Fic: Five Shanshus Part One – Suburbia

One:  Suburbia

The bedside alarm went off at seven-thirty. A hand snaked out from the confines of the duvet to fumble for the snooze bar, silencing the perky morning DJ relaying the traffic report for the morning commute into the city. Spike groaned once and pulled the covers back. In a moment. He’d get up in a moment. Everything hurt. A jackhammer pounded in double-time in his head. Why the hell did he set the alarm so bloody early in the morning?

Why the hell did he even have an alarm?

He didn’t care. He hoped if he lay as still as possible in the warm sunshine pouring in from the window he could wish that migraine away.

Sun!

He let out a panicked cry and scampered off the bed, his legs still tangled in sheets as tumbled to the carpet in a thud. He didn’t smell smoke. Nothing felt burned.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself.

Nothing looked familiar except for the black t-shirt draped on the chair in the corner. The floral duvet, the bed, he’d never seen any of these things before. When did he start wearing pajama bottoms? At least they weren’t some plaid monstrosity. Hopefully his jeans were somewhere in this bizarro world. As he tugged his shirt on, a picture frame caught his eye on the dresser.  A boy and a girl. Blonde, cute, beaming large toothy grins for the camera. He didn’t know their names, but there was something oddly familiar about them. Spike grinned and he picked up the picture frame.

That’s when he noticed the ring on his finger. A gold band. As if this day could not get any weirder. That headache ratcheted up a notch, and he scrubbed his hands over the day-old stubble on his face. A trick, it had to be a trick. Maybe a dream. Or was it a spell? Some tosser was messing with his head, and he was going to kill that son of a bitch when he got his hands on him.

After he emptied bladder. Another unwanted surprise

There had to be a bathroom in this Barbie Dream House. What else could go wrong, he thought to himself as he headed toward the toilet. Waking up apparently married, resistant to sunlight, full bladder, aching everywhere. There could only be one answer.

“Oh, fucking hell,” he said peering at the reflection staring back at him in the mirror over the sink. “Human.”

He recognized his reflection, but it wasn’t the Spike he’d remembered. His hair was darker with wisps of grey weaving through the untamed curls. His face was tan. Guess he’d always proven he wouldn’t self-combust in the sun. Pity he didn’t remember it. Crow’s feet framed his eyes. Not only was he human; he was middle-aged.

“Dad, Dad!” a girl’s voice called from the other side of the door. She knocked frantically, as though her preteen hundred-decibel shriek hasn’t been enough.

Spike opened the door. She looked a little older than the photo in the bedroom, but no older than twelve. Coltish legs. Blonde hair, blue eyes, the girl was a spitting image of his sister he hadn’t seen since Dru had turned him.

“What?” he wearily asked. Might as well play the part and see what the girl wanted.

“Tyler took my Ipod, and he if did anything bad to it, I swear to god, I am going to strangle him. Make him give it back to me!”

Did she ever stop to take a breath?

“Where’s your brother?” he answered, attempting his best fatherly voice. Might as well play the part until he could figure things out.

On cue the little guy arrived. Younger than his sister, he had apparently inherited Spike’s mop of curly hair. “I didn’t take Kate’s stupid Ipod, Dad,” he said. “Besides, she hit me.”

“He had it coming!”

“Did not!”

“You’re an idiot!”

“You smell bad!”

“Enough,” Spike groaned. “Where’s your mother?”

“Downstairs,” Kate answered. “Mom said to make sure you were awake.”

Spike let out a sigh and weaved past the two kids. “Tyler, give Kate her Ipod back,” he said over his shoulder. “Kate don’t hit your brother.”

He padded his way downstairs and toward the smell of brewing coffee. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Buffy greeted him as he entered the kitchen. “Looks like Kate got you up.”

“Was already up,” he answered, running a hand through his tangled hair.

She was older than he’d remembered. Guess she had aged just as he did. Her hair was pulled back into a pony at the nape of her neck. Her features were softer, her breasts fuller. She looked less a slayer and more of…mother. Didn’t matter. She was still as beautiful as the day he’d met her, and maybe she could help make sense of this world of suburbia.

“Coffee?” she asked, pouring a cup and handing him the mug?

Spike nodded and took a sip.

“You looked confused, honey,” she said.

You could say that again. “I’m fine,” he lied.

“Is something wrong?” Even this Buffy could tell he was bluffing. At least something was constant in this world.

He took a deep breath. How could he explain that he was losing his mind, when this world, this house with the fancy pants coffee maker, the two kids, and no doubt and dog or cat hiding somewhere made perfect sense to Buffy but was as stranger’s home to him. “What day is it?” he asked. Might as well start with the basics.

“It’s Saturday,” she answered. “Kate’s soccer tournament starts at nine. So we’ve gotta get a move on if we want to get there on time for warm-ups.”

“Saturday,” he repeated softly.

After a moment of awkward silence, Buffy set her own mug on the counter and reached out for him. “Will, I know this has been hard for you,” she said stroking his cheek. “Dr. Weyher said head injuries take time to heal. It’s only been a week since the accident. Your memory is getting better every day. We just have to be patient. So why don’t you take your shower and get ready.”

He nodded again and started to head back upstairs with his cup of coffee.

“Oh,” she said, “Katie’s uniform is downstairs. I need to finish packing up the van. Could you be a be a sweetie, and go get it for me? Otherwise, we’ll be waiting forever for Miss Drama Queen to get ready.”

The basement. He remembered nothing about this house, but somehow the thought of the basement gave him the willies. He didn’t know why, but he was sure he didn’t want to go down there.

“It’s on the washer.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ve gotta get moving or we’ll be late.

“I’ll get it,” he answered, heading toward the basement door.

Spike flipped the light on. It was a bare bulb that hung at the foot of the stairs.  The wooden stairs creaked beneath his bare feet. It didn’t take long to find the yellow and black uniform folded on top of a stack of towels on top of the washer. He was about head back upstairs when a sound from the corner made him nearly jump out of his skin.

His coffee mug shattered on the concrete floor, the coffee splattered against his pajama pants. How could Buffy not know there was a demon in their basement? Hearts, no doubt human, were scattered all over the floor. A set of chains hung from the wall.

Spike tried to flee back upstairs. He had to warn his wife and children, but he felt a familiar weight on his shoulder as the demon grabbed him and dragged him toward the chains.

“Did you find her uniform, Will?” Buffy called from upstairs.

No one heard his cries for help. He struggled against the manacles, but didn’t have the strength to break free. A scream died on his lips as the blade plunged into his chest and the demon ripped out his heart. It dropped to the floor in a wet plop, joining the pile in the corner. Spike’s vision faded to black knowing this wouldn’t be the last time he would be ripped apart in the cellar.