Here Without You ~ Dark Dreamluver

Here Without You

Author's Note(s): My first song fic, so be gentle;) Spike POV. AR-Spike did get his soul, B/S ship all through season seven; Buffy died fighting The First, Hellmouth stayed open, Spike took up slaying duties and watched over Dawn and other Scoobies. Now 40 years later, everyone dead, Spike has one last drink and smoke. Story title and song lyrics by 3 Doors Down.

Pairings: Buffy/Spike

Warnings: Character death(s)

Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy or Spike or any of the other characters from BtVS. I just like to get them naked and roll them around in a bed ... or on a tomb ... under the table ... in the shower ... Um, you get the idea.

Feedback? Please, please, with chocolate and Spike on top!

Spike sat alone at the bar of the Bronze. He had been there all night, not dancing, not talking, not even smoking, just sitting. His blue eyes glittered iridescently as he teared up from time to time, but he refused to let them fall. Long ago, he had cried for Buffy, cried copious amounts of tears; until his eyes nearly swelled shut and his voice went. He had sworn that would be the last time he cried over a human. He had become as big a poof as his Grand-Sire.

They were all gone now and he was alone. Buffy, of course, had been gone the longest. But if he dared to look on the dance floor, he could see her there still; body moving sinuously, gold hair glinting, glossed lips smiling, making love to him with her mischievous eyes. God, he still missed her with all of his undead heart. The two years they had together weren’t nearly enough. Her death had almost dusted him; would have if he hadn’t promised her that he would take care of Dawn. Taking care of Dawn had made it bearable, still crushing at times, but bearable. Now, however…unlife was intolerable.

As for the rest, D’Hofferyn had taken Anya not long after that, her punishment for having killed Halfrek. Willow had went to England shortly after Buffy’s death and remained with the coven until her own death about five years ago. Even Dawn was gone, having died in childbirth along with the baby, some 20 years ago. Apparently mystical keys weren’t meant to have children. And Xander… Xander had passed only just that day, peacefully in his sleep, at the Sunnydale Memorial Nursing Home, having been a patient since his heart attack earlier this year. It seemed that all those jelly donuts scarfed down at Scoobie meetings weren’t all that healthful for a body after all. They didn’t count jelly as a fruit, who knew? He could joke about, because Xander would have if he had been able to himself.

Spike thought that it was a kind of poetic justice, that the most human of them all, had lived the longest at age 64; still not very old for human years, but old for the fine citizens of the Hellmouth. Now that Xander was gone, Spike’s promises first to Buffy, and then to Dawn, were met, his reason for remaining in good old Sunnyhell, no longer an issue. He was free; he could go or stay, do anything and everything that had been denied to him during all these years of taking care of the Scoobies. The problem was, he was tired, and wanted only to rest. But first…

“Hey, Dave,” Spike said, gaining the attention of the bar tender. His voice was rough from suppressing the tears that he refused to let fall. “Bring me a bottle of your best scotch, Glen Fidditch if you got it.” He tiredly reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out his last cigarette and his silver lighter. He flipped it open, bringing it up to light his fag. The glimmering light threw his sharp cheekbones into taunt relief and glinted off his platinum hair. The bartender sat the tumbler of the honey-amber liquid in front of him; Spike glanced up, and gave a slight nod in thanks.

His senses told him he had a while yet before sunrise, so he took his time; drawing the smoke into his lungs and holding it, before blowing it out in a long stream. He did this until it was burnt. Finished with his smoke, he picked up his scotch, and swirled it a little, causing the dim lights in the bar to illuminate the gold of the drink. He tipped the glass up to his lips, allowing the fine liquor to flow over his bottom lip and caress his tongue. He held it in his mouth for a moment savoring the smooth bite of the drink, before swallowing slowly.

When the band took a break, Spike unhurriedly finished his drink, threw the last of his cash on the bar, strolled to the edge of the stage, and jumped up lightly. He picked up the guitar, and began to play. “This is for those who have passed on.” He rasped out, and he started to sing.

A hundred days have made me older
since the last time that I saw your petty face
a thousand lies have made me colder
and I don't think I can look at this the same
but all the miles that separate
disappear now when I’m dreaming of your face

I’m here without you baby
but you're still on my lonely mind
I think about you baby
and I dream about you all the time
I’m here without you baby
but you're still with me in my dreams
and tonight it's only you and me

With the first word the audience was captivated, lost in his voice, the song’s message, entranced by the beauty of the man. Spike didn’t notice any of this, and if he had he wouldn’t have cared, he was lost inside the song, inside his pain. He didn’t even feel the tears that finally escaped to spill gently over the sharp planes of his face.

The miles just keep rollin'
as the people leave their way to say hello
I’ve heard this life was overrated
but I hope that it gets better as we go

Everything I know, and anywhere I go
it gets hard but it won’t take away my love
and when the last one falls
when it's all said and done
it gets hard but it won’t take away my love

As the last notes died away, Spike carefully kept his head down. He was so close to losing control. He couldn’t let anyone see. He deliberately took a deep calming breath, and just as carefully sat the guitar down. He could feel the audience looking at him, but he didn’t acknowledge them in anyway. The song was only for him, for the lost Scoobies. Moving quickly now he stood up, and jumped off the stage. He went through the crowd and out the door, never looking back, never hearing the sound of their applause.

Sunrise was approaching, and Spike moved with preternatural speed to the cemetery. He paused at each one of their graves saying a final goodbye to all but Xander. He had said his goodbyes to the whelp earlier in the evening at the nursing home.

He saved Buffy’s grave for last. The roses he had placed there last night were starting to wilt. “Sorry, luv. No flowers tonight. Just Spike.” He turned and sat with his back to the marble angel that graced the head of her grave. He slowly stretched out until he was reclining, his hands resting lightly on his abdomen. He gazed up at the rapidly lightening pre-dawn sky.

“Don’t know what’s going to happen, pet. Don’t figure the soul did much good at this late date.” He whispered starkly, his azure, pain-filled eyes never leaving the now rising sun. He took an unnecessary breath as he saw the sun chase back the night for the first time in over two hundred years, and his alabaster skin started to burn. He drew another breath, as the pain encased his being. “Remember, Buffy, that I loved you ‘til the end.” He gritted his teeth against the agony of the fire, and refused to close his eyes against the sun’s burning glare. It was over in but a moment that seemed, to him, to last forever, and then there was nothing left of William the Bloody but a scattering of ashes on his beloved’s grave.

The End

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