Someone's grieving in exactly 600 words. Post season-5 finale. Warning: This is ridiculously angst-ridden. Either that, or I've written it so badly that it's become a ridiculously funny...

I disclaim. Only in my dreams do I own characters this good.

Cross His Heart

He’d always known he would outlive her. It was the nature of his beast. He’d go on living, if that’s what you could call it, for so much longer after she’d gone, forever. He would watch the sun rise and the trees grow and the world turn. Without her. He’d see all his friends move on to join her. He’d say more goodbyes than he could bear to imagine. He’d cry more tears and, maybe one day when this was all far enough into the past for his heart not to bleed at every un-beat, he’d laugh harder than ever before.

He snorted. As if that would ever happen.

The beer in his hand was as cold as his skin. He gripped its neck tighter and took a deep gulp. There was salt on his upper lip and he could no longer taste what he was drinking. He didn’t care. The alcohol wasn’t having any effect anyway. That was the nature of his constitution. He tipped it back into his mouth until the last pearly drop slipped down his throat, sleek as the tears that still flowed down his cheeks. He hadn’t known he could cry so much, hadn’t believed there was so much water in him, but she’d proved him wrong as she’d proved him wrong about so many things.

The cracking explosion of the bottle hitting the wall barely disturbed his pose. She was gone. The world went on. Bottles smashed, hearts broke, that was the nature of the place.

The sun burned his eyes more than ever before, but the world seemed a darker place without her in it. He was surrounded by comforters, hiding their own pain in the face of his greater anguish. He wanted to scream at them until their ears bled that nothing was any good any more because nothing could be. Not without her. Yet he tried to smile, tried to look less than he felt, tried not to wear his heart on his sleeve. Nothing worked.

The hands that she had once felt on her bare skin, once brushed with her golden hair, once held in her own tiny ones, hit the wall, opening it to the steel girder beneath and showering plaster all around him, turning him snow white, blanching him blonder than platinum. He kept punching until his skin broke, until his fingers bled, until his knuckles turned scarlet and purple, until his physical pain was almost one millionth of his emotional agony. He wept again, falling to his knees like the tiny boy he’d once been, wishing for his mother, knowing she couldn’t come. Longing only for the people who were long gone. Praying for those to come only who were in the place where prayers were heard. The place he would never go, because death would never take him there. Even through the agony, he knew that.

The pain only worsened until he thought he couldn’t go on, and then he hit the girder some more, his punches now kitten weak. No more tears came. Looking outside, all he could see in the daylight was the death that would not have him but too eagerly took her.

Eventually the dark came and he was alone. The pain stayed, an old friend by now. Life went on. Without her. Because when she’d needed him most, he’d failed her. She’d never know how hard he tried to save her because he hadn’t tried quite hard enough.

The dark came with its victims. Every night saving them he was saving her; keeping his promise; crossing his heart… hoping to die.

I'm not sure exactly what this is meant to be - funny or sad or a bit of both. It might even be the first of several. It all depends.

What it definitely is though is 400 words long and probably not quite what you're expecting from the title.

I disclaim. Joss Whedon used to be God - now he's been demoted to archangel (did you watch season 6?). Either way I owe the guy respect, adoration, several characters and Spike's cigarette lighter that I stole right before the Hellmouth went kablooey. Oops.

1

He knows he’s dreaming, but he smiles anyway.

This is the night everything changed.

It’s not the one you think.

Buffy’s alive and so is Dawn.

Glory’s off being a hell-god and that’s later anyway.

They don’t know about her yet.

If what he hopes comes true, they never will.

Alone in the dark, he smiles.

The Poof would smile too if he knew what was about to happen.

He let his best hidden side come to the fore.

It’s been a while since he’d killed anyone, but even with the chip in his head, he has his methods.

Ben was glaring at him from the chair, but there was nothing he could do.

The hospital is quiet enough and the mental patients’ restraints are holding him down almost as well as Spike could desire.

They’re not hurting him, the chip won’t allow that, but they are making him uncomfortable.

Spike props himself up on a bed and lights a cigarette, ignoring the sign that thanks him for not smoking.

He’ll deal with Doc afterwards, punish him for the betrayal that lies at his own door, on his own soul.

Not that he has one.

“What are you going to do to me?”

The smell of fear on Ben is ambrosia to Spike’s heightened senses.

This is what being a God is all about.

“You’ll see.”

The chip is sizzling his brain, a tiny reminder that the railroad spike he pulled up is not a permitted weapon anymore.

