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60 Miles out of Arnette, Texas: Spike's Car
“Spikey…my tummy aches…little worms are creepy-crawling in it,” Drusilla moaned, and Spike took his eyes off the road to look at her in concern.
“Must have been that hitchhiker you ate, poodle…I told you he looked a little funny,” he said soothingly, reaching across the front seat to brush a strand of hair from her eyes.
He nearly crashed his prized DeSota when he found her skin to be damp and searing hot.
“Spike…make it stop!” She pleaded plaintively, and then began to cry, “Make the awful wormies go away!”
She then leaned forward and vomited the blood she had just taken onto the floor of the car and all over her dress.
By sunrise, she was dead.
Sunnydale, California: Summers' Residence
Buffy, Xander, Willow, Oz, Giles and Joyce huddled together around the TV, their eyes fixated to the news station. Oz had his arms tightly wrapped around Willow, his usually calm façade replaced with a look of anxiety.
“Called the Super Flu on the East, Captain Trips here on the West, hospitals are filling up with victims of this strange, new strain of flu. The president has issued a press release stating that it is not a plague, but an overreaction on the part of the public. If you should exhibit symptoms of flu, you should lie down, take plenty of fluids and aspirin and wait for the symptoms to pass…”
Buffy shut off the TV as they went into another story, shuddering.
Everyone remained silent for a long while, staring at the black screen.
All eyes immediately shot up when the sound of engines filled the air, and their silent dread grew as a caravan of army trucks passed by, filled with soldiers armed with rifles and wearing gas masks.
Captain Trips had reached Sunnydale.
A sneeze shattered the silence, and everyone started in surprise, eyes looking towards Giles.
He smiled thinly as he replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, “Just…uh…a touch of a…cold…” he said softly. However, his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with fear, and his entire face had gone pale.
“Just a cold,” Buffy repeated in a whisper, then tears poured down her face as she flew into the arms of her former Watcher, and almost father.
Los Angeles, California: Doyle's Apartment
Angel slowly closed the bedroom door, his eyes closed as he tried to breath without screaming. Doyle…Christ…
Cordelia Chase looked up at him, her eyes streaked with running mascara, nearly choking when she saw the dire look on his face, “But…he's a demon…”
“Doesn't seem to matter,” Angel laughed bitterly, almost hysterically, “Trips takes no prisoners.”
No…it doesn't…Cordelia thought to herself, fresh tears coming to her eyes. “Sunnydale?”
“No communication…phone lines are down or something…and Joyce's cell phone isn't working…”
Their eyes met, both afraid to voice their concern. Maybe, just maybe, no one answered because there just wasn't anyone left too.
“She's the Slayer…she'll beat it,” Cordelia assured him as Angel crossed to the window, opening it up to look out on the City of Angels.
Every where in the city, people were panicking, looting, disaster, people screaming about the end of the world.
“Someone fucked up, didn't they?” Cordelia asked suddenly, her voice tinged with regret, “Either the Powers…or one of those numbfuck bastards in Washington left the top off of one of their super specials.”
Angel glanced at her in surprise to her insight. He had been ready to blame it on evil, maybe something expelled from the Hell Mouth…Powers trying to even the odds between good and evil. Why hadn't he thought of humans lying at the fault of it?
Easy…because he really didn't want to think of the people he spent the last few of his life trying to save went and did the evil deed themselves, signed their own death warrant, as well as everybody else's…
“I'm getting past the quarantine barriers…rush them if I have too…you coming?”
Cordelia looked down at her hands, where they were twisting nervously in her lap, “No. It's…a little late for that…”
Angel inhaled sharply, staring at the brunette Prom Queen, beautiful, smart, fiery…with a death sentence leveled on her so unfairly. “No…” he shook his head in denial as she slowly stood up.
She smiled up at him serenely, kissing his cheek, “Don't worry about me, Angel…don't I always take care of myself?”
She picked up her purse, clutching it to her chest as she went into Doyle's bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Cordelia's eyes searched the darkness, trying not to be revolted by the stench of the sick room, saddened.
This wasn't where he deserved to die. Not alone in his dingy apartment. He may have been a half-demon, but he was everything to her…his wide grin, his adoring, black eyes, the way he called her princess…she'd give all of her Vera Wangs' to just have him back for a minute, to tell him all she never got too.
