I watch her go. I’ve watched her go before, but this time is different. This time she means it.
William. Not Spike. Not Asshole. William. Yeah, she meant it. And it’s a damn good thing I don’t have to breathe, cause I don’t think my lungs are working. I know my heart isn’t.
William. The man, not the monster.
William. Human, sodding William. Is that how she sees me? A human? And why do I care? Why do I like the idea? Not to mention where is all this water coming from? Oh, damn it all to bloody hell. I’m crying. Huh. Why can’t I get a break? Maybe she’s right. Maybe there’s more of William left than I thought. Buffy apparently sees it. So does the Lil’ Bit. Why can’t the others? Why do I care?
I have the worst luck in relationships. Cecily, that bitch didn’t even know what she was missing. Though, at the time, it wasn’t much. William the Bloody Awful Poet wasn’t anything to start out with. Though I did love her. Damned if I can remember why.
Drusilla, insane, beautiful, Dru. God, I loved her. I won’t pretend to know why. She made William into Spike. She believed that there was something hidden underneath William’s geeky exterior. She was right. Spike was born out of all the pain and rage that made William run into that stable. Sometimes I wonder, what if I hadn’t had the amazingly good (or bad, depending on your point of view) luck to run headlong into Angelus that night? What if I had stayed and attempted to convince Cecily that class didn’t matter? What if I had left five minutes later? What did I do to deserve this?
Harmony. I do not even have an explanation for that. I was on the rebound. And, I was bleedin’ drunk. At the risk of sounding like a certain Key, ewww. Maybe Dru rubbed a little of her craziness off on me, that is the only possible explanation.
Then there’s the Slayer. Buffy. How many times did I tease Angelus about his little infatuation with her? Calling him a lapdog and housetrained. I am so glad he doesn’t know about this. He’d probably die laughing. Again. Why am I always getting stuck with his leftovers, anyway? First Dru, now Buffy. Yep, it sucks to be me.
Buffy. She didn’t say she didn’t love me, she said “I can’t love you”. Not “I don’t love you”. May she feels it and is trying to convince herself otherwise. Whoa, hold it there, Spikey. If you grasp at any more straws, you’re gonna have to start a factory. Great. Now I’m talking to myself. And making really bad jokes. I have to start avoiding the Whelp. More than I already do, that is.
Oh no. Harris’ soddin’ wedding is next week. I have to go. The Scoobies are the closest thing to a family I have left. Can’t go alone, though. And bugger it all if I wind up bringing Clem. If I’m stuck with him again, I won’t go. Screw them. My invitation blew up, anyway. Along with the closest thing to a home I’ve had in over a hundred and twenty years. I was just getting it the way I liked it, too. I’ll go to a motel tonight. But first, I’d better see what I can scavenge.
What’s this? A doll? Part of one, anyway. Smells familiar. Smells like Dru. Oh. Miss Edith. I can feel the tears again. Screw it. I’ve got to let it out sometime. I’ll keep this. Just in case Dru ever comes back for it. My bedside table looks pretty good, considering. I wonder if my notebooks are still in there. Yes. They survived, mostly. I sit on what’s left of my bed and look through the most recent one. I find a poem I wrote a few months ago. Feels like years. I decide to read it.
My love has followed me back home,
To my lonely room and bed,
For many a long year I’ve roamed,
Longing that my heart be fed.
When I saw you standing there,
Lost within your mind,
I knew that never had I seen,
Nor could I hope to find,
A love more wonderful than yours,
Though I know that you aren’t mine.
And through those lonely days and months,
I couldn’t even bear,
I would have killed myself,
‘Cept for the Lil’ Bit who cared,
We comforted each other,
Stopping each other’s tears,
Always hoping to turn around,
And see you standing there.
Now you’re finally home to stay,
You’ll never leave again, I pray,
Still I wait and hope you’ll say,
“I love you, Spike”,
I stared at the paper for some time, allowing the tears to fall onto the page. Then, I gently placed the piece of paper back into the notebook, closed it, and put it in my one surviving suitcase.
Spike, maybe. William, sometimes. But the one thing I’m sure of is this: I love Buffy Summers. Whoever I am, whatever I am, wherever I am, that fact won’t change. Someday, Buffy. Someday, my love.