As if he needed it.

His smile is as big as the fall from Glory’s tower.

His happiness is infinite.

“Every night I save you.

By Spike, K.E. & B.A.P.

Every night I see you

A beauty so effulgent that

My heart has grown a bulge in it

Every night I hear you

The sparrow speaks betwixt

Its little beak and calls

My love to your side

My goddess, my Yorkie bar,

My first, my last, my in between

You’re my everything…”

On and on.

And on and on.

And on and on.

For forty-seven pages.

“…Every night I save you.”

It is a little known fact that a hell-god can, with sufficient incentive, simply give up on life.

Three hours later, the chip short-circuited by the simultaneous intent to harm and lack of literary appreciation, Spike walked out of the hospital licking his lips happily.

“Every night I save you.”

…Yes.

I disclaim especially as I don't like these anywhere near so much as the first. As they exist, however, I felt the need to post. Someone may like them. Just not me.

2 A Summers

He knows he’s dreaming, but he smiles anyway.

This is the night everything changed.

It’s not the one you think.

Buffy is alive and so is Dawn.

He said that every night he saves her.

She only assumed when.

The minions aren’t really human enough for this to hurt, or if they are, he doesn’t care.

Killing them is easy.

The pain is lesser here, and in this moment, that’s all that matters.

The monks are running from him, afraid of the vampire visage that makes him what, not who, he is.

Not that he believes that anyway.

“You made the Slayer a sister, but you made a mistake.”

The monks are terrified, this ceremony cannot be stopped and Glorificus can only be moments away and this vampire is attacking them.

Only he’s not.

“You have to change it. Make it better. The world is wrong now.”

“We can’t.” The smallest one chokes out as Spike leans on his chest, less afraid of him than of the Thing that is to come.

Spike doesn’t care, he is the Big Bad even with a chip in his head, and he is the Thing that other demons fear.

“You can. You took the blood of the Slayer to make your Key human, so that she can protect her, but you have to make Dawn able to protect herself.”

The monks are shaking their heads, not understanding what Spike means.

“Blood. That’s what everything comes down to, right?” The question is rhetorical, which is good since the monks are too terrified to speak. “Then use mine, too. Make her strong, make her tough.” He pauses, knowing everything that is to come and wondering where his past self is right now. He rips open his wrist with his teeth and lets the vein drip blood onto the urn. “Make her,” and these are the magic words, the words that will heal the world, “a Summers.”

The Night Buffy Died isn’t that anymore. He can see it now, how Buffy broke but Dawn was strong enough to jump when Spike was thrown, to trust her supernatural body to find the earth and the best landing pad – Spike’s broken form – and save herself.

The Night Buffy Died is now The Night That Dawn Broke Her Ankle.

And Spike’s favourite cigarette lighter.

He believes it was a small price to pay.

“Every night I save you.”

…Again.

3 Hello Iowa

He knows he’s dreaming, but he smiles anyway.

This is the night everything changed.

It’s not the one you think.

Buffy’s alive and so is Dawn.

“Soldier Boy.”

“Spike?”

He’s never seen anyone look quite so astonished since Angelus killed that bishop with his own mitre.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stake you right now.”

“She needs you.”

The cigarette flares between his lips in the darkness.

“Buffy?”

“You might be a wanker, but you’re the only soldier-wanker she’s got.”

“And you came all the way to Bolivia to tell me that?”

He is so confident, so self-assured, that Riley has to hit him just to stop himself from staking him.

His sneer doesn’t even flicker.

“Don’t get me wrong, she didn’t break when you left town but…”

“I can’t go back, Spike, the military own my ass.”

“Far as I can see, Buffy owns your ass.”

“At least she doesn’t kick it like she does yours.”

Riley has never been the most quick-witted of mortals.

“She needs your help. Bint won’t admit it but she does.”

Another blow, this time taking the cigarette from between his lips.

“I asked about your swearwords when I was on assignment in England – they’re really not words you should apply to a lady, Spike.”

His pride is in the gutter and now so his is chin, but what does that matter if his girls live?

“Hit a fellow when he’s just trying to help, why don’t you?”

“What do you want, Spike?”

“Me? All I ever wanted was a nice comfy crypt, with cable, a fridge, a microwave and a decent supply of blood. Human for preference.”

The look on Riley’s face makes the chip fire in his brain.

He shakes the pain away.

