WITH THE KEY OF SOFTNESS
Author: 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann
Cast: Buffy/Spike
Spoilers: This scene is set a few weeks after the Season Five episode "Fool For Love". And those of you doing the math will note that I wrote this prior to Cuore Della Notte. But THIS is not a finished fic…merely a scene…and NOPE…not going to finish it…take it as a muse rambling. I have many scenes of this sort on my hard drive going back to Season three.Rating: Not even PG-13
Summary: This is my version of the first B/S kiss and happens about three weeks after the porch talk in FFL. Spike having traded his Slayer Killer training expertise for shower and laundry priviledges at the Summers' House and $35.00 a week begins to make a pest of himself.
Disclaimer: Yep, I get it…I'm a bad, bad, girl! All of these characters belong to Joss and Co. If it is any consolation I also stole from Walt Whitman and Edwin McCain.
"copulation is no more rank to me than death is…."
Curled on the Summer's living room sofa, surrounded by books, file cards, floppy disks and notepapers, Buffy read the line aloud again with a puzzled tone, separating the individual words, "copulation is no more rank to me than death…?"
She turned the book over and looked at the cover. She read the title, "The Erotic Imagery of Walt Whitman." She shrugged and spoke to the empty room.
"Boy, those Civil War babes really didn't bathe much," she said. "Either that or old Walt wasn't the death magnet that I am."
She wrote the line on a 3x5 card with a flourish and tossed it onto a growing stack on the coffee table. A theme book was open, half buried in the cards. On page one she painstakenly printed, "Death as Lover in the Poetry of Whitman" by Buffy Summers. The page was depressingly blank under the title. A curled strip of paper with the assignment typed on it was paper-clipped to the top of the theme book. Buffy had scrawled "I hate all poets" in a flamboyant script over the neatly typed letters.
After a few more flipped note cards, the mantel clock chimed 9:30 pm. Buffy glared at it for a few moments before deciding it was a sign that she should put on some tunes.
"To help me think poet friendly thoughts," she chirped, with forced optimism.
She sat her book on the table, rose and stretched. The movement felt so good, she lost herself for a few minutes in the working of her muscles. Eyes closed she ran through a brief Tai Chi series. The exercise ended with a roll of her head that looped down into her shoulders, hips, knees and ankles. She exhaled opening her eyes. Spike stood watching her from the hallway.
He was carrying a small brown bag under his arm. A huge white towel was tossed over his shoulder. He wasn't wearing his coat, just a tee shirt and jeans and his feet were bare. The last struck Buffy as noteworthy for some reason. She caught herself staring and forced her gaze up. She flatly refused to be embarrassed by a barefooted vampire in her own home.
"Spike," she said, casually, as if she had been expecting to see him standing there.
"Slayer," he replied, just as unflappably.
"Studying," she informed, indicating the evidence on the coffee table.
"Shower," he remarked, pointing up the stairs.
Faking boredom, Buffy nodded, briefly, at the news before turning away from him to flip on the CD player. Spike shot a hostile glare at her icy profile but after a moment he shrugged and bound up the stairs. Buffy, blessed with great peripheral vision, grinned wickedly as she dropped the latest "Counting Crows" cd into the changer next to a greatest hits compilation. She rummaged through several jewel cases before remembering she'd left "Misguided Roses" in the kitchen's portable player.
As she entered the kitchen, Buffy heard a depressingly familiar noise. She strode to the basement door and jerked it open. The blare of an unbalanced washer assaulted her. She slammed the door shut on the irritating buzzing and bellowed toward the stairs.
"SPIKE!"
No answer. She tried again louder. Thankfully, her Mother and Dawn were enjoying a girl's night out. Movie and Ice Cream. It was the main reason Buffy had picked Wednesday as one of Spike's washdays. All the Summer's women went out on Wednesday…except for the ones who had papers due in two days.
Buffy took the stairs two at a time but when she reached the up-stairs landing she hesitated. The sound of a shower came to her clearly. Her mind went back to Spike's bare feet and the guest bathroom seemed to recede down the hallway like a cheesy horror movie effect. Bursting through the bathroom door in righteous indignation seemed far less of a good idea now that she'd reached the second floor. Buffy was suddenly afraid that if she saw Spike naked she would be imprinted for life like one of those newly hatched ducks her Behavioral Psych. Professor was always going on about.
She slouched back downstairs and plopped onto the sofa. She picked up "Leaves of Grass" and tried to concentrate. The words scampered about on the page making no sense at all. She could still hear the washer alarm, subliminally. After a moment, she got up and turned on the cd player. After another few minutes, she remembered the cd in the kitchen. She sat the book down in her place on the couch and went to retrieve the cd again. The basement door seemed to be mocking her. She went back in to the living room, loaded the cd and stood looking at her homework, tapping her nails on the top of a speaker.
