Here's the letter from Spike to Buffy that I wrote last night at borders. Maybe when I have more time I'll polish it up and frame it in the context of a short story. Or maybe not.

~~~

Dear Buffy,

   I hope all is well with you. Well. That's stupid. If all was well I'd be there talking to you in person instead of half a world away trying to explain myself in a letter. But I do hope things are better for you. Better than I made them.
   Still reading? I hope so. I know you have no obligation to ever again entertain a single word I have to say, and I half expect you to destry this letter soon as you realise who it's from. Wouldn't blame you if you did. But I hope you don't, and that you'll hear me out. Then again, I always did have unrealistic hopes where you're concerned.
   I just want you to know, for whatever precious little it's worth, that I'm sorry. That phrase always looks so trite, doesn't it? How can those two little words possibly convey my horror at what I did to you? They can't erase it, or erase the pain I caused. But it's important to say them anyway. You have to know that I never wanted to hurt you. I honestly believed that I never would, that I could control this thing that I am, this part of me that thrives on destruction and pain. I thought that I was able to not be that anymore. At least, not with you. Guess I was wrong.
   I'm not making excuses. I hurt you terribly, and that is something I will never forgive myself for. But I get it know. Thought you should know that. I understand that you could never love such a monster, that you couldn't be with me like that. I kept trying to pull you down into my darkness, and you needed someone to push you into the light. I hope you've found your way into the light, Love.
   I'm sure I don't have to explain why I left. Figured you could do with one less evil thing to worry about for a while. But I'll be back. Don't know when, as I've still got some business to take care of, and lots of nerve to work up. But soon. I guess it's up to you whether to consider that a warning or a promise. I never thought I'd get homesick for Sunnydale, but I am. I miss my crypt, my regular butcher, the Bronze, your back porch. Dawn. And you.
   God, I miss you.
   But that's not the point. The point is, like I said, I'm sorry. I hope you'll be willing to talk to me when I get home. I know there's no reason you should, but I have so much to tell you. Where I went, what I did when I got there ... these are things I need to tell you in person. If you'll let me.
   Things will never be the same between us. I know that. It's far too late to ever go back to what we were. But maybe ... maybe we can forge ahead, figure out how to be something new. Or maybe not. I suppose that's really up to you. But whatever you decide, things will be different when I get back. I can promise you that.
   Give my love to Niblet, and if it's not too much trouble, let her know what I said? About missing her, I mean. Take care of yourself, Buffy. I'll be seeing you.

Yours,
Spike

~~~

Now I'm taking myself offline and staying there. Gonna dig out my laptop and take it somewhere away from my cat and the lure of the Internet and other people's fic where the coffee's in easier reach, and I'm going to finish Getaway today if it, um, keeps me up all night. Or something.