She closed her eyes, breathing heavily as she stumbled towards the form on the bed, sobs racking her body.
She remembered the last time she saw him so clearly.
He had looked a little green around the gills, but he had been true to form, giving her his ultra-sexy grin, (Not that she'd ever tell him she thought it was sexy,) “Come on, Princess…one date…”
“Why? Did you sprout a money tree with a magical leprechaun that gives fashion advice?” She had shot back, rolling her eyes before turning back to her computer.
He had gone home later that day, said he felt a little ill and asked Cordelia to come with him and play `Naughty nursemaid.'
She wished to God she had taken him up on the offer.
She stifled her sobs as she looked down at him. If she ignored the black swelling of his neck, he looked almost like he was asleep, about to wake up and smile at her brilliantly, beckoning to her.
“I'm so sorry, Doyle…” she whispered softly, stroking his slack face, trying to ignore the stiff, cold feeling that seeped into her fingers, “I'm sorry I was so mean,” she buried her head against his hard chest, clutching his t-shirt as she sobbed against his dead body.
She closed her eyes, her body trembling as she reached for her purse, slowly removing a revolver from its depths.
She snuggled against him, head resting against the crook of his arm.
As she slipped the cold steel of the barrel past her lips, she smiled as an image filled her mind.
Doyle stood before her, bright light framing him, and he was grinning brightly, “Come on, Princess…how about a night on the town? Then on me?”
I'm coming, darling…
Angel flinched as the gunshot echoed through the apartment, seeming to reverberate through his very core.
He stared straight forward for several minutes, his fists clenched so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms, blood flowing between tightly closed fingers.
Finally, he howled in pain and denial, smashing his fist through the window of the apartment, screaming his outrage and frustration to the skies.
He screamed and screamed, trying to stop the feeling of acute loneliness sweeping through him, tearing him up inside.
For the first time since he had gotten back from Hell, he wished he had never gotten his soul back.
The pain was too much…
Sunnydale, California: Rosenberg Residence
Willow lay wrapped in Oz's embrace, her eyes shut as he nuzzled the back of her neck. In her hand, she held a thin, white home pregnancy test.
“It could be wrong,” he whispered in her ear, clutching her tighter when she started to cry.
“It's the fifth one, Oz,” she mumbled, unable to stop her tears, “I can't do this…I can't bring a baby…into this!”
Oz gently rolled her to her back, hovering over her, “We can do it, honey…if anyone can do it…we can…” he assured her.
There were no doctors. No one to treat them…no one to perform an abortion…Sunnydale was as good as dead. Sure, there were still the quarantine barriers…but the soldiers were slowly disappearing.
After seeing one on the same corner, day after day, he had suddenly disappeared. Dead, or run away to safer places, a place where Captain Trips hadn't reached…he feared it was the latter rather then the former.
Willow sniffled with her tears, and Oz smiled as he kissed her, ignoring the slow roiling of his stomach. He had been sick that morning, nauseous…but he hadn't been eating that well of late…just a bad stomach, that's all…
Looking down into Willow's green, mist-filled eyes, he prayed that it was all it was.
30 Miles outside of Sunnydale: Spike
Spike was numb.
His dark princess, his ripe, wicked plum, was dead. A victim among many, human and vampire alike.
He stopped outside of Dallas one night, watching as one vampire after another coughed, or sneezed, then a swift look of fear crossing their faces.
Vampires don't, you know…cough or sneeze or vomit…those are human weaknesses. But Captain Trips gives you your humanity for a brief period, letting you taste what it is like to fear death once more, the taste of blood and bile filling your throat before it takes it all away. In your death.
Spike hadn't fed for several days after Drusilla died, sure it was the hitchhiker that had made her sick, that had infected her…but then one day, he asked himself why did he refrain from doing it? His Goddess was gone.
So he had fed on the first dead person he found, lying in a car abandoned in the road. He had fed from the corpse's wrist, since his neck had swollen to a black tube. Tube neck…that's what some are calling it…fitting, isn't it?
He waited several days for something to happen, a sniffle, a sneeze, but there was nothing. Apparently, he was immune. Immune to the disease killing everyone else on the planet.