With a slew of dark mutterings, Buffy stomped down the basement stairs. She yanked up the washer lid to cut off the grating buzz. A glance at the gauge showed it was at the start of the rinse cycle. She began to untangle the mass of waterlogged jeans, shirts and tees. Spike's clothes were bunched up around something heavy and white. Grimacing in disgust, Buffy dug down until she reached the center of the knot. She pulled out a sopping stuffed unicorn.
"Harmony," the Slayer growled. Glass eyes winked at her, whimsically, as she strode to the garbage pail and slam-dunked the offensive creature.
Having restarted the washer, Buffy considered leaving Spike's clothing to its inevitable fate. After three weeks, she had learned there was no apparent end to the blond vampire's inventive ways of raining havoc in a laundry room. Mountains of soapsuds, appliance fires and flooding were just the beginning for the Prince of Non-Colorfast Darkness. Her "Victoria's Secret", Buttercup-colored sleep set was now prison-wear gray. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered if it was all a ploy to make her stay close to home. A quick peek in the dryer convinced her to surrender the battle. Her Mother had forgotten to unload the family whites again.
It was a good twenty minutes before Buffy finished folding the Summer's clothes. Spike's wash cycle ended and she began transferring his things to the dryer. A light scent of sandalwood, dark amber and sage wafted around her. Spike's modified Victorian concoction of glycerin soap, baking soda and essential oils. He used it as shampoo and bath gel and now laundry detergent. Having been defeated by "Tide", Spike was now baking soda boy all the way. He even used baking soda as toothpaste, mixing it with orange oil and stevia leaves. What she didn't know about vampire ablution just wasn't worth knowing, Buffy thought.
She set the dryer on medium and gathered up her basket of whites. Then with an air of the hero's return she went back up to the kitchen. As she sat her basket down in the hallway next to Spike's boots, she could hear the final song of the "Counting Crows" cd starting. She looked up the stairs as she passed and said something derogatory about some people wasting other people's hot water.
Entering the living room, she saw the towel first. It was draped on the back of a chair along with his shirt. The brown paper bag was curled up next to one of his bare feet. He was sprawled in her place on the couch. Her gaze traveled from Spike's pale feet, along his black clad, slightly spread, legs, over his naked torso and stopped on the tousled curls of white hair that fell across his brow. He hadn't gelled his hair. That struck her more forcefully than the bare expanse of rock hard abdominals he was displaying.
Buffy cleared her throat pointedly and Spike peered at her over the top of "Leaves of Grass."
"What the hell are you doing?" she asked.
"Fairly obvious ain't it?" he replied, waving the book at her.
"I meant, up here, slouched on my sofa, instead of in the basement cleaning up your own disasters," she clarified. Nodding at the scattered file cards, she added, "As you can see, I have more than my share of headaches without figuring in your Excedrin moments."
"Yeah…well….this IS pretty pathetic," he acknowledged, looking at the unorganized mess she'd created. "Tell you what? I'll give you a hand with it."
"'Cause you're so down with the poetry," Buffy said, sarcastically. "You can't even unravel the deeper symbolism of detergent instructions."
"Just so happens, Pet," Spike smirked, "I wrote, what you would call, my graduate thesis on Whitman, back in the day."
Buffy frowned at him then tilted her head sideways to read the notes she'd made on Walt Whitman's life. The dates matched up with what she knew of Spike's becoming. It could have happened. But she doubted it.
"So…what?" she said, skeptically. "You were the big scholar guy in your former life? And I supposed you aced the paper and were graduated with honors. All hail William…Insert last name here."
"Not exactly," Spike snorted, amused by her obvious disbelief. "It was more of a slink off and avoid the scandal kind of thing."
"Just the kind of help I was looking for," Buffy sniped. "You sure are handy to have around. Not satisfied with ruining most of my evenings now you want to extend your sphere of influence to undermine my future."
"Your future, Slayer," Spike growled, his eyes steady on her own, "can not be made or unmade by your college G.P.A.."
Depressingly true, Buffy thought. She crossed to the sofa and sank down next to the half-naked vampire. Leaning forward, she unclipped the topic strip from her theme book and passed it over to him.
"It seemed like the perfect assignment for me," she said. "An easy A! I bet I'm the only girl in the whole class that's actually had a dead guy as a Lover."
"Well, you're probably the only one still breathing, anyway," he acknowledged, with a grin. Then he leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes and quoted:
"Death is beautiful from you (and what indeed is finally beautiful except death and love?)
