So, the git was back. Just when Spike thought there wasn’t much more that could be wrong. Just when he had settled into a pattern, had started to feel himself part of the group. He wasn’t stupid though – he knew how Soldier Boy felt about him and knew that Buffy’s friends would agree. Just when he had been making some progress. Riley was the safe option though, the one they could listen to without second-guessing. He might as well just leave town now.

Except he couldn’t, of course. There was one thing Spike was proud of in himself and that was loyalty. He had been loyal to Drusilla through years of illness, years of faithlessness. He had been loyal – to an extent at least – to his grandsire, despite his hatred for him. He would remain loyal to Buffy – to the promise he had made to her only hours before she plunged to her death. He would look after Dawn and keep her safe.

Soldier Boy could do what he wanted, say what he wanted, but Spike was not going to abandon the girl. He had promised, and to Spike, that meant everything. After all, it was the only thing keeping him going at the moment.



Riley had left some time ago now, guiding the monstrosity in front of him, the shock etched into his features. And for just the briefest second, Spike felt sorry for him. He hadn’t seen her fall, hadn’t seen her dead body, couldn’t accept that she wasn’t here anymore. But Spike, he had seen.

He could still see her lifeless form whenever he closed his eyes. He could practically feel the dead weight of her in his arms as he carried her silently home, the first light of dawn prickling at his skin but going unnoticed. She had been so beautiful, so peaceful – and it had broken his heart. She wasn’t supposed to be still; she was the Slayer and in all the time he had known her, she had never lost that fire. She’d come close plenty of times, but never, never had he seen her anything but one hundred percent in the moment.

And now she was gone. The words meant nothing anymore, not after months without her. Days without seeing her, hearing her voice. One hundred days, in fact. A hundred days of torture, of knowing that maybe he could have saved her. Of knowing that he would never now know if that crumb he had begged for would ever have been bestowed. One hundred days. Too many hours.



His life had slowed down to nothingness, drowning in a routine of patrolling, visiting Dawn and drinking. The latter was his chosen option for that evening. He had dallied with the idea of going to see Dawn, but now that Captain Cardboard was back, there was sure to be a sickening reunion. They would be so happy to have the soldier back, to have a leader – a human one at least.

He was content to avoid that and spend the night crawling into bottle after bottle, trying to drown out everything. Feelings and thoughts and emotions tore at him every minute but when he had drunk a certain amount, they began to fade and he could have a few hours of peace. Then he would sober up, or he would fall asleep and dream and his torment would start again.

One hundred days of this, and he knew he wasn’t in the best state. He could still fight, could still hold himself up when it counted, could still pretend he was the Big Bad. It was all a charade though – even more so than before. He was a broken man. He wanted to laugh out loud, wanted to pour scorn on himself for being just as pathetic as he had always been. He had always been Love’s Bitch and now it seemed he really had been a bad boy because she was surely going to kill him.



His bottle was empty and he couldn’t find another one anywhere in his increasingly messy crypt. Scoffing, he scooped up his duster, slid it on roughly and headed out into the darkness. He stepped out into the night and he felt a wave of nausea hit him along with the fresh air and then he was moving, striding through the cemetery. He could feel the telltale tingle letting him know that dawn was not far away but right now, that didn’t matter.

For now, all that mattered was getting a top-up and drinking himself into a haze. It was then that the memories seemed to come to him: all the many many pictures of her he had captured in his mind playing before him. It was the only time he could really see her. Sobriety and sleep seemed designed only to conjure up the image of her dead form, but somewhere on the edges of drunken unconsciousness, he saw her in all of her former glory.

Because she had always been glorious in everything she did: fighting, arguing, dancing, laughing. No wonder he had been so obsessed with her. He only wondered that he had lasted so long without falling in love with her.



Bottle in hand, he staggered back to his crypt, his feet pulling him along – they at least recognising the approaching danger posed by the sun’s ascent. He tumbled through the door and slammed the door behind him, shrugging out of his armour and sinking into his chair. The bottle was open seconds later and he took a large mouthful, savouring the rich flavour. It was good whiskey. Just not strong enough.

He took another mouthful, swallowing this one quickly and squeezing his eyes shut, as if he could hurry on drunkenness. He didn’t want to feel like this, didn’t want this darkness to swallow him up but it was hopeless. She was gone and what was the point anymore? She had asked him to look after her sister, but she hadn’t bound him, hadn’t forced him to stay. He could have walked away with a clean conscience (if he’d had one of those). She was gone and there was no reason for him to be here. She was gone.



The tears were so familiar he barely noticed them until their force had him struggling for breath he didn’t need. They tore out of his throat, turning into desperate sobs as his grip on the bottle loosened and it dropped to the floor. He brought one hand to his face, hiding from no-one as he sobbed in anguish, his body convulsing in pain. She was gone.

She was gone and she wasn’t coming back. He choked out her name and grabbed at his chest, wondering if a heart that didn’t beat could still stop working. A cry tore from him and he sank back into the armchair, unable to stop this torrent of emotion. She was gone.