Pairing: Buffy/Spike, mentions of Spike/Drusilla
Medium: Poetry, some prose.
Summary: A history of Spike's poetry and how almost all of it was destroyed.
Author's Note: Okay so, someone asked me on a meme if my headcanon said Spike had written any poems about Buffy, and I gave a response that more or less ended up being the prose part of this work. And then I decided I wanted to write the surviving poem. And then I started thinking about Spike's handwriting. I was sure if this poem existed, it was handwritten. Then I looked through some handwriting fonts until I found one I liked and added it to some stock paper and... ended up posting it. Hope you enjoy!
Spike had written poems after he died, though if anyone asked, he'd deny it. Sometimes he'd compose them in his head, during the day when he had trouble sleeping. Occasionally he'd see Drusilla and get struck by a burning flash of inspiration so sharp that he couldn't help but scribble it down. Over the century they were together, he must have written at least a thousand, though only about a third of them made it on paper, and most of that paper ended up torn or burnt. Once, Angelus found one of the ones Spike couldn't bring himself to tear up, and he'd sneered and took it away, presumably to show Darla so they could laugh about it together. Drusilla, however, had clearly enjoyed it, if the way she'd jumped him was any way to judge, so it didn't sting as much as it could have.
By the time they arrived in Sunnydale, Spike only had two still with him. There'd been more, but he hadn't had time to grab them when they left Prague. He didn't care, though, his dark princess was poetry enough. Those two burned when the Watcher set fire to the factory. Spike didn't much feel like writing poetry, though. His muse was busy shagging another man.
He wrote poems about Buffy. At first they were about how she infuriated him, how he wanted to pull her apart limb from limb and hear her scream. Then slowly, even before he realised it, they had become about something else, about other things he'd like to do to her. These ones he'd tear up even before the ink had dried. They were wrong. She was a Slayer. But slowly, they came more and more frequently, and some he even kept, for a while, at least. Then she'd come in and beat him up and he'd tear them up again.
When they started sleeping together, the poems were hopeful, sweet stanzas praising her beauty and strength and hoping beyond hope that he could have her again. But when it became clear she wasn't going to love him, they took on a more bitter tone, about how that bitch couldn't see what was good for her. All of the ones he hadn't torn up were destroyed when Riley and Buffy blew up his bedroom.
After he got his soul, for a while he couldn't bring himself to write, or even think. But after he started to heal, after Buffy helped him, his fingers started itching for a pen. These poems were softer, about how he was unworthy, how she was his saviour, how much his heart ached with love for one he knew he could never have.
He knew he wouldn't survive the final battle. So long as his life could keep Buffy and Dawn and the others alive a bit longer, or even help stop the world from ending, though, it'd be worth it. He slipped one of his poems into Buffy's things the morning before they headed off to face the First. On the off chance he survived, he figured he could steal it back before she found it.
He didn't survive.
That evening, Buffy found a piece of paper with no note, no name, just a poem. It was enough, though. She knew who it was from.
The rest of his poems were destroyed along with the rest of Sunnydale. Except for one, tucked away in a certain box in a certain hotel owned by a certain vampire in Los Angeles. But he'd never admit to having it.