A/N: I don't really do sentimental Fanfics, this is my first true one. I couldn't really think of one that would be good, so I delved deep into the archives of my brain and I remembered thinking what the Scooby gang would be feeling like before the last battle, before Spike and Anya died. This concentrates on Spike, however. I don't own any of the characters in the Buffy universe, unfortunately.

Of Loving Vampires

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
'Cause your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone

Spike lay on the basement floor in Buffy's house. He was cold. This wasn't strange to him, unsurprisingly, the undead did remain cold. But this cold was unfamiliar. It clenched in his stomach, made him shake, and wonder about the things to come. He hadn't felt this cold since the moments before his siring. Vampires didn't usually feel this…emotion. But maybe vampires with their souls still intact, or returned or whatever, could. Spike wasn't used to this felling. It usually was just a meaningless word; he threw himself into each situation without hesitation. But this mammoth task… maybe Buffy was asking too much of him. No, it couldn't be that. He was a vampire, a courageous soldier, who spat death in the eye (again). But this time… maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should turn to the hills and run as fast as his long legs would carry him. Fear was tempting him away.

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

No, Buffy needed him. He sat up, slowly. He was the English vampire, who had killed a slayer, and fought relentlessly against another… until she turned him against his own kind. He had killed more vampires than he had humans. All the same… it was worth it for Buffy. Spike would destroy entire races for Buffy. He loved her. But, deep down, amongst all the bravery, love and ruthlessness, he knew she wasn't over Angel and never would be. In a way, Spike hated Angel, but he was glad that Buffy was happy. Even if it was with that scumbag… Spike couldn't feel hatred; he had seen the pain Buffy went through when she was forced to kill the one man she ever truly loved. It must have been terrible. He knew he could never bring himself to do it to Buffy.

You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me

A sword lay on the floor, the colour dull; there wasn't much light in the basement. Spike picked it up and stood. For a few moments he didn't move weighing the weapon in his hand. Then he swung it viciously across his chest, used the downward momentum to bring himself into a perfect roll and leapt up again. He somersaulted and smashed his head against the banister. He groaned from the pain and fell backwards, dropping the sword. His back slammed hard against the stone floor. The door opened, light flooded in and there she was. Glimmering like heat haze on a hot summer's day, Buffy raced down the stairs.

"Oh my God! Spike, are you alright?"

Spike groaned again. "Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Although, now there are three of you." With that, his head fell back; unconsciousness had swept in.