The Moth and the Flame
She is elusive. Effulgent. Like a moth to a flame he burns. He will always burn for her. Even when there was a black ache where his soul used to be he ached for the colour and light in the darkness. She said he was in love with pain. He wondered sometimes if she was right, because loving Buffy was one of the painful experiences of his life. And yet Spike always went back for more. For her.
He thinks he’s her dark place. He doesn’t understand and she can’t explain. He’s the one she wants to hold her when she’s hurting. The one who always had her back. She can be weak with him if she needs to. She can be strong. She can be selfish. Most of all she can be Buffy. And she wouldn’t be Buffy if she could verbalise all that.
There in the deep chasm of the Hellmouth, for one brief euphoric moment, they both know. Palms together, hands ablaze.
“I love you.”
“No you don’t but thanks for saying it.”
And he burns. The moth in the flame of the candle.
She fancies she can feel the moment he is no more. But she has to run. He always wanted to her to live and she has to do that for him. But she wonders if that’s possible. I want the fire back. After all, what is a candle without her flame?