“So here’s the thing – God, I’m even starting to talk like her – the Big Bad is Bigger and Bad-der than ever and after Dawn. This Glory bint is harder to get rid of than a Mugwaie demon high on cheetos and you know how nasty those boys can be.”

Riley, in a moment of forgetfulness and soldierly-comradeship, nods.

“Why me?”

“I want ’bit in one bit.”

“Huh?”

“Ever seen a hell-god hit by an AK-47?”

The smile on his face reminds Riley of the sun rising over the cornfields of Iowa.

He is effulgent.

“Every night I save you.”

Just not always the way you think.

4 Troll Hammer

He knows he’s dreaming, but he smiles anyway.

This is the night everything changed.

It’s not the one you think.

Buffy’s alive and so is Dawn.

The crypt is comforting and Passions is on.

For once in his un-life, he ignores it.

Clem will tape it for him anyway.

“Spike?”

Buffy-bot is the perfect metaphor for his existence.

She is every b he has ever wanted: a beautiful, bright, brave bint, but she can never be his favourite b: Buffy.

He is always reaching and never grasping.

He may have his bot but she will never be like the real Buffy. He knows this and he knows what the final, most important b is: Beneath Her.

Warren is rattling his chains.

“Spike, please,” the boy is pleading, but he ignores him.

Did anyone listen when he sobbed, begged, pleaded after She died?

Did they hell.

“I’ll do anything you want – just please don’t hurt me.”

He always knew Warren had no backbone.

He is a b too - a bully, a braggart, a bastard, a bitch, a ball-less bawling baby.

On nights like this, he is a walking thesaurus.

“I swear, anything you want.”

The hope that burns in the boy’s eyes is so bright that it would sear someone not Spike.

The Buffy-bot is tugging on his chains.

“Spike, can I play with him now?”

“No,” he can’t bring himself to say the word ‘Buffy’. Not now. Not when he’s seen the bot take his beloved’s place and seen her walk where Buffy would soar. “I need him still.”

“OK.” She is as bright as a summer’s morning.

Like the sun, she burns him.

“Spike, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to make the bot a sister.”

“A menage a trois with Dawn? Kinky-”

The word is punched away. The pain in his head is worth it. He’d kill the boy if the chip would let him.

“Just do what I ask and I won’t have the bot castrate you, alright?”

Warren nods, his jaw already darkening to purple.

The night Glory came for Dawn she saw double.

Two Buffys, two Dawns, and one grinning Spike.

She took one real Summers sister and one bot.

“If you cut us, do we not bleed?”

No, actually. Not when the ‘we’ is a moody teenage Dawnbot with a troll hammer.

“Every night I save you.”

RIP bot.

4 A Girl called Glory

He knows he’s dreaming, but he smiles anyway.

This is the night everything changed.

It is the one you think.

Buffy’s alive and so is Dawn.

That little bitch, Doc, is before him, but it’s all changing.

When he’s thrown from the tower, he falls as always.

That doesn’t change.

The landing never comes though.

Catching himself pulls his arm out of his socket, ripping tendons and dislocating joints.

The pain is pleasure.

Doc’s tongue is long, whip-like and strong.

He can’t resist digging his black-varnished nails in as he drags himself inch by angry inch back to the tower.

Dawn stands bleeding glowing light from wounds that should never have been.

Doc hasn’t allowed him to distract him from that.

He gurgles.

“Shallow cuts… Shallow cuts… Let the blood flow free…”

With her halo of hair and her effulgent eyes, she should bear the name Glory.

Suddenly, achingly, there is ground beneath his feet.

He still has hold of Doc’s tongue.

There is barely room to swing a cat on top of the tower.

Swinging a Doc is another matter.

The discus players of Ancient Greece would give him a perfect 10 for that throw.

The blood still flows.

Spike spits blood and grins at his Nibblet.

Even as he cuts her free, they see the portal opening beneath her feet.

“Spike, it’s started.”

The portal looks different from up here.

From below he saw hell.

From above he sees heaven.

A conundrum for the Watcher.

“Dawn!” Buffy is running.

Glory is vanquished too late.

Dawn steps forwards, pulling herself out of Spike’s arms.

“I’m sorry.”

He remembers watching this from the ground, broken and bleeding, begging her not to jump only to see Buffy jump in her place.

Buffy is coming, but Dawn’s eyes are only on him.

She’ll never know how much he loves her.

He grins at her.

“Cause it's always got to be blood.”

His own words haunt him and he sees it all so clearly now.

