He felt like kicking her. Hard enough to make the bloody bot break in two, stomp on it until it was past Willow's ability to fix it. Instead he gently traced her cheek. She felt so good...and she looked at him like the real Buffy never had, with affection and something close to worship. And sadness. Wait a minute, why was Buffybot sad?
"What's up, luv?", he softly asked her, head tilted, eyebrows raised. She moved a little closer.
"Don't you like me anymore, Spike?"
His jaw set. He couldn't do this. This wasn't Buffy, it was a machine that he had ordered like you order a tool or a toy. And she – it – wasn't capable of being sad. But she did a damn good imitation, and he just couldn't take it. She trailed her hand down his chest. "I still have all those programs, you know? Listen to Spike, obey Spike, please -"
"Stop it!" He abruptly turned away from her – it, damn it! "Get out of my crypt."
"So it's true", the bot said in a very small voice, all joyfulness gone, "you really don't like me anymore. What have I done wrong? Maybe Willow can have a look at my programming, change me somehow, so that you like me again? Do you want me to ask her?"
Spike closed his eyes to fight the tears, his throat constricting. The bot sounded so lost, so lonely. Just as lonely as he felt himself. He slowly turned back to her.
"There's nothing wrong with you, luv. It's me. I've had a – couple of crappy days. I'm sorry, OK? Don't look at me like that."
Buffybot reached out and gently cupped his face, and he couldn't help but move into the touch. He was so spent, so raw and so utterly alone. So what if it – she – wasn't the real thing. He moved into her, and she stood on tiptoe, smiling softly at him, and then she kissed him. So sweet. So painful. So not real Buffy. And he fell apart. Buffybot spent an hour putting the pieces back together, endlessly patient, and after that hour and a lot of bourbon Spike had finally convinced himself that she was enough Buffy for him. She was all the Buffy he deserved.