Summary: "Zombies...I hate zombies." Making it through two world-ending apocalypses between the both of them, you would think the Slayer and her vampire consort would be more than able to handle the latest. But is anyone really ready to take on the walking dead?
A Buffy/ Walking Dead Crossover Fic.
This fic was written for a special purpose and is dedicated, heart and soul, to RaizingKain2001. Rating is yet to be decided.
Spike kept watch while Buffy slept. He was down to fewer than five hours a day, now, finding it near impossible to close his eyes and see the horrible sights that went on in his head. Terrifying images that he'd never thought he'd see, not even if he'd lived to be a thousand. Not even a million.
They'd faced many Apocalypses—far too many to count—and not once…not bloody once had he ever thought the world would go completely arse over. Not with Buffy around to save the day. S'pose you had to know about the bastards first before you could stop them. Spike wasn't sure anyone saw this one coming. Definitely not Giles or Red.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled as Spike leaned forward over his knees, a long, blood-smeared machete dangling loosely in his hands. The tip just barely cut into the floor, just enough to leave a shallow groove but not deep enough to get stuck. He studied Buffy, sleeping restlessly as she was won't to do these days, but not consumed by a nightmare that would have her wake amidst her own screams. He stood, contemplated her one last time, then crept slowly to the window, holding the curtain back just a sliver and felt his gut sink to his toes as he watched the herd pass the house by. The filthy, decayed bodies of a once healthy town, groaning their way past the one good thing in his life as she lay sleeping, oblivious to it all.
For twenty minutes, Spike stood, trying not to move even a muscle lest he catch the attention of these animated sacks of shit. The last few were passing when he felt Buffy sidle up to him, quiet as a mouse, her right hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of her scythe while her left snuck into his. She squeezed his hand hard, her body shaking as she watched the final one drag itself past, gammy foot leaving its own groove in the dirt.
Once the silence had stretched into minutes, the eeriness of it ringing in his ears, Spike relaxed and then caught his slayer as she shuddered and then collapsed in his arms.
"You shouldn't've got up, luv. You're still weak."
"Weak, shmeak. Couldn't miss another chance at seeing an undead horde not maul me to death, now could I?"
Spike helped her crawl back into bed, worry curling his brow as he watched her slight body slip under the sheet. He saw her sigh and knew what was coming. Knew it and hated it, though welcomed it as well.
"Do you think they're okay? I mean, Giles would have put them all on lockdown, right? You think he was prepared with food and water and everything?"
Her fevered eyes met his and Spike couldn't help but melt. He sat on the edge of the bed, swept hair from her sweaty forehead and gently manoeuvred her to snuggle into his side, her head resting on his chest in sheer exhaustion.
"Rupert would have had it all sorted before anyone had a clue what was happening. You know he's always one step ahead of an Apocalypse." For her sake he hoped it was true, though Spike knew he was likely talking out of his arse. They had Angel, at least. Angel could go out and scavenge like Spike could, could help to keep them safe, and the council was definitely capable of keeping the unwanted dead out, solid stone walls guarding them and all. But he doubted anyone was ready for this. No one could have suspected this. No one could have been prepared.
Buffy nodded against his chest. "You're right," she said, squeezing him around his middle, her breathing becoming increasingly laboured as she fought back against the pain ravaging throughout her body. "You have to be right."
As she drifted into another fitful sleep, Spike let his head bang back against the headboard. He knew they were more than likely dead: Giles, Harris, Red and Dawn. Angel, he knew all too well, would have survived, but with everyone else gone he didn't know how much spirit the ponce had left to keep him going. Angel was close to checking out after the final battle when Gunn fell at his feet. When Illyria ran into the sunset and never came back. With no one left, would he be able to keep it together? Spike wasn't so sure, knowing that if he hadn't been with Buffy when the world went to fuck, he might have been checking out himself. He didn't feel confident that this world was going to make it, but as long as Buffy lived, he would too.
The bandage on her back was bloodied through. Spike shook, lifting the edge of it to take a look at the bite of mangled flesh on her shoulder, feeling his shirt rapidly dampening against her fevered body. He felt like weeping, seeing the way one of those bastard bags of decomposing dead flesh had marred her. Felt defeated as he held her and hoped against hope that Slayer healing could perform miracles.
He needed to clean the wound again. He needed to wake her and give her more pills for the pain and redress her shoulder, all while watching her burn and shudder and cough up blood. All while holding his grief in the deepest part of him so she wouldn't see how terrified he truly was. He'd lost her once before—well, twice if you counted his refusal to go to her after he'd returned in Angel's office. Reuniting with her had been the happiest day of his life, especially as she hadn't staked him the second he'd opened his mouth and apologised for being a gutless git. He didn't think he'd survive losing her again. He thought he'd finally be ready to walk in the sun, but not before taking out as many of the feral zombie fuckers as he could.
Spike squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of tears threatening to break free. He lowered Buffy to the bed, wishing this could have been like that other night when he'd told her why he loved her. This night he was lucky if Buffy was lucid.
Taking his place back at the window, Spike couldn't stop the tears from falling. He wasn't an idiot, though Buffy's mates had thought for years that he was. They'd been travelling through this hell hole long enough to have seen what happened when someone was bitten. He'd seen others succumb to the fever that took their lives, and he'd seen the clouded eyes that told them all the dead had risen, and not in the fun way. Not in the way he had. Not to live again, full of piss and vinegar, but to spread death until the entire world was wiped out.
Hearing Buffy's breath rattling in her chest broke him completely, and with the memory of those others in his head, Spike fell to his knees, gripped his head as if it was tearing open, and cried.