Dolls (Season Five, set after Intervention. Spike's POV)

Dru's dolls used to drive me barmy. The way she'd obsess over them, even when she was neglecting herself. And me. I wanted to smash them up, but I couldn't ever do it to her. The way her face lit up when she played…

What Buffy doesn't understand is that the mannequin – it's not her. It's not supposed to be her. It's… damn hard to explain even to myself, but Dru would have got it.

Dru got too bloody much, now I think on it. If only she'd told me plain what she saw, I would have run for the soddin' hills away from Sunnyhell and no one would have seen me for dust! Except, well, that little metaphor works a little too well in the case of yours truly, doesn't it?

Buffy burns me up. It's the only way I can describe her – fire. Purifying, and destructive, and yeah, so I wanted more. Sue me. She's glorious, all the other pillocks are blind for not seein' it.

I see it. Can't look away. But she doesn't want me, right? Fine. I get it. But, see, that's what the doll is for. What the bot was for. I wanted it to be her, but I knew… I know I need to get over this. But, if there's no substitute, what can I do?

Religious Experience (Spike. Season Six)

I used to believe in God, as a human. It's what I was taught. Never thought to question. Then I ascended, became something more than human. Something other than dead. For a while, I thought we were gods, me and Dru. Not Darla. Definitely not Angelus. But we had power, and she had a kind of divinity. The visions. Her gift and curse.

When she left, it was always because I was less than. I realized, I never was a god.

Then there was Buffy. If ever anyone could make me believe again…

She had it, you know? All of it right down to the sanctimonious stick up her arse. But she glowed. And then she died.

She burns less bright now. So I'm back to thinking there's no almighty up there, planning things out. If there was, she sure as hell wouldn't be with me.

Smoke (Buffy. Season Six)

His lips taste like an ashtray, sometimes, and I know I should feel disgusted, but it's come to be a comforting thing. One of the only things I don't hate.

It's just so him, you know? I can't explain it. Sometimes I'll see something and it'll make me think of him. Like, I'll be in the mall and I'll see a box set of some crappy TV show and I'll be over at it, picking it up and reading the back, before I realize what I'm doing. Dawn or Willow will catch me, ask me what's up, and it's on the tip of my tongue to tell them it's something he would love.

I bite my tongue and don't say anything. His taste still lingers there.

Touch: Part One (Buffy. Season Seven)

He's been touching me for years. Little brushes against my side, hands lingering longer than necessary after helping me up, or knocking me down; tucking stray hairs behind my ear. Like an idiot, he thought I wouldn't notice.

Like an idiot, it admittedly did take me a while. Looking back on it, I can't believe I was shocked when I first found out he had feelings. Nothing Spike does is ever subtle. Maybe I was blind. Willfully ignorant, Giles would call it.

Perspective changes everything. And time.

These days, I'm not willing away my knowledge, or his feelings. I'm regretting that he doesn't trust himself to steal little touches, anymore.

Touch: Part Two (Spike. Set after the conversation between Buffy and Spike in 'End of Days'.)

Terrifying. That's how I explained it, when she asked. Don't rightly think I explained it well at all, but it was the first word that came to mind. And after… there's so much, all rushing around. I'm trying not to hope, but my efforts in that department never did tend to get me far.

Even in my head it sounds mad, but it's like – for all that's come before, and what we did – last night was the first time I truly got to touch her. There aren't words for that. I'm like a man on my knees, here. Her showin' me that vulnerability has left me weak – at her mercy, where she could say or do anything to cut me down – but I wouldn't give up my place for anyone. Except her, o'course. Not if it's beside her.

If. It's a big word, if.

I spent so many days and nights wondering if they were gonna be the last I would get to touch her, not knowing or understanding that she wasn't herself, and it didn't count. Even if she did try and knock it into me, I couldn't see. But now, yeah, worry has taken on a whole new meaning. Terrifying is as good enough word for it as any.

Author Note: I'm going to add a second instalment of this tomorrow. In the meantime, if you're looking for more vignettes by me in the same vein, I recommend checking on the one I posted here titled 'Eye Contact.'