Title: Buffy's Chosen
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: Spike/Buffy, also mentions Angel/Buffy and past Spike/Drusilla
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: Spike's thoughts on the night before his last battle.
Word Count: 1,498
Written For: Fan FlashWorks 435: Amnesty: 434: Precious, and also fulfills the author's Fannish 50 2024: 50 Disney Fandoms (Yes, Disney now owns Buffy too!!!!! I was about to say I'm pretty sure every fandom I love now belongs to Disney, but there is still TMNT and Catwoman....)
Warnings: Spoilers, References Canon Character Deaths
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.







She had not thought she would be able to sleep at all, and with the weight of the whole world bearing down on her poor shoulders even more than normal, Spike could scarcely blame her. Now, as he tenderly stroked her blonde head, he was relieved she was sleeping soundly. He'd almost hated to touch her, lest he wake her, but then, at the same time, he could scarcely pull away from Buffy.

He knew she wasn't good for him, not in truth, just as he knew he was a monster and could never be worthy of her. As much as she was not good for him, using him so often only to relieve her own frustrations and never loving him even a tad bit as much as he would always love her, he was far worse. He was a Demon, and Buffy was something... Buffy was far beyond any Slayer history had ever had before. She was more than an Angel. There was no term that was good enough to describe the heroine he currently held, beginning to softly snore, in his arms.

She was the epitome, Spike suddenly realized and very quickly decided he agreed with completely, of all that was good in his life. With over two hundred years of life, he'd seen humankind, and Vampirekind as well as many Demon races, at their absolute worst, but Buffy... His beloved, precious Buffy, even on her worst day, was infinitely better than the second best any race had ever had to offer. Again and again, she gave everything she had not just to the world at large, fulfilling her duty as a Slayer, but to her friends, something she didn't have to do. And though she may well never love him, Spike had to recognize that she had given a lot of herself to him as well. She had shared secrets and acts with him that she'd never share with another, not even, or at least he liked to think, the Great Poof.

His lips, a pale, unadorned pink rather than their usual shade of black, lifted in a smirk as he wondered where the Great Poof was on this night. The woman they both loved, the heroine for whom no one, no matter their gender, species, strengths, or weaknesses, would ever be good enough to be an adequate love match, had chosen him, not Angel, to go with her into battle tomorrow. She could have easily called him; the Poof would've come quickly if she'd asked just one, single time. But she had not. She had chosen Spike. She had chosen Spike to be beside her, to use the Amulet, to give special, last orders to.

And though she didn't know it yet, he both recognized the honor that being chosen was and had given himself special orders as well. He would have gladly died any time for this amazing woman. She had given so much to him. She had somehow reached his mortal coil, a part of him that he'd long believed dead, and convinced him, as a Demon, as a supposedly soulless monster, to fight to be better. He had her to thank for every single good thing he'd done in this life. She might never actually love him, especially not as she loved the Poof or as they both loved her, but she had faith in him and had had more faith and treated him better than anyone in his entire, mostly miserable existence, including all he had known before he had been turned.

He continued to stroke her hair as she slept soundly. Her lips moved in her sleep, and again he found himself wanting to compare her to an Angel -- but an Angel was simply not adequate enough. He'd written hundreds of poems before he'd been turned, and he'd firmly put the quill down afterwards. But with Buffy... With Buffy, not only had she inspired him to want to be and do better, but he'd found himself writing poetry again, though he'd burned every poem he had been drunken enough to actually write down. Most, he'd kept to himself, lines whispering in his head, always about how wonderful she was and how much she blessed his life. She was his only blessing.

No, he thought, that wasn't entirely true. He was blessed by the Nibblet's presence too. She'd hated him for a time, but while he'd been caring for her in her sister's absence -- while Buffy had been in Heaven, from which her friends had so selfishly plucked her without warning --, they had formed a bond also unlike anything he'd ever really known prior. The Nibblet had come to look up to him, of all people, and he -- She was like the kid sister he'd never had or known he wanted, the daughter he and Drusilla had never been able to have (unlike the bloody Poof yet again, with Darla) -- The kid had actually become his best friend.

Spike smirked depreciatingly at himself. How lame was it that he had lived for over two hundred years and it had taken a kid, a child who was not actually human, to teach him the meaning of real friendship? He had actually had a friend before, though, although never to the extent of his bond now with Dawn. Her actual mother, or the kind and gentle woman the Powers had picked to be her mother, had befriended him and trusted him, let him into her home and shared cocoa and telly with him, and even once confessed to him that she wished her daughter would choose a "good guy" like him instead of a guy "twice her age" who was clearly trouble. Spike wondered what Joyce would think now, if she could see everything he'd put Buffy through and through which she'd put him, but quickly decided that she would still approve. She'd probably be sitting up with them this evening, if Buffy hadn't successfully sent her away, which he doubted even the Slayer could have done, feeding them hot cocoa with those little marshmallows and wanting to spend every last moment she could with them before they all died.

He gulped. Usually when he thought of Buffy dying again, he had some warning, but the thought come unbidden to him this time. There was a bloody high likelihood none of them would make it out alive tomorrow, that the whole world would die despite Buffy's best intentions. But if there was any way he could stop it, he would. If there was any way he could at least make sure Buffy, and Dawn, made it out alive, he would. He'd gladly give his life, or at least existence, for either of them.

"Spike?"

He looked down, realizing Buffy had been murmuring his name in her sleep. He stroked her head again, then pressed a chaste, reassuring kiss against those lovely, golden threads. The woman's hair shone brighter than the sun itself, especially when everything seemed so bloody dark. "I'm here, luv. Always. Or at least as long as I can be." He would die for her tomorrow if he needed to, and he'd do it with a smile on his face.

She'd given him so much. He yearned for her to love him, but he knew that was never going to happen. She deserved so much more than a monster. She deserved more than this old, miserable world could ever give her. He thought again of the misery of his long life. He'd been so desperate to love and be loved, he'd not hesitated at all with Drusilla, even when he'd known what a monster she was. He would have gladly given anything to be loved, yet he never had been, not really. He still wasn't, but at least he was chosen. He was chosen by her, the best woman who had ever, and would ever, exist.

"I'm right here, luv," he whispered, kissing her head again and again until she rested soundly once more. She had confirmed for him that there was a Heaven to be had, and not just because she'd been pulled from it. This right here, being allowed to tenderly hold her and love her, truly just love her without being walloped on and with knowing she accepted him, she had chosen him even if she would never love him, was the only Heaven he could ever want, and the only Heaven he'd ever know. He held her tenderly, wishing the moment could last forever but knowing, deep down, that he would die for her tomorrow.

"I love you, Buffy Summers," he whispered. "You've given me everything I've ever known to cherish in this world. I'll always love you, pet. Remember that, please, no matter what happens tomorrow." He'd hold her for the rest of the night, not sleep a wink but try instead to spend this time etching her beautiful face forever in whatever he'd have left for a brain come his final destiny.



The End