So, he did the only thing he knew to do. He drove and drove, never thinking about where he was going.
He abandoned his DeSota halfway across the country. He almost didn't care. He had that car for thirty years…and he loved it, but that didn't seem important.
Not with the end of the world.
The highways were clogged with stalled traffic, corpses lying in cars, some empty, abandoned after some tried to ram through the manmade barriers of stalled cars.
Soon, he couldn't make past them anymore, and he had cursed, angered that he would lose something else he cared for…but that didn't matter anymore.
Not with the end of the world.
So he dumped it, breaking into a bike shop in the middle of the night, ignoring the alarm that went off.
No one cared about that anymore. Not about laws, morals, or anything else that had once seemed so important before.
It was the end of the world.
He had grabbed the first bike he saw, a black motorcycle and a helmet. He took some leather gloves and pants too, making sure his entire body was covered in the material.
He drove during the day, ignoring the slight amount of pain it caused, the bit of sunburn that tinted his pale skin an angry red color.
Every town he stopped in was the same. Everyone were as the walking dead. Eyes empty, unfocused, dogs lying dead, festering in the streets. Some towns were completely devoid of life.
Blinds were drawn against windows, as if the people who used to live in the houses tried to shut out the world, tried to shut out the flu that was killing everything, everyone.
He only stopped long enough in to fill his saddlebags with liquor and blood stolen from the emptying banks, apparently the vamps had the same idea. Stock up on supposedly clean blood, downplay the chance of getting Trips.
Spike wasn't so worried about that. He was immune.
Spike didn't know where he was going…didn't have anywhere to go. He was alone.
He closed his eyes, shuddering beneath his leather duster Where do you think you're going to go, mate? Everyone's dying…all the other vamps are edgy…not looking for friends…
He peered through his visor, frowning as he came to a stop in front of a sign. What the bloody hell?
Welcome to Sunnydale, it greeted him warmly, but someone had crossed out the 'dale' and put in their own words.
He grinned wryly, starting his bike back up, “Welcome to Sunnyhell, mate…where the Hell Mouth's the lesser of two evils.”
Sunnydale, California: Summers' Residence
Buffy stared at the glass of scotch in her hand before downing it. Tears burned at her eyes even as the liquor burned her throat.
In front of her, Giles' journals laid spread out on the tables. She closed her eyes as she leaned back in her sofa, contemplating the gentle, kind man who had been more of a father to her then her real one had been.
How many times did he stay up with me after I came back from LA? Holding me? Letting me cry on his shoulder? Who was the one who supported me, no matter what I did? Who fought beside me? Who lost his job, but still stayed on as my Watcher…refusing to abandon me?
She buried her head in her hands, sobbing her loss into it.
First Giles, then her mother…her mother…how could her mother die? She was supposed to go first, not her! Not Giles! Not Oz…
No…Oz wasn't gone yet…but it was Trips…Buffy had seen it…seen it in Willow's eyes as she nursed her boyfriend, her entire body tense, her face pale with worry.
It wasn't fair. Oz was Willow's great love…the father of her unborn child…the one that had made the redhead smile, her lips curled shyly as she held hands, kissed…made love too…made her a woman…and was now, in essence, making her a widow.
Buffy had been unable to stand around for long, afraid…not afraid she'd get infected…no, she had nursed so many people in so many days…only to lose them, and the only sniffles she got was from crying so hard and long.
She, Willow and Xander were the only ones left…Angel was probably dead if the vampires on patrol were any indication. They were all sick…and she had seen several lying down in the graveyard, dying, necks swollen black and ugly, their game faces on.
No matter if anyone saw them. No one cared, no one screamed anymore, not when the real horrors were on the outskirts of town.
Where the black, greasy smoke rose into the air, the smell of charred flesh and hair filling the air, sickening, nauseating.
The streets were deserted, and Buffy wondered if they were all doing the same, that if the people were hiding indoors, trying to deny what was going on around them, what was happening to the world.
It wasn't real…she didn't want it to be real…she just wanted things back the way they were before…when she was laughing with her friends, Oz snuggling with Willow, Xander throwing her adoring looks, Giles making some dry English-like statement, her mom rolling her eyes when Buffy tried to make an excuse about her bad grades.