O I think it is not for life that I am chanting here my chant of lovers, I think it must be for death. For how calm, how solemn it grows to ascend to the atmosphere of lovers,
Death or life, I am then indifferent, my soul declines to prefer,
(I am not sure but that the high souls of lovers welcome death the most)."
Spike opened his eyes and waggled his brows at her. Buffy snapped her mouth closed.
"Okay, so you can quote from Whitman," Buffy shrugged, trying to seem unimpressed. She hesitated, frowning at him, "It was Whitman, right?"
"Yeah," Spike nodded, a small smile touched his lips as he studied the fall of her golden hair, "from Calamus….'In Paths Untrodden'"
"Consider me suitably impressed," Buffy, grudgingly admitted. She clicked her pen, folded over her notebook and looked at him, expectantly, "In fact, I am rapt attention girl, lay that poetic insight on me."
"First of all," Spike said, quickly, before she had time to reconsider, "your topic is too broad. You need to narrow your focus to one poem or stanza even. Or maybe contrast and compare two different works. Then you have to consider the context of the time…we are talking about Victorian mores here…literally. What you would find quaint or abstract they would find shockingly bold."
Buffy took notes as Spike annotated the text. He illuminated passages for her with historical references. The time slipped by and her "Misguided Roses" cd began playing quietly in the background. As Buffy pushed the file cards around on the table, her hand fell on the "copulation" one and Spike seized upon it.
"Perfect," he declared. "Compare this to the awaking Adam."
"I remember it had something to do with bowels," Buffy grimaced, not seeing the connection.
"Not before the line but after…." Spike said, gesturing impatiently. He puckered his brow in serious thought, for once, unmoved by the proximity of the Slayer. "Now, how does it go again? '…fingers…flesh and…miracles…miracles, yes." He bit down on his black thumbnail as he concentrated, finally quoting hesitantly, "'I do not press my fingers across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, copulation is no more rank to me than death is. I believe in the flesh and the appetites, seeing, feeling, hearing are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch'd from.'"
"The reference to touch again," Buffy chirped, understanding lighting up her face. "It's a kind of Victorian profanity…the workings of the flesh as miraculous…the body as Holy."
She glanced down at her notes before quoting from "Children of Adam."
"'Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass."
Spike smiled at her and they concluded the passage, speaking the final line together.
"'Be not afraid of my body.'"
Buffy laughed and lay her palm flat against Spike's bare shoulder. His gaze lifted to meet hers. His eyes were filled with poetry.
"William," she thought, her hand moving up, of its own accord, to push the soft curls back from his brow.
Spike leaned in, flowing with the Slayer's movement and their lips brushed together with a kind of natural grace. It was the kiss of a Victorian gentleman subtle and soft. Buffy didn't even think about pulling away from it. Nor from the second kiss which lingered but did not assume. Spike tilted his head and the Slayer's hand tugged at his hair as her palm slid down to rest against his cheek. His hands remained in his lap, fingers laced chastely together. Buffy took a breath, parting her lips to the barest flicker of his tongue. He tasted of oranges.
Buffy wondered abstractly about the taste of Spike in her mouth and about the lyrics of Edwin McCain's "I'll Be" which was playing as they kissed. She turned the ironic words over in her mind.
"My love is alive and not dead. Tell me that we belong together. Dress it up with the trappings of love. I'll be captivated, I'll hang from your lips instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above."
"'I'll be love's suicide'," she thought, knowing in her heart it was true. She took another breath and sank into her poet.
Her fingers, greedy for him, explored his throat and face and bared chest. His hands, finally seeking her out, were buried in her hair. He held her, tight and close, as she gave into her insatiable appetite for forbidden fruit. At the tangent point between tender and searing kisses, the kitchen door burst open to a trilling of voices. Mother and Sister entered the house, talking excitedly, shattering the delicate moment. Spike growled in his throat as Buffy leaped away from him. He bristled with hostility, like a dog denied his favorite toy. There was nothing gentle in the look that he shot toward the voices. For a split second, all that stood between the Slayer's family and the cold grave was a slender slice of silicon.
Snatching up his supplies, Spike stalked from the room. Dawn nearly bounced into him as he headed toward the basement. He didn't respond to her chipper greeting. Buffy heard the basement door slam shut behind him. The hair raised up on the Slayer's arms as she mentally berated herself. What had she been thinking? Cuddling with a monster. She touched a finger to her lips and found sweetness, not savagery, lingering there.
Her distracted eye fell on the concluding statement of her rough draft.
"So, Death comes finally for Whitman and 'with the key of softness' unlocks love."
In her mind, Buffy could hear Spike's voice, rich with suppressed emotion, intoning.
"With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisper set ope the doors O Soul!
Tenderly! Be not impatient! (Strong is your hold, O Mortal Flesh! Strong is your hold, O Love!)"
END