I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer of any of its characters, but I do own this story.

Mature language

She sat there, amid the ruins of her afterlife. One thought, one knife in her heart, one hole in her soul.

Spike.

It was always Spike.

It was cold, and the rain cut through her like needles piercing her skin. But she couldn't move, not an inch. She knew she should find safety before the sunrise, but she didn't care. Why should it matter? Why should anything matter now? It was always the same. First Drusilla, now Buffy, even if there was no one left but the two of them…..He wouldn't love her. He wouldn't love her the way she loved him, the way she had always loved him. She could remember wishing that he would just kill her. Suck her dry and let her go. It would link them forever. It would be so poetic. She would truly be his victim in all senses of the word. But that would be too easy. Death was a sweet dream to her, violent ironic death. "I love my murderer," Heathcliff had said to Cathy. And now she loved hers. Except he wouldn't do it, he'd never do it, because he did love her in some way. And he pitied her for the pain that he caused her. Oh yes, William the Bloody felt pity. All thanks to that blonde haired bitch. She'd rather hate than pity.

Maybe it wasn't her violent death she should dream of, but Buffy's. How would it feel to tear her limb from limb? Rip her to pieces and render them with her bare hands. But it wouldn't matter, would it? He'd still love her. Just like Angel had. But that was different. Angel wasn't her soul mate. Angelus, perhaps, but not Angel.

It was Spike. Her sweet, sweet Spike. Evil, ruthless, violent. And hers. For brief periods in history, he had been all hers.

She could stomach Drusilla. It was painful, watching him go home to her. It felt like she was slowly bleeding out when she watched his silhouette against the moonlight, walking away from her to go back to Dru. Sometimes just for the day, other times for a year or more. But he always came back. She always knew that she was under his skin and somewhere in the back of his heart. She knew that every time he saw a fountain or heard a Janis Joplin song he would think of her. Of certain nights, certain cities, certain times. The night they rained hell in Russia, or almost didn't make it out of Istanbul before dawn. She knew that she held a tiny piece of him, a piece that he would seek out time and time again.

But now, everything had fallen apart. She'd spent countless years hanging on to a tiny part of a creature that adored, and even that was slipping away. She wondered how many others knew what it was like to live in the shadows. To feel so attached to another being that you could physically feel the time and space between you. To need someone so much that it consumed every thought, every action. To literally revolve around someone else. Someone else who didn't really love you. Not the same way that you loved them. Not with every inch of himself. Not the way he now loved her.

In all of her years of existence, she had never truly owned herself. All of her thoughts, all of her actions were somehow attached to him. Not a day, not an hour went by that she didn't think of him. Long for him. Under the moonlit skies of Amsterdam or Africa, it was always the same. He consumed her, she was his. And the more she loved him, the less he was hers. He didn't want her adoration; he didn't want her immortal soul. He wanted Buffy. The Barbie doll warrior. The bubblegum Valkyrie.

Fuck it all to hell.

Now it was getting close, colors in the sky. She knew what she would do. She would get up, find shelter. Close her eyes and let it all wash over her like razors. And she would wake at dusk with no other purpose than to be in his presence again.

My murderer.