived them all. She outlived the last of the Scoobies by forty years, her sister by thirty, and their small family by a decade. She'd outlived everyone but him.
But then, everyone would. He could not die. He could not fade from existence until the world was over. And that was only now sinking home.
The option of suicide, given to every creature, living and unliving before and after him was long gone. He never realized how precious it was, the chance to end.
He gazed out at the passing landscape. He'd thought Tara's death had broken him. In truth, in very nearly had. She was his oldest friend and he still felt her absence like an old, deep wound. Every once in a while it stung so sharply he could barely function.
But losing Buffy… he was amazed he could walk. He marveled that the sun continued to rise in a world without her and the tide pounded the surf still, even though she would never walk along the shore again.
How could these things keep going? How could he keep going? He was expected to fight tomorrow. He was expected to find the new Slayer, two days called, and help her.
What good was he to anyone?
* * *
The motel room was like a thousand others, but it was dry. The rain came down in sheets and Spike didn't want to get off the bed.
But he did.
He made his way to the graveyard through the downpour, seeking his new charge with a blind, unfeeling tread.
He didn't care. He didn't care about promises, he didn't care about the good fight he'd been fighting for more than a century. He didn't want to care.
The sounds of a struggle made their way to his sensitive ears. The park.
He moved toward it, quickening his pace automatically.
The scent of blood and fear was in the air, undiluted by the weather.
Spike saw them then, vampires, a half dozen of them. They were clustered together, holding down a struggling figure.
Spike reacted automatically, withdrawing a bastard sword from under his coat.
He beheaded three of them before they even sensed his approach. The other three barely put up a fight. It was pathetic, Spike shook his head, and there were no challenges in the world anymore. He hadn't met an opponent he couldn't easily defeat since Glory.
The sound of sobbing breaths brought him back into the present. He looked down.
Slayer.
The awareness of who she was hit him then.
She was still lying sprawled in the mud and grass and her skit was torn.
An ominous pair of ripped panties lay near by. Spike bent to pick them up. They had little cursive 'Sundays' written all over them. They were Day of the Week underpants. Dawn had had some and so had Lyra later on.
It was Friday.
“I didn't think anyone would know.” She said softly, before bursting into loud sobs.
And then Spike cared.
It hurt but it came easier than he ever though possible.
He kneeled next to her in the wet earth and vegetation and really looked at her for the first time. She was so young. She looked younger than Dawn when she had first come to them.
“Did they hurt you, pidge?” Spike asked, tugging down the skirt a bit to give her some privacy.
“N-n-no. You s-s-stopped them. They were going to-“ The tears came forth in a torrent again and Spike leaned closer. His arms were full in a second.
He scooped her up and walked at a ground-eating pace towards the motel. She quieted after a few minutes and Spike hazarded a few questions, “Where is your Watcher?”
“He was here but he left when I f-failed.” She stuttered, completely thrown by her unfamiliar position in anyone's arms. She hadn't been picked up since she had been two.
“He left you?” Spike stopped, unable to contemplate what she had said.
“Tonight was my first time out. Roger was supervising. It was a test to see if I could beat them on my own and all. But I lost my stake and there were so many. I saw him leave-“ Her breathes started hitching again.
“Sshh, hush, love. Your Watcher's a worthless tosser and he's damned to Hell for leaving you to that fate. He's not worth any tears.” Spike came to the motel door and had to put her on her feet to dig out the room key.
She stood there shivering on the doorstep and Spike nudged her into the room.
“How old are you, pet?” He asked, turning on the lights.
“Thirteen.” She managed, through chattering teeth.
Spike froze. Jesus Christ.
She was just a baby. A full two years younger than Buffy was when she was called.
The Watcher's Council had called a child, given her care over to the worst example of humanity Spike had ever heard of, and left to her live or die apparently caring for nothing but the next calling.
He burned with rage. But the snuffling sound she made as she tried to stop her nose running made him soften.
He picked through his duffle bag and pulled out a faded Clash t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants and walked to the bathroom.
He put the clothes on the countertop and started filling the bathtub. He even dug out one of the Bubble Bars he kept buying for himself after Tara was gone and he soap, shampoo and conditioner. He chose the ones that smelled of coconut, figuring a girl would like them.
