Tonight is one of those nights, and he finds himself on the outskirts of Sunnydale, high on the bluff overlooking the town. It’s the kind of place where, if it were another kind of town, teenagers would come to make out. Not a good idea to go so far from the beaten path, though, in Sunnydale. Never know what beasties are lurking. The local kids know better.
Spike is one of those beasties, so for him, this is just a good place to find some peace and quiet. He’s been coming here often, since he got back. Just to watch the stars above and the twinkling lights of the town laid out below, to sit, and to think. Mostly it’s about Her, of course – the other Her, the main Her, Buffy – but tonight, he’s here to mourn older mistresses.
He’d picked her up on a cold October night in Chicago, sometime in the late fifties. Dru had been off somewhere at the time, leaving him to his own devices. It happened fairly often back then, but she always came back in the end, chanting of fairies and stars, and usually draped in entrails. She was like that, his dark princess. Obscure and high-maintenance. He hadn’t thought that at the time, of course, but he knows it now. Part of him loves her still, but she’s not the one who left the hole in his heart that he mourns tonight.
No, it’s the other. His other dark beauty, his semi-eternal love. Faithful through fifty years together, through hundreds of thousands of miles and untold nights of blood and carnage and hell-bent freedom. Nobody understood her like he did, and they were so very beautiful together, shining and dark and glorious. So many nights with the windows down and the radio blazing. Jazz first, then blues and rock and punk. He’d screamed the songs into the night, and she had vibrated with the bass as they hurtled down the highway. Hell on wheels, she was.
Staring down at the tiny cars, inching their way around the distant town below like little glowing ants, he knocks back a little more Jack Daniels. It’ll be a while before he’s sober enough to ride the motorcycle home, but he’s not planning on going anywhere for a little while yet. Buffy’s out with the Potentials, and she won’t be home til late anyway. Plenty of time to watch the moon rise, and to mourn. He lets his thoughts drift back.
Like all things in this world, her number eventually came up. It had been in Sunnydale, a while after he’d gotten back. A little after the whole embarrassing incident with the Slayer – God, I sang the Ramones to her, he thinks a little ruefully – his beauty had developed a horrible death rattle. Before he knew it, she was hemorrhaging all over the road, and after that the end had come quickly. Seeing her like that, seized and broken, he’d found himself quite unexpectedly wanting to cry. Fifty years, give or take. She'd never let him down.
You were one hell of a lady, he thinks, raising the flask in a silent toast to the absent De Soto.
God, he misses that car.