He awoke, bathed in sweat, as he usually did when he dreamed of her. The Slayer. Buffy. Since his soul had been restored, his dreams were more intense, more real. In this one, a recurring dream, he was fighting Buffy, and he was letting her pummel him as she was wont to do, but this time she didn't stop, and the pain went on and on, and in his dream he lost consciousness, but he still felt her continue to hit him. He had once told her that since loving her, he had experienced a new level of torture. This dream was likely the manifestation of that truth. She was still pummeling him, even across the world.
Feeling like he was hung-over without the fun of a bender, Spike grabbed his head and looked up at the ceiling of his basement flat. Why did he always seem to land in the basement? The poet in him clearly recognized the symbolism. He'd been relegated to Buffy's basement in her home in Sunnydale, literally and figuratively beneath her. Now, Lindsey had set him up here, away from everyone, unnoticed, unnecessary, like all things people store in basements. Realistically, he could see the practicality of it—no windows meant no burning sunlight. It was hard for him to believe anyone was really thinking of his creature comforts, however. He thought briefly of Angel, in his posh high-rise flat at Wolfram and Hart, and felt the usual stab of envy when he thought of Wonder Boy. Buffy's voice came unbidden to his mind: "Poor Spikey, everyone kicks him when he's down."
He mentally shook his head to clear away the effects of the lingering dream. Resolutely, he got out of bed, pulling on his black jeans, making his way to the fridge for his morning blood. He warmed it in the microwave, then sat at his small table, smoking a cigarette. He thought about his recent trip to Italy, and his conversations with Angel about getting on with their lives, since Buffy clearly was. When The Immortal finally got tired of her, like the bastard inevitably would, she would be alone again. And Spike would be here waiting for her. Oh, he would have had his own dalliances in the meantime, but part of him would always belong to Buffy, would be waiting for her to remember that she once said she loved him. Even though he never would fully believe it. But that didn't matter so much as the chance to try to make her mean what she said. He was a hero now, after all. A champion. Her champion. His most recent death had saved the world. How could a girl soon forget that?
There was one obvious fly in the ointment of this little fantasy, and his name was Angel. The wanker had her heart, but Spike had had her body in every conceivable way. He knew every curve and plane of it as intimately as he knew his own. He had drawn out her pleasure for hours, and had felt here essence seep into him, restoring him long before he'd reacquired his soul. Those last few days with her in Sunnydale had been the best of his long life. She had grown to respect him, and maybe even loved him in her own, non-Angel way. He realized that he'd had more time and more of her body than Angel ever had, and while he no longer had her, he was satisfied that he was way ahead of Angel in that department, at least.
So, he would bide his time in this dank, Spartan basement, maintaining his newly-born soul by helping Angel kill any Tom, Dick or Scary that might come out of the bowels of the beast that was Los Angeles. Some day she would knock on his door. Andrew would tell her that he was still alive, fighting the good fight, a man she could be proud of. She would—
Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the door. Could it be? In his haste to get to it, he knocked over his chair, but he didn't care. He pulled open the door, and there she was, right out of his dreams. Buffy.
Her hair was long and wavy, golden like he remembered it. She was in some frilly little top, slightly old-fashioned, which never failed to touch his long-dead heart. And she was smiling with joy and relief, the smile totally sincere, because it lit up her green eyes. She threw herself into his arms, her small arms deceptively powerful in a hold that would have bruised a mortal man. Spike reveled in it, love and happiness warring for dominance of his feelings. A lump pushed its way into his throat.
"Oh, my God, Spike! Why didn't you tell me you survived? Why didn't you come for me? I had to hear it from Andrew, of all people."
"I tried—" Spike began.
"Let me look at you." Her eyes blazed up into his. She reached up to touch his cheek, to run her fingers into his platinum hair. "I love you, Spike! Don't you remember, I told you before—" And tears filled her eyes. "Thank God," she whispered against his bare chest. Still in shock, he felt her warm arms wrap around him again, and he finally embraced her, smelling the freshness of her hair, whispering his love. She pulled slightly away, and he brought his lips to hers in a kiss that brought on his own tears. Buffy tugged at the waistband of his jeans, and his hands went into her hair and then to her blouse. She was backing him to his narrow bed and he fell onto it, and she onto him.
"I love you," he cried, over and over, between hot, drugging kisses.
He awoke, bathed in sweat, and looked up in pain at the ceiling of his basement flat. His empty basement flat.
"Bullocks," said Spike softly, to no one in particular.