Even when he's not alone.
Even when she's there with him whimpering and sighing and wishing he wouldn't do those things that he does with his tongue even though she begs him for it. Probably hates him for it too.
Or when he walks her home after their fuck-fests, because, a gentleman see's a lady to her door, hands buried deep in his pockets to keep from grasping hers.
Or when they fight, back to back, perfectly synchronized, and feeling closer to her than ever.
Even in those rare occasions they make it to his bed and her soft whimpered words fall to the ground and turn into blades that cut his feet when she goes to leave and he tries to follow.
Sometimes she whispers against the dent of his hip how he deserves better before engulfing him whole and not giving him a chance to respond and tell her otherwise. Because if anyone deserves something better, it's her.
He's always wanted a love made of hearts and roses (and edible panties just to satisfy the perv in him). He has a feeling that she might want that too. And if only she wasn't so jaded, and he had a job, or at least a heartbeat, then maybe she could allow him to give her that.
He thinks it's not fair, how he's the one that's lived a hundred plus years, lived more than a couple lives, lived a few thousands lies, and she's the one showing signs of weariness and aging no twenty-two year old, even one brought back from the dead, should show.
Spike thinks it all started with a bruise and possibly her lips. Buffy lips. Lips of Buffy. And the little witch's spell.
Or maybe on a dance floor.
He doesn't know exactly when (does it even matter?) but he likes to think it was the first time he'd seen her smile. Still awkward in that teenage stage between chubby cheeks and fleshy curves. Between being perky and cute and confident and sexy.
He loves her always, but more so when she smiles. Not the fake ones that she's learned to give to her sister and her friends, but the real ones, where he says something incredibly stupid and "so Spike" that she has to snort and laugh at William's witty yet stuttered confessions. The ones that make even the no-shame-having vampire blush.
If there's one thing Spike understands is the exchange.
Exchange of money for services rendered. Exchange of fists for information. Blood for life (or unlife but still life).
Sex for conversation.
He likes to think it's an even trade. He gets Buffy's friendship and she in turn gets his body, his mind, his heart, and one very old, kind of dead, soul.
For someone who has been alone and lonely for most of his life (and unlife alike), a few kind words from the woman he loves in exchange for all that he is and all he has ever been seems like a fair trade. More than fair.
Buffy's a risk taker. He's noticed this. She likes the thrill she gets of taking him in places that could out this sordid relationship of theirs.
Out in the cold night air, in the alley behind the magic box, while the rest of the scoobies sit inside warm and comfy and discussing her moods like they know her.
Not after, but before a patrol. When she knows her friends are still out and about and possibly looking for her.
Spike thinks that in the back of her head, and in a hidden part of her heart, it's what she truly wants. A reason for her friends to be pissed off and yell at her, tell her all sorts of nasty bits that would prove how wrong she truly is (she isn't).
Because they're such good judges of character, them.
Self hatred is a bitch. If he remembers anything from his human days, it's that.
It doesn't matter how many times he tells her how good and pure she is, how wonderful she is, she won't believe it. She won't let herself believe it. He guesses it's easier to live with yourself when you think that the choices you're making are from a lack of soul rather than from a lack of caring.
Sometimes Spike wishes he wasn't this weak.
That he could tell her no. That he could turn her away when she came barging in his crypt demanding to be satisfied.
Because the one thing she needs is, not sex but, love.
He tries to give her both. Tries to tell her how much she's loved, how much he loves her as he's pushing himself inside her. Pouring himself, both his body and his words, into her. But she kisses him, her mouth pressing against his and those lips, those full, soft, beautiful lips that are sin at its truest form, stop his words, his declarations and he's left giving her only what she desires and never what she needs.
Those are the times that he hates himself after.
He dreams sometimes.
Of seeing Buffy in the sunshine. Of joining her there. Of a big house and a white picket fence and a little girl with Buffy's eyes and nose and his hair calling him dad. Of a French poodle on roller skates.
Out of all his dreams, the last one is the one that makes the most sense.
Spike feels alone always.
Even when he's not alone.
Even when she's there with him sighing and wishing and giving him that look that makes his heart hope that maybe one day he'll get the crumb he so desires even as she's offering him everything he could want (yet he still wants more).
Or when he walks her home after their nightly patrols, because a man in love see's his lady to the door.
Even when she smiles at him from her doorway and whispers goodnight before disappearing inside.
Or as he's standing outside her house and looking at her window, ever silent, ever watchful, ever protecting, until she's warm and safe in her bed and her lights go off.
And when he's walking back to his crypt, his hands still buried deep in the pockets of his duster, he regrets not having the courage to slip his fingers in between hers and hold her hand.