William wrote poetry. Dozens of poems, hundreds of verses written out in his spidery handwriting. She didn't know much about poetry, didn't need to, to see that these would be considered horrible. There was no rhythm, and the words were too big.
They were beautiful.
As though William had cut open his heart and poured himself onto the paper, revealing his very essence. Revealing the core of Spike. It was beautiful.
She flipped through the pages, stroking the tips of her fingers down the shapes of his letters, trying to burn them onto her skin, trying to soak William in. She felt him spread through her entire being, and he was beautiful.
Everything about what Spike became was beautiful.
His every flaw that had bothered her so much, had driven her to near insanity. The way he had no tact whatsoever. His demon. His state of dead-ness. All made up what was Spike. He wasn't perfect, not by a long shot. But he was him. The demon, William, the punk rocker who had smashed her sister's head against poles. All stored away inside the surprisingly small body of Spike.
She tucked the book into her bag and started downstairs. The nice lady was standing by the empty fireplace, stroking a ginger colored cat.
"Did you find everything