Set during S7, 'Show Time'

Disclaimer: Every character used in this story was created by Joss Whedon. This ficlet was further inspired by Evanescence's 'My Immortal'.

This was supposed to go into Familiar Faces, but I decided it would work better on its own.

--

He was so tired of being here.

The tireless physical torture had let up, for the moment, but the strange thing without a heartbeat that looked like Dru was still there, alternatively taunting him and begging him to join her. If only it didn't look like Dru. The one woman who might still have some sway over him.

Ah, but the entity knew that. Sometimes it even obliged him. Sometimes, it looked like Buffy, and that was worse. He came to fear those times, because they only underlined the abandonment. The real Slayer had left him here. If she had to leave, it was best if she just left. But that didn't happen, now did it? No, the presence still lingered here, in the form of either of the two women in his life. It wouldn't leave him alone.

Drusilla. Lovely, barmy, enchanting Queen of the Night. Her mind resonated with something greater, mightier. It had captivated him for over a century. Now, all that was left was this ghostly image of a woman that had, eventually, rejected him. He had dried her tears, fought off all her fears. For all those years they had held each other's hand, all he had were the dreams she had left behind. Dreams he thought he had purged from his mind when Buffy…

But Buffy had also rejected him. So many times. The last time, when she had taken him into her own home to protect him from himself, when she had said she believed in him, he had thought that this time, he would not be rejected. He had been strong. He had kept his head up. He had yet let himself be suppressed by his own fears, because he had truly felt, deep in his soul, that Buffy would come back for him. Then he could hold her hand and dry her tears. Fighting her fears would be useless. The Slayer was well enough equipped for that herself, but he could stand by her side when she was fighting.

But then her image returned, and it spoke the words that were obvious enough, even if he wouldn't let himself believe it. Even if he kept whispering to himself "She will come to me", to drown out the slowly blooming certainty of the specter's reply.

"No I won't."

Buffy turned into Drusilla again, caressing his chest, but he couldn't feel her fingers. He only heard her voice. And it drove away all the sanity he had left.

"You are mine, dear Spike. I've got all of you, all to myself."

--

The image, wearing the face of Buffy this time, approached him with a knife. Spike gathered all his strength to keep his defiance going. His sarcastic question got no answer, however. His defiance turned to fear. He was spent. He truly couldn't take much more.

Was he dreaming again?

It must have been the millionth time he imagined he would be free. Amillion times it had proved fruitless. Yet something was different this time. Always before, if he hadn't fought himself free, the Slayer that had cut his bonds had been clean, beatific. This one was haggard, covered in bruised and her top stained with dirt and blood. The smell of it, of her, was so strong as be overwhelming.

The knife bit into the ropes binding him, and he fell into Buffy's arms.

He was free.

And now that he was, he was too weak to do anything, to say anything. He just managed to acknowledge the Slayer. It carried none of the enthusiasm he felt, somewhere inside.

As Buffy carried him out of the dark and dank cave, a single thought played through his head.

"Dru, you don't have all of me."