Spike: Ahhhh, my head. I think I’m sobering up. It’s horrible. Ah… God… I wish I was dead.
Spike: What’s this? Sittin’ around watching the telly while there’s evil still afoot? It’s not very industrious of you. I say we go out there and kick a little demon ass! What, can’t go without your Buffy, is that it? Let’s find her! She is the chosen one, after all. Come on! Vampires! Grrr! Nasty! Let’s annihilate them, for justice, and for… the safety of puppies… and Christmas, right? Let’s fight that evil! Let’s kill something! Oh, come on!
Spike: Death is your art. You make it with your hands day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace. And part of you is desperate to know: What’s it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that’s the secret. Not the punch you didn’t throw or the kicks you didn’t land. She really wanted it. Every Slayer has a death wish. Even you.
Spike: So when do we destroy the world, already?
Spike: It’s a big rock. I can’t wait to tell my friends. They don’t have a rock this big.
Spike: You’re not friends. You’ll never be friends. You’ll be in love ’til it kills you both. You’ll fight, and you’ll shag, and you’ll hate each other ’til it makes you quiver, but you’ll never be friends. Real love isn’t brains, children. It’s blood. It’s blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love’s bitch, but at least I’m man enough to admit it.
Spike: I did a couple of slayers in my time. I don’t like to brag. Who am I kidding? I love to brag. One time, during the Boxer Rebellion…
Spike: If every vampire who said he was at the Crucifixion was actually there it would’ve been like Woodstock. I was at Woodstock. I fed off a flower person and I spent six hours watching my hand move.
(In response to being asked to fight a troll)
Spike: I would, but I’m paralyzed with not caring very much.