Title: Her Light
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: Spike/Buffy, also mentions Joyce, past Angel/Buffy, and past Spike/Drusilla
Rating: PG/-13/T
Summary: He needs her light.
Word Count: 1930
Written For: Fan FlashWorks 471. Amnesty: 470. Bright
Date Written: 1 March 2025
Warnings: Cannon Character Death
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.







There are some days when he just needs to see her. He often cannot sleep these days for the memories that torment him. Before, when he'd first fallen in love with the Slayer, he had been tortured by nightmares that had revealed his feelings, but now it is actual memories plaguing him, memories of the things he had done as the monster he was before falling for her and still would be if he had not gone to Africa in desperation to try to become a better man for her.

He is better, he thinks, at least his mind is clear and he is able to think for himself without the thousands of voices screaming constantly in his head. He often wishes he could shut them up, but he knows he doesn't deserve to be able to do so. He deserves no freedom, no rest. He deserves nothing but Hell and torment. He certainly does not and can never deserve her.

Would he have gone?, he wonders, cocking his blonde head at a curious angle as he watches the school steps intently. Would he have put himself through so much torture if he had known what it would mean? That he would not only have to listen to every one of his victim's cries for the rest of his days and nights alike but would come to realize he could never, ever deserve Buffy? A monster like him can't deserve, let alone the love of the best person he's ever known.

She's not the kindest, but she is still the best. She is the most beautiful by far, and the light that shines around her emanates from deep within. Once upon a time, he would have written poems to her beauty, but none of them could have began to compare. Now he can barely string two words together. Not that it would've mattered much. His poetry's always been bloody awful, just a bit less than he himself.

He is a monster, and he knows it. He's got his soul now, but it doesn't change what he is, what he's done. Nothing can. There's no way he'll ever deserve love or rest now, yet he can't just dust himself. Even now he cowers under a blanket under a tree across from the schoolyard as he watches. There are lithe, young bodies piling out of the school. He can hear the sounds of every one of their hearts beating as it pumps life-giving blood through them, some innocent, some not so much though none, of course, nearly as terrible as he.

He's reminded of someone else though, of someone who, in his own ways, was even more horrible than him. Dru and Darla always praised Angelus for how "wonderfully" and creatively evil he'd been. Perhaps he and Dru would never have been half as evil if not for Angelus. From all reports, his Drusilla had been a beautiful, sweet, practically Angelic lady in the church before Angelus had bitten her. Even if someone else had turned her, chances are he'd never have been turned himself, and maybe Dru would have had it easier even as a fledgling. After all, Angelus and Darla had bloody bragged about how he'd purposefully taken his sweet time driving poor Dru bonkers before finally turning her. He'd actually wondered, more than once, if he'd actually set out to turn her, or if she'd only been a toy to him. If they'd all only been toys to the great, bleeding Poof.

He used to stand out here, just like this, watching Buffy every day as she left from school. He'd heard them both brag about how romantic it had been, the doomed watching the golden Slayer from his darkness and deriving strength from her vision. Spike can bloody perfectly understand how just watching her golden light does infuse a bloke with much needed strength, how her love drives a man to want to be better than a monster could ever be, or even a man himself is likely to be from what he's seen of the humans. He sniffs, shivers, and pulls the blanket closer. The sun isn't out as much today. There's clouds in front of it, but he would've come anyway or gotten smoked trying.

He'd like to walk out into the sunlight. That would make it easy. It would end his pain and free him from this horrendous existence. But he doesn't deserve easy, and besides, it would also take her light away from him. And he wouldn't be here to try to help her, or to protect the Nibblet when his help is finally needed again. A part of him wants to beg that it is soon. He'd almost miss the long, lone nights spent with the Nibblet when they'd been running from Glory, him fighting to be damned sure she stayed alive practically every night and always, always running with her -- or he would if it had not meant that Buffy would be gone.

He'd give his life a thousand times over for that girl. Something whispers to him, urging him to step out into the day and give her what she really wants and needs, a life void of his darkness. But he can't. She may need him still. She will need him still one of these nights, he swears to himself. She'll need him, even if she can never love him, and he's gotta stick around for that. He's gotta do whatever he can to please her, to make her existence easier, her world better.

