Song: 'Ode to Boy' by Yazoo
POV: Willow's

Two months. It's been two months since she died, and he's *still* not acting like himself! And, honestly, I think that's what's convinced me, more than anything else, that he really was *serious* when he said he loved her. Not that anybody *else* has noticed, but... *I* have.

Oh, he hasn't been moping around, but he *also* hasn't mentioned killing us all once he gets 'the blasted, bloody chip removed', either, and for Spike, that's more a sign of his depression than anything else would be! No, he's been fairly quiet, and always ready to jump in to help out, and he's watched over Dawn like some sort of an over-protective big brother all the while. He hasn't even *tried* to threaten Xander, and he's been almost *civil* to Tara and Giles! It worries me. It makes me wonder when he's gonna snap.

I can feel it coming-- the snapping, I mean. It's there in his eyes, in the way he moves, and maybe I'm just more attuned to it than the rest of the gang, because next to Buffy...? *I* was always his favourite target. I probably spent more time with him than all of the others combined, and now that he's one of us? I'm worried. We've already lost more than we can really bear, and it's just... not acceptable that we might lose him, too.

And *that's* why I've taken to following him at night. It isn't that I *like* him, or that I'm *attracted*, as Tara seems to think. It's *not*! *I'm* not! It's that I'm worried about him; that's *all*! Besides, I've only been following him for the last six weeks or so; it's not like I'm obsessed. I just want him to be okay.

// When he moves, I watch him from behind

He turns and laughter flickers in his eyes

Intent and direct when he speaks, I watch his lips... //

Besides, he knows I'm there. I think he's known from the beginning, but I can't be sure. I *do* know that he had it figured out three weeks ago, because I followed him to his car, and he called out to me, inviting me to go for a drive to LA with him.

I went, of course, but only to make sure he wasn't planning to do something stupid like... antagonize Angel until he killed him. It was a looong drive, too, but... I think I'm starting to understand why he loves the DeSoto so much, because... in his hands? It rode like a dream.

He didn't go anywhere *near* the Hyperion Hotel that night. We got to town, and he found us a room, and no, it wasn't anything sordid or sneaky, damn it! The room was for the morning, and after he'd checked us in, he took me off to a bar he knew, and... actually, we had a really good time. We danced, and had some wine, and got back to our hotel room in just enough time to miss the rising sun. Honestly, it was the most fun I've had in a long time, and then... the sun was down, and it was back to Sunnydale.

// When he drives I love to watch his hands

White and smooth, almost feminine, almost American

I have to watch him... //

I hoped that that little trip was some sort of a sign that he was coming out of it... that maybe he was finding a reason to go on, other than the fact that Buffy asked him to watch out for Dawn, but... Even afterwards, I still caught him-- at odd moments-- looking as though the last hundred years had finally caught up with him. It was in his eyes, mostly, but... It was still *there*.

// In his face age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth

He caught me looking then, but soon his eyes forgot... //

There was a time-- after Oz, but before Tara-- when I would have known how to try to help him... That night in the dorms, I was actually almost disappointed when he couldn't... well. It doesn't matter now.

But he was given that chip in his brain, and he fell hard for my best friend, and... that was okay, because I was with my girlfriend, but still... it hurt, knowing that I was at most a passing fancy. He *said* he was willing to turn me! But... Buffy, and then...

// And every thing he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue

I saw him searching into you, and ached a while... //

So, I follow him around, hoping that knowing I'm here will keep him from doing anything desperate or stupid, and it *seems* to have worked... so far. We don't talk, really, or even walk together, but he knows I'm around, and he acknowledges it in any number of ways. Like just a moment ago, he shot a sad smile at me, over his shoulder, and turned back to his drink.

// I watch his lips caress the glass, his fingers stroke its stem and pass

To lift a cigarette at last; he dries his eyes... //

I don't know why he keeps coming here. I mean, I'd think the Bronze was the *last* place he'd want to be, what with all the history. After Oz left, I could barely stand to even hear the *name* of this place! But Spike isn't me... and Oz was certainly no *Buffy*, but still. Maybe it's his way of punishing himself for letting her die. Because I'm almost completely convinced-- regardless of what my other friends say-- that he blames himself for what happened.

It tears me apart inside to see the way he's taking *her* choices as *his* fault. Yes, she was human. Yes, she was barely twenty-one. But she was *also* the Slayer, and she followed her heart, and chose to give herself for her sister, and... I can accept that, and even respect it, but *Spike*...?

He's heading for a major breakdown, and I'm terrified that I'll wake up one day, and go to his crypt, and find just a big pile of dust in the doorway, and... that would kill me. Not that I want him, or love him, myself, but... It's like I keep telling Tara. We've lost enough. And if the subtle tear tracks on his face right now are any indication? I... *we* may well lose another of us.

// From a shadow by the stair, I watch as he weeps, unaware

That I'm in awe of his despair; I have to watch him... //

So I follow him out of the club and down the street, lurking in the shadows when he runs into Willie's and comes out again a few minutes later with a big brown paper bag in his arms. Not just blood, then, I realize, and I stay a good ten feet behind him while he heads home. I watch him go into his crypt, and I'm about ready to turn and head home, myself, when his voice stops me.

"Red," he says, just loudly enough for me to hear, "Why don't you come in and drink a toast to the Slayer with me?"

I'm about to say no, but... there's such sorrow and loneliness in his voice, and other than the tears no one else has noticed, it's the first sign of obvious emotion he's shown since that night, and I find myself stepping slowly into the dank one-room mausoleum. "Sure," I say, glancing around in the flickering candle light. I sit down in the only chair there, and he sits on the floor, leaning back against my legs, and this is so *wrong*, because... maybe it's the pain that he's finally letting me see, but I want so badly to comfort him. He tilts his head back and meets my eyes, and I know that if I don't leave now, I'm going to be in *so* much trouble, but he's got that *look* in his eyes again, and the candle light on his face is etching the lines of misery even deeper, and... I *can't*! I can't leave him like this.

// In his face, age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth,

He caught me looking then, but soon his eyes forgot... //

Gods only know what he sees in *my* eyes, but then again, maybe he isn't really looking, 'cause he pulls his eyes from mine and passes me the bottle of whisky he'd apparently pulled from that bag of his. I take it, of course, and choke slightly on my first swallow while my other hand comes to rest lightly on his bleached hair. It's surprising to me how soft it is, but it's a nice feeling, and I take another, bigger, swig from the bottle before passing it back to him.

I can feel the warmth of the liquor burning inside me, spreading out like the ripples in a pool after you throw a rock in, and... I welcome the sensation. But he's talking now, all about *her*, and I know that I'll never repeat any of what he's telling me, because... He's confiding in me, and soul-less demon or not, he's still *Spike*, and I won't betray his trust. I just hope this helps him. I hope it heals him, at least a little, because it hurts me to see him hurting this way. But I don't want him myself. I *don't*! And I'm not jealous of his feelings for the Slayer; I'm *not*! I mean, I'm *gay*! I just... don't like seeing any of my friends hurting... *really*!

// And everything he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue,

I saw him searching into you, and ached a while... //

End.

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