He left the tub still filling to fetch her, “Come on, love, into the bath with you. We'll talk more once you're all warm and cleaned up.”
He knew from personal experience, simple tasks could take anyone's mind off recent events, however briefly.
She entered with eagerness and shut the door.
Spike changed into his own pajamas and sat on the bed. He flicked through the channels of the television until he found a Golden Girls rerun and watched mindlessly.
It occurred to him, just as Rose was telling another St. Olaf story, that he hadn't watched telly since Buffy had passed.
* * *
Emily washed herself thoroughly, secretly luxuriating in the sweet smelling water.
Her Watcher would not approve. Only showers were appropriate for Slayers. Anything else took far too much time and distracted one from one's duty. She'd never had things that smelled so nice, either.
Every week, Roger handed her a fresh bar of plain glycerin soap. She washed herself and her hair with it and that was it.
Getting out of the tub, Emily was confronted with her own unpleasant reflection. Her hair was wet and tame now, but once it dried it would be a mess of frizzy brown curls. Her skin was bad. Her front teeth stuck out too far and she was heavy.
Roger had constantly been putting her on diet after diet as long as she could remember. He insisted Slayers could not weigh as much as she did. He said it would hold her back; she wouldn't be able to move quickly enough.
I guess he was right; she stared at the tears forming on her own face and hurriedly wiped them away. All she had done since that guy had rescued her was cry.
He must think I'm just the biggest crybaby. I couldn't fight those vamps off. I'm fat and ugly and no one will ever want me.
Least of all him.
Despite her traumas, Emily had noticed her rescuer. He was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Why had he saved her?
She pulled on the t-shirt and drawstring pants, blushing when she thought about the fact that they were his.
What's wrong with me? I almost died. They were going to rape me and kill me.
But they didn't because he saved me.
Roger left me, but he saved me and he doesn't even know me at all. I've been with Roger since I was two.
Emily paused at the bathroom door, suddenly nervous. She had so many questions to ask, though. She opened the door quickly before she lost her nerve.
He was sprawled on the bed like a big jungle cat resting up after a kill. He raised his head lazily at her entrance, “All done then? I'm going to have a wash before bed myself.”
And then he was in the bathroom and the sink was running. Emily sat on the bed and started putting the questions in order in her mind.
Who are you?
Why did you help me?
How do you know about Slayers?
What's going to happen to me now that I've failed?
The last one made her chest hitch and she hugged a pillow tightly. She inhaled deeply and realized it must smell of him. It smelled of citrus and spice and wet leather and grass. And there was an underlying wiff of musk.
She pressed her face into the now comforting scent and willed back fresh tears.
He came out of the bathroom and sat on the bed next to her. She dropped the pillow like it had caught fire.
“Now then, I think it's time for a little story before bed. Get comfy, sweets, it's a lulu.”
And she didn't need to ask the questions after all.
* * *
(Author's Note: Because I can't shut up today, that's why. I've had a story eating away at me lately that I'm never going to have the option of writing what with the two sequels I'm planning. So I thought I'd offer it out to you all. I'll get around to posting it on the Challenge page sooner or later. It's an alternate-alternative universe. Basically, all the things that happened to Spike in this story, actually happened a bit before Buffy was ever called. Say about two or three thousand years before.
So Buffy to him is just another Slayer and he's been helping them for a LONG time. He's tired and losing his faith and when he encounters Buffy in Season one he doesn't expect her to be any different. You see, the problem with living forever and living among the living is that sooner or later, they all die on you. And Spike considered his biggest curse to be his heart. He loves them all like family. Every last one. And when they die, it feels like a part of him died, too. He's convinced that he has no parts left to give when Buffy convinces him otherwise. This could be a short story or a sprawling epic that spans several seasons. Spike has lived through quite a bit of history so flashbacks could be fun. Slayers came from everywhere and some of them were probably famous and misunderstood. * Cough * Morganna Le Fey *Cough * Joan of Arc, etc.
So, if anyone is interested, I'd really love to read your take on it. Meanwhile, The Worlds Revolve will be begin fairly soon. I hope you'll join me for the next bit. Thanks to all my readers and my darling, beautiful, precious, reviewers. I live for reviews. Please leave them.)
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