Spike was thinking. He had done a lot of that in the past twenty years, having no-one to actually talk to. He was thinking even harder than usual, however, with next week marking twenty years since his beloved, his light, his life, his Buffy had left this world. He had made a promise to her, a promise that he had fully intended to keep. But these years had been so hard, so lonely. Every day his dreams were filled with her; with her beauty, her grace, and her love. When he awoke each evening, he faced the bleakness that his life had become.

He had totally re-made himself because of her; for her. While she was with him, for a short time he was able to feel good about himself. When she was gone, that feeling went with her. He was just Spike again, not Buffy’s mate, not her lover, not anything to anybody. He carried on with their work, as he had promised her, but he couldn’t stay in Sunnydale. He had left the day that he put her in the ground, a grey, rainy day in California; even the earth wept for her loss. He left the cemetery and went back to their home, their comfortable home that they had lived in together, loving, laughing, and fighting, for seventy-six years. He couldn’t stand to look at anything – the memories were too fierce. Even a coffee cup brought back a host of recollections, and her loss was too fresh. He went up into the attic, and found a dusty trunk, half buried under Christmas ornaments and cartons of old books. He reached in and pulled out his leather duster, a pair of black jeans, a black t-shirt, and his old Doc Martens. Amazingly, the leather of the coat was in good condition – only slightly cracked. The shoes, on the other hand, had seen better days. They were still wearable, though. Everything smelled strongly of moth balls. That was understandable, as they had been stored for over seventy years.

As he arrayed himself in what he had come to think of as his "vampire uniform", Spike’s eyes fell on a box that he knew contained old photographs. Unable to stop himself, he flipped open the lid, and was confronted with memories of his life with Buffy. Tears filled his eyes as he rifled through pictures of Buffy, the Scoobies, the many kids, holidays, every event that had been noteworthy had been recorded on film. He came across a rare photo of the two of them together, Buffy gleefully whispering something naughty in his ear, and his delighted smile. He folded that one in half, and tucked it into his pocket. Had to have one small memento.

Spike left the house, pushing the key back in through the mail slot. He had made arrangements with a lawyer for the house and contents to go to Billy, Willow’s adopted son. He would stay there with a care-giver. Willow had left Billy an income, and now he would have his own place to live, rather than the half-way house. Spike hadn’t told him, he left that to the lawyer. He couldn’t deal with anything – he just had to leave. He could stop on his way out of town and buy a bottle of peroxide and some cigarettes. Whiskey, too.

For twenty years he had been traveling the globe, faithfully fulfilling his promise to Buffy to carry on – to continue their work – saving kids from evil. And he had avoided Sunnydale. But he was weary. It was enough. He had decided to end it.

"I’m sorry, Buffy," he whispered. "I know I promised, but I just can’t do it any more. I’m so lonely. Hell would be better than this."

His plan was to travel to Sunnydale. He’d spend the next few nights refreshing his memory of the town and his life there with Buffy. Then, on the morning of the twentieth anniversary of her death, he would sit on her grave and watch the sun rise. His ashes would be mingled with hers eventually, seeping into the ground, and that thought made him happier than anything had in the past two decades. "We’ll be together again, my beloved," he whispered. "Together forever."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Three days later, Spike sat cross-legged on Buffy’s grave bringing her up to date on the last twenty years. He still had a few hours until sunrise, and he had forgotten how good it was to talk to someone, even if her responses were only in his imagination. He was trying to explain to her his reasons for breaking his promise. "Love, I’m sorry. I know you wanted me to be strong, and I have been, but I just can’t any more. I’m alone even when I’m surrounded by people. I’m sorry for everything, sorrier than I can say. I’m sorry to disappoint you." Tears fell unheeded from his eyes, splashing onto the grass. "I’m sorry we never had kiddies of our own. I’m sorry I tried to talk you into letting me turn you into a vampire. I’m sorry you never had a normal life, pet. But I’ll never be sorry for loving you. I hope you were never sorry for loving me." He buried his head in his hands, sobbing in earnest now. "It’s just that, well, I miss you something fierce. Without you I am incomplete."

He sat now quietly, the tears drying in tracks on his face. He faced east, the better to see the sun when it finally rose. He spent the last hour of that night in remembering her. He remembered her kindness, her grace, her wit. He remembered how they fit together while making love; as if they were one being; separated; and then fully whole only when joined. He sat and remembered until he heard the first birds of the morning start their chorus, and saw the first faint blush of pink light the sky. "Goodbye, my love," he whispered.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching. *Bloody hell,* he thought to himself. *Can’t a bloke get a little privacy around here?* He turned to give the intruder the full wrath of his gaze, and felt his long dead heart give a lurch. For standing there, smiling at him sweetly, and looking as fresh and innocent as a spring day, was Buffy. His Buffy. He knew it was her. He could even smell her – she had the same familiar vanilla and spice scent that he had missed these last two decades.

"Buffy?" he croaked unbelievingly, reaching a trembling hand towards her.

She held out her hand to him. "Hey, Spike," she said sweetly, "what took you so long?"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Do not go gentle into that good night

Old age should burn and rave at close of day

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."