She'd give anything to hear the dreaded `lecture' from her mom and Giles again.
But not right now…right now, she just wanted to forget…forget that Trips was killing everyone and everything she loved, that a plague was sweeping the world, ending it when she had tried so damned hard to save it so many times.
All the deaths, all the pain, all the suffering, sacrifices, blood and fighting…it was all for nothing.
Why was this any different then allowing Angelus to suck the world into Hell? Or the Mayor finishing off his ascension?
Maybe it would have been better if they had succeeded…anything had to be better then this reality, this horrible, realism that sucked the life from everything around her…
She didn't hear the knocking at her door, lost in the swirling pain of her thoughts, nor did she hear the soft snick as the knob was turned, admitting a black, leather clad figure.
She did look up, however when she heard the heavy footfalls. Her eyes widened when she took in the figure, hope flaring up at all the protection he was wearing, covered head to toe with leather, “Angel?”
The black visor on the motorcycle helmet flipped up, revealing empty, haunted blue eyes, and she gasped, stumbling up, upsetting the scotch bottle in her lap.
She nearly screamed as it tilted towards Giles' journals, but Spike's hand shot out, grabbing it before it could spill over the precious pages.
Spike met her wide, hazel eyes, grinning darkly, “Hello, Cutie…”
The two mortal enemies sat across from each other, neither speaking as they each inspected their glasses of scotch thoroughly, both obviously uncomfortable.
Finally, Spike chuckled, looking up at the Slayer, “Ironic, isn't it, luv? All this fucking fighting…all this fucking trying to save the world and some bloody prick lets a little antigen into the air, and we're all severely fucked up the arse.”
Buffy looked at him in surprise, then muttered softly, “I was thinking the same thing…it just…wasn't worth it, was it?”
“Maybe…maybe not…” he sighed, looking back down at his scotch before draining it. Suddenly, he whirled to his feet with a roar of rage, flinging the glass against the wall, shattering a picture of Buffy and her mother, laughing and smiling as they looked into the camera.
Buffy watched with an odd sense of surrealism as it teetered on the edge before crashing to the ground. Just like my life…just like my friends…
“Like a house of cards,” she said, and then laughed shrilly, “Everything was stacked up all nice…then it all came down…crashing to earth…like fucking cards! All falling!”
Spike looked at her in alarm as she continued to laugh hysterically, leaning over her knees. Her laughs soon became choked as they turned into deep sobs.
“Giles! Spike…why did it have to take Giles! My mom! Oz! It was supposed to be me! I'm supposed to die to save the world!”
“You can't save it, pet,” he said gently as he sat beside her, “This isn't a demon or the Hell Mouth…it's fucking human stupidity…”
She continued to sob, and he doubted she heard him. He pulled her onto his lap, cradling her as he would Drusilla after one of her tantrums.
Her stroked her hair, and she clutched to his chest, burying her face against it as she cried out her frustration at the inability to fix things, the inability to save her mother, her Watcher and her friends…
The front of his t-shirt was soaked with her tears before she finally managed to calm down, finally looking up at him, her hazel eyes still brimming with tears, “I'm scared, Spike…” she whispered, and he tightened his grip on her, his jaw clenching.
“So am I, baby…so am I…”
“I want to forget…about everything…” she muttered softly, and he jerked in surprise when her fingertips brushed against his face, and he looked down at her. “Make me forget, Spike,” she pleaded softly before tentatively pressing her lips against his.
Spike was too shocked to react at first, and then her tongue trailed against his bottom lip, and he moaned softly as he opened his mouth, allowing her access.
Their tongues tangled together, drawing into a silent battle as he slowly lowered her back down on the couch.
Her hands clenched at his leather duster, trying to push it over his shoulders. He broke away as he shrugged it off, looking down at her flushed face as he flung it to the side.
She was slightly breathless, and her eyes seem to swirl with a greenish color as she bit her lip gently, staring up at him, her eyes hooded with desire.
He leaned forward again, tenderly brushing his lips across hers as his fingers found the buttons of her blouse, unbuttoning it as his lips traced path down to her jaw line, then trailed them along her collarbone, his eyes closing.
