[For Buffy]
Spike wasn't sure how many days had passed since he'd stabbed Drusilla through the heart, since he'd killed her and buried her in the cold, unforgiving ground, sealing her away from her stars forever. Two days? Three, maybe? He could still feel her body going cold against his, remember the smell of her blood as it soaked her dress, the ground at their feet. He'd spent the rest of the night making sure she wouldn't be found, told Vala a half-arsed lie that she'd seemed all too willing to believe, and had spent the time since avoiding human contact as much as possible.
Which is why he was sitting alone on the cliff's edge, watching the water change colours as the sun set, chain-smoking his way through one of his few remaining packets of stale cigarettes. He'd done the right thing, what he should have done the moment Dru showed up in this place, but some part of him had hoped that getting her life back might change Dru, might fix her. He'd gambled on that hope and people had suffered because of it, including his own son. It was fitting that he'd been the one to stop her, then, wasn't it? Fitting that Dru's blood was on his hands.
Which is why he was sitting alone on the cliff's edge, watching the water change colours as the sun set, chain-smoking his way through one of his few remaining packets of stale cigarettes. He'd done the right thing, what he should have done the moment Dru showed up in this place, but some part of him had hoped that getting her life back might change Dru, might fix her. He'd gambled on that hope and people had suffered because of it, including his own son. It was fitting that he'd been the one to stop her, then, wasn't it? Fitting that Dru's blood was on his hands.