He's got to be there for her. He promised himself. He promised her, and he promised Joyce some time before she died. He's got promises to keep not just to one woman but to two, and they're the best he's ever known. The best, he's pretty well certain, there ever has been.

But right now, he needs something from her, even if she doesn't know she's giving it. He needs her light. Needs her smile, even if it's not for him. His blonde head lifts again as he catches her scent. He can smell the bloody of every Happy Meal -- every human, he corrects his thought, leaving the school. All those young, nubile bodies have plenty of blood to share with a starving Vampire; even some of the old ones, if done carefully.

But he can't do that. He won't do it. He may never be deserving of her, but he's come this far. He's changed this much because of her. Because he fell in love with her, whether she wants to believe it or not, when he was still evil. And even when he'd been evil, he still hadn't wanted the world to end. Back then, it had all been about Dru, but now he wonders, looking back. Had Buffy inspired him even then? Deep down, he knows the truth.

He's always loved her. He's suffered through centuries to come to her. She'll never feel the same for him, never even really like him, let alone love, but he can't help feeling the way he does for her. Can't help that he'd give everything a million times over just to earn one word of praise from her pretty, perfect lips.

Through the throng of bodies exiting the school, he smells her approach as she nears the doorway. He's looking right at the door when she emerges, talking with that bloody Principal, Nikki's boy, and laughing and smiling laughs and smiles that are not meant for him, that are never and will never be meant for him. The sun emerges from the clouds and cascades down onto her blonde hair, making it shimmer even more, but to him, she's already golden. She's always golden. She's perfect even at her worst, and he's seen her at her worst. He's seen her at her very worst and has still loved and will always love her.

There's something wet in his eyes. He thinks he might be crying, but he can't be bothered to look away or dash the tears from his eyes lest he miss even just one moment of gazing on her beauty. It's no wonder her light was enough to make Angel pull from the darkness. No wonder she inspired him to come out of the gutters and shy away from eating the occasional rat. Spike's stomach rumbles, but he reminds himself he's got one last bag of blood stashed, a bag of blood she'd brought him.

He might be nothing more than the equivalent of a wounded stray dog to her, but at least it's something. She cares enough to make sure he still survives. She cares enough, or is perhaps guilted enough, to make sure he lives, if that's what you can call it. He isn't sure. But he does feel alive right now, and for once, the voices are hushing. He feels alive, feels power and the faint tendrils of what he seems to remember once thinking could be hope, resonating in him as he watches her.

God, how he loves that woman so! He'd do anything for her, has done anything and everything. And he'll live again today, he decides, watching her smile, talk, and laugh -- watching her flirt with that damn Robin. He'll live, because she just might need him again one night. He won't walk into that sun, because he promised two women, not just one.

"I don't know what she sees in him, honestly," her mother had confessed to him one day, her hands wrapped around her mug of hot cocoa as she'd leaned closer, almost conspiratorially, in toward him. Joyce had never been afraid of him, not once, not even when they'd first met and she'd hit him with an axe.

She'd been a Hell of a woman, that one, far more of a mother than his own dear, old mum had ever been. He knew not all mothers of Slayers were cut out for the life, and more than one had been taken out not always by Vampires but actually often by Watchers, intent on the Slayers being free to follow their callings. But Joyce -- Well, it was no wonder her daughter was so wonderful with as kind, loving, wise, and witty a woman as she had been.

Through his haze, Spike remembers the other reason he came out today. He'd needed to see Buffy, yes. He'd needed her strength, her light, to be able to just continue to exist. But it is also a special day for a special lady, and he needs to find some flowers. He knows where her grave is, he thinks, but if not, he'll find it. He'll make it there one way or another, voices in his head bedamned.

He clings to that memory of Joyce, the way she'd smiled at him, the way she'd laughed with him, the way she'd bloody trusted him when no one else had. It's the first good memory to make it out of the ocean of bad in... weeks? Months? He can't remember. But he does remember today was her day. Today's her birthday, and he'll be damned if he fails to celebrate such a special lady, such a wonderful lady who'd been so kind and generous with him when he'd deserved nothing, when he still deserves nothing good. Like her daughter, she'd deserved everything good, and he'll find a way to honor her too for as long as he can, for as long as he can keep from stepping into that bloody, bright sun.



The End