To forget…nothing makes you forget what's happening around you more then the feel of lips against your skin, teeth worrying a hard nipple, a cold tongue dipping into your navel, body shuddering with anticipation and desire.
Spike sat up, eliciting a disappointed moan from the petite blond beneath him, and he grinned as he lifted his t-shirt over his head.
Buffy's heavy eyes looked over him, seeing his body for the first time. The hard muscle of his lean body was cool and smooth, looking like he was sculpted of the finest white marble, the only mar his dusky nipples, standing out against his pale skin.
She pulled him back down to her with a small moan, catching his bottom lip in her teeth and nipping at it, causing the vampire to moan and thrust against her.
She gasped as his hardness came into contact with her covered womanhood and arched against him, whispering his name in his ear, and he groaned.
“Buffy. Are. You. Sure?” He ground out. Another few seconds of touching her, feeling her hands skim his bare back, and he wouldn't be able to stop.
“Make me forget, Spike,” she said in a breathy voice, and he bit back another groan as he sat up, sliding her pants down her legs and hooking his fingers in the waistband of her panties.
He slowly slid them down, his unneeded breath catching in his throat as he looked over her. “You're so bloody beautiful,” he muttered softly, brushing a stray, golden strand of hair out of her eyes.
She smiled briefly, but the pain, the sorrow was in her eyes still, begging to be driven away, at least for a few brief seconds.
He watched her face as he gently inserted a finger into her, his thumb circling teasingly over her clit.
She gasped softly, arching up towards him, her eyes fluttering shut as he prepared her for him. His other hand reached up and cupped her chin, his fingers tenderly trailing over the soft skin of her face.
She moaned as the sensations of his ministrations, surprised by the tenderness of his touch, belying the fact that he was her enemy, a vampire, a monster and murderer…
She called his name as she fluttered over the edge, and came crashing to the ground, and then he was over her, slowly entering her.
She wondered briefly how he got his pants off so quick, but that thought was immediately pushed aside as she felt his cold length filling and stretching her, and her fingers dug into his shoulders.
He slowly thrust in and out of her, nearly gasping at her heat. He had never had sex with a mortal and would be surprised if his cock didn't burst into dust.
He tangled his hands in her hair and lifted her up for another kiss, slowly drawing it out, needing to feel her against him, surrounding him for as long as possible.
He saw her nearing orgasm, and smiled as he reached between their bodies, fingering her clit and his name tumbled off her lips as she shuddered against him.
He moaned, crying out her name as he followed closely behind, sheathing himself entirely in her wet warmth as he came, filling her with his cool seed.
He slumped against her, and felt her arms encircle his neck, pulling him closer.
He rolled them to their sides, and pressed him against her as they lay spoon-style as both their tears came. Tears for their lost lovers and tears for the ending of the world they both loved.
Slowly, vampire and Slayer drifted off to sleep, encased safely in each other's arms, letting the darkness overtake them, and remove them briefly from the terrifying existence surrounding them.
Sunnydale, California: Rosenberg Residence
Willow had stared at him for hours, unable to move, unable to cry. She had cried plenty while he was sick, vomiting up blood and bile, while he choked for air as his air pipe started to close.
But once the terrible noises from her lover and the father of her child stopped, Willow slipped into a semi-coma…and that was how Xander found her.
He took one look at the werewolf on the bed, his eyes wide and unseeing, staring up at the ceiling.
Xander groaned softly as he closed his friend's eyes, “Rest, man,” he whispered softly before pulling a sheet over his head, glancing at Willow as he began to pack up some of her clothes into a bag.
As he grabbed a few keepsakes he'd knew she'd appreciate later, he headed down the stairs to Oz's van. He opened up the door, and took the keys out of glove compartment, glancing at them as he flashed back.
“It's Trips,” Oz whispered, angrily swiping at his running nose, glaring at the mucous, his voice raspy.
“Summer cold,” Xander said simply, and Oz raised an eyebrow, shaking his head.
“That's what Giles said…”
Xander shuddered…it had been painful, watching over the G-man as he got sicker and sicker, trying to do research, convinced that the plague of Super Flu was something Hell Mouth related.
If it was, they could fix it…Buffy could fix it…that's the way it had always been.
