Characters: Spike, Angel (I know, I know! Not Spander!)
Disclaimer: Don’t own or profit from them
Warning: Character death, post-NFA
Written for: open_on_sunday
Word count: 100
It's always with him -- the ache of absence, the phantom limb. He's learned to keep the force of it at bay, but there are times, like this, when the current overtakes him. Sweeping him back, and back, until he's crouching in that street again, a dying man cradled in his arms. (And in the end he was a man, if only as he died). Holding him close, whispering the name he'd never spoken willingly, until that moment. Sire.
No grave. No stone to honor him. Just the asphalt where he fell. Spike pours the whiskey there, an offer of libation.