He wishes he wasn’t about to die with Johnny Nash singing in his head.

Chip screaming, he drinks the blood that tastes of the Slayer.

“Spike... no!”

Before Dawn was screaming after Buffy.

Now Buffy screams after him.

Nothing has ever sounded so beautiful to him.

“Always remember I love you.”

The leap is huge, but he is the Big Bad.

“It’s gonna be a bright sun-shining...”

…Damn.

6 Blood of a Slayer

He knows he’s dreaming, but he smiles anyway.

This is the night everything changed.

It’s not the one you think.

Buffy’s alive and so is Dawn.

The bathroom is a place he will learn to avoid, but that hasn’t happened yet.

If what he hopes comes true, it never will.

Alone in the dark, he smiles.

The Poof would smile too if he knew what was about to happen.

The blood of a slayer, only stopping the blood would close the portal. The words are scarred forever into his stilled heart.

The monks took Buffy’s blood to make Dawn, only a few drops, but enough.

Spike is after more than a few drops.

For a few brief weeks, it is his dearest possession. He sleeps with it beneath his pillow at day.

He throws it away with love.

The blood is stopped in its flow.

He licks his lips. The smell alone is enough to make his eyes yellow and his fangs sharpen. It is richer and headier than the finest wines known to humanity. How he un-lived without it, he’ll never know.

He dreams of his last taste. ‘Serial killer in prison’ his arse. If they thought his imagination was limited by the chip they must be mad. He was William the Bloody, childe of Angelus. The railroad spike was only the beginning.

It’s worse than high-security prison because it’s of his own making and he loves its walls. Every day he spends in it is another day of being near Buffy. That is better than any freedom.

Or so he tells himself.

The truth of it has eluded him for a while, but now he knows he can never go back to what he was anymore than he can forget where he came from. He is still William the Bloody Awful Poet, Spike the Bloody and now, Spike the watcher of cable TV infomercials.

Vampires do not have babies.

Connor is a freak of nature.

Typical of Angel to do something impossible to increase his brooding material.

Broody material, too, come to think of it.

None of that means Spike does not know what a Tampax is for or smell the changes in Dawn and Buffy at their time of the month.

‘The Night Buffy Died’ is now ‘The Night Spike Grossed Everyone Out Saving the World’.

But no one ever asked if he had more than one.

6 Chicken Soup for the Vampire’s Soul

He knows he’s dreaming, but he smiles anyway.

This is the night everything changed.

It’s not the one you think.

Buffy-bot is alive and so is Dawn.

He said that every night he saves her.

She only assumed when.

They’re gathered in the Magic Box, another secret Scooby meeting he wasn’t invited to, but he doesn’t care.

He’s never been a Scooby.

Not that he wants to be.

The Gang think he doesn’t know, but after a century of living with a crazy woman he understands cryptic language.

Xander scowls. “Who’s looking after Dawn?”

“She’s at Janice’s.” He doesn’t like the bint but it’s not something he’s going to argue about tonight.

“And Bot?”

He winces. “Patrolling.”

Do they realise he hates the Bot so much because it represents the dirty, hateful, horrible parts of himself that no one should have to see and that, contrary to his Big Bad claims, shame him? Bot is a constant reminder of the dichotomy of his nature: he is evil that desires to be good and is caught in a grey middle.

There are no self-help books entitled ‘Devil to Angel: Moral Revolution for Undead Dummies’.

On nights like this, he almost wants to call Angel…

…Right after he calls Glory for fashion advice.

A swift glance around the shop reveals what he needs.

Her Scoobies are still whispering about the Spell.

They think she fell to Hell.

He knows she flew to Heaven.

That’s the trick.

If he’s wrong, he’ll never forgive himself.

If they’re wrong, he’ll never forgive himself.

He’s damned either way so he damns himself.

He’s never been one to leave his own destruction to others.

Dawn needs Buffy.

So does the world.

So does he.

Buffy doesn’t need the world though.

Not anymore.

He can spare her this last pain.

The urn of Osiris breaks so easily when his duster sweeps it onto the floor, accidentally of course.

They stare.

He mutters “Oops!” such an un-Spike like word that they should react but don’t. “Bugger. Sorry, pet.”

Anya glares. “You’ll have to pay for that.”

As if he would not give his un-life to keep her from living this hell.

“Fine.”

He throws money down on the counter and no one thinks to ask how he knows the exact amount.

There are tears in all their eyes now.

“Every night I save you.”

He never said from whom.