After they buried Giles in Breaker's Wood, putting up a make-shift cross, Xander had went out to the `Welcome to Sunnydale' sign, angrily scratching out the dale and adding his own thoughts.
The Hell Mouth was the lesser of two evils.
If it had been the Hell Mouth, they could have stopped it in the nick of time, he was sure of that. Joyce Summers wouldn't have died, Giles would still be around to angrily tell him to not eat Twinkies on his new couch, to not chew with his mouth open, and to tell him to `Shut up, for the love of God and all that is holy!'
But this was man-made…this was something they couldn't stop, and he had seen the fear in Oz's eyes as he looked off into the distance.
“I know you love her…maybe more then me…” he had clutched Xander's hand in a grip that was almost painful, but he had said nothing.
“Take care of her, man…do it, or I'll come back and kill you myself…and love her, Xander…love her like she deserves…love her child…our child. Be the father I can't be for them…please…”
Xander had given his solemn promise.
Xander leaned against the van door, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathed heavily for several minutes.
He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to be a man, to deal with the actual world ending…he wasn't ready to take this step…but neither was Willow…or even Buffy for that matter.
They were alone, afraid…and all they had were each other…and he'd be damned if he'd let anything rip them apart…
He slowly made his way back into the house, and lifted up the still catatonic Willow, giving a final glance at Oz's covered body as he carried her slight weight down the stairs, past the kitchen…the living room…
So many memories assaulted him.
He remembered being a kid here, basking in the warmth of his friend's love and friendship.
He remembered playing video games with her and Jesse, all three friends plotting all kinds of evil things to do to Cordelia Chase once they got to school the next day.
He remembered sitting in that very kitchen, eating the chocolate chip cookies Sheila Rosenberg practically shoveled down his throat.
He remembered all of this and it hurt to say good-bye…hurt to say good-bye to Sunnydale…the town that held them bound by fate for so long.
The Hell Mouth was now safe, he was sure. With the actual end, no other creature would attempt to open it…why bother? It'll be a waste of time…
The world had stopped turning. It was over, everything was dead…
Buffy closed her eyes, stretching her body as she gripped sweet smelling earth in her hands.
She frowned, opening her eyes as she looked upwards into a cloudless blue sky, rustling corn above her, the ears nearly bursting with their golden treasure.
Buffy slowly sat up, looking about her, confused. How did I get here?
She jerked in surprise, suddenly hearing the sound of a guitar playing in the distance.
She smiled, closing her eyes as the sweet rhythm of the instrument made her feel warm, safe…in control again.
She slowly stood up, walking towards the sounds as the corn leaves brushed against her clothes.
She paused, coming to a sudden break in the seemingly endless waves of corn.
She looked around in surprise, noting an old fashioned water pump, a tree with a tire swing lazily swaying in the breeze, and the old house where a pleasant looking black woman sat, contently strumming on her guitar.
She looked up as Buffy came into the yard, a bright smile breaking her lined, ebony features, her thin body looking like it couldn't possibly support the guitar it was holding. She's old…
The old woman laughed out loud as if hearing her thoughts, “You're the little girl sent to fight the dark ones…?”
If it had been anybody else, Buffy may have bristled at being called a little girl, but her voice was kind, comforting…like her mother's hot chocolate. “Yes…I am the Slayer…”
“Buffy, is it? Come closer, child…I don't think I've seen myself a true-blue Californian before.” She drew out the I in Californian, giving it an `E' sound that made Buffy smile as she came closer.
“You needn't blame yourself, child…this wasn't your fault. These here be events that have been turning since before you were born the first time.”
“Events? What events?”
“You needn't worry yourself about that, little girl…this isn't your fight. Not this time around. They'll be a time when we'll call on you…you and your man, to once again take up the fight…but for now, consider yourself retired…”
“Angel? He's still alive?” Buffy asked eagerly.
The old woman laughed softly, “Yes,” she said, but Buffy caught a faint tone of sadness in the voice, but she was too eager, anticipating Angel's arrival. He would help make things better…
“Now, you all come and see me, you hear? They calls me Mother Abigail…I'll be waiting for you all…”
Buffy was about ask her what she meant, and where she was, but a sudden cold wind enveloped her and her Slayer senses kicked it.
She whirled, then screamed as a black being with flaming red eyes descended on her…
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