I:  Summer, post-BTVS S1

“Fuck Prague.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.  Sir.”

Spike rolled his eyes.  The weakness in the minion’s voice, the longing for approval – it grated on his already frayed nerves.

“The Hellmouth is the place for Dru so it’s the place for us.” 

Dalton’s eyes widened. 

“Try not to piss yourself, eh?”

“It’s just—  isn’t that where the Slayer is?”

“And…?”  Spike ticked points off on his fingers.  “It’s California, and her name is Buffy.  Probably just some vapid cheerleader.”  He smiled, eyes glittering.  “Maybe I can get her to plead for her life in cheer form.  That would be…neat.”

II:  Summer, post-BtVS S2

He saw her face at the most unexpected moments.  He was in South America, for Christ’s sake – it wasn’t California, where you couldn’t swing a dead corpse without hitting a perfectly-tanned, hazel-eyed blonde.  But she was everywhere; she came to him when he caressed the rounded breast of a young female victim, when he was drunk and in the middle of a punch-up at the cantina, even when he drove himself into Dru.  Memories of her twisted his guts with a potent cocktail of arousal and hatred.  Only that, and nothing more.

A moment of weakness,

no, not a moment…

III:  Summer, post-BtVS S3

Life was shit, and he knew only one way to fix it:  go back to the beginning, the place everything went wrong.  It was convenient—and the only damn piece of luck he’d had in forever—that the Gem of Amara was actually in Sunnydale.  But even if it’d been elsewhere, his ultimate destination would have been the same.  He was the compass needle now, and Sunnydale was his true north.   Or, to be more accurate, she was.

You’re all covered with her, Dru had said.  

Not covered.  Just poisoned with unfinished business. 

Surely Dru should have known the difference.

IV:  Summer, post-BtVS S4

He spent the majority of the summer studiously avoiding the Slayer’s people.  How he missed the days when they were all just walking, faceless throats, ripe for the drinking.  This business of names and personalities, of knowing them, irritated him.  He was glad to be on his own again, away from the lot of them. 

He would not think about the Slayer herself.  Barging in, taking liberties, daring to put her hands on him.  Part of him choked on the rage of his impotence, but something in his blood sang whenever she came around.  What the hell was that about?

V:  Summer, post-BtVS S5

The Timorean demon had almost been more than they could handle.  The others were tangled in an exhausted pile, shimmering with triumph, while he stood to the side, having a smoke. 

“That thing you did, with th-the thing – that was awesome, man.”

Spike shrugged.  “Wasn’t anything special.”

“On the contrary, Spike.  I’ve never seen anything like it.”  Giles’s voice was warm with admiration.  “Very well done.”

The bottle of scotch in his crypt burned the stale taste of pride from his tongue and left him alone in the dark, dreaming of Buffy.   

Another in the endless march of days done.

VI:  Summer, post-BtVS S6

Almost perfunctorily his brain registered that the sand was hot on his feet, even after sunset; he didn’t really feel anything anymore.  Or rather, he felt so much that he’d lost the ability to process the sensations.   The weight of guilt drove him to his knees, soul cowering in a penitential pose.   The reassuring simplicity of remorselessness had given him cohesion, glued him together, all of these splinters that cut him to ribbons and pushed against his skin, tearing him apart.  Every moment was another moment he couldn’t survive.

Broken, scoured raw by grief, somehow, she remained. 

What he deserved.

VII:  Summer, post-BtVS S7

The memories he played in his head seemed more real than a world that eluded his touch: 

warmth and light in the darkness

the comfortable solidity of her fingers wrapped around his

the sound of words he’d given up hope of ever hearing

A sharp voice broke his reverie.  “Spike?”

“Hmmm?”

“Your hand is on fire.”  Angel gestured.

Wesley leaned forward, intrigued.  “Whoa,” Gunn breathed.

“Are you okay?”  The sheaf of papers Fred waved frantically passed through his arm.

He lifted his hand, watching the ghostly flames lick at his fingers.  It was enough to make a bloke believe. 

Almost.

VIII:  Summer, post-AtS S5

Spike picked his way through bodies toward the others.  A “You lot need help?” died on his lips as Illyria eviscerated her final opponent with her bare hands.

“I require no aid.”

“Yeah.  I was just noticing that.”

Spike glanced at Angel, whose answering gaze was dark, impenetrable.

“You got that last move from Buffy.”

“’Suppose I did.  We did a lot of fighting.  And not just against each other.”  Spike’s smile faded.   Was that all she was now?  An anecdote for a clever kick?

“She’s in the way you move,” Angel said, turning away. 

That was something, at least.

IX:  Summer, 12 months after the AtS finale

Spike dropped his axe, skidding to a stop.  He hadn’t even realized he’d been running.  Dust particles winked in the light and danced around his legs, coating his jeans. 

He knelt, touching his fingertips to what remained of Angel. 

*

Minutes later, maybe it was hours, he heard Illyria behind him.  The fact that he heard nothing else suggested that she’d worked through some of her own feelings of loss in an orgy of bloodshed.   

“He would be surprised by your grief.”

“That would make two of us.”

*

“You will go to her now?”

Spike looked up from his half-packed bag, distracted.  “Who?”

“Your Vampire Slayer.”

He froze.  “Hadn’t really crossed my mind, pet.  Thought we were off home.  If they’ve heard about Angel, the West Coast is a war zone by now.”

“I will handle it.  You will find Buffy.” 

He shook his head.  “There’s no room for that, even if it’s what I wanted.”

She gave him a look.  “Angel and I were made for solitude.  You are other.  A champion made for a mate.”

He straightened.  “And if she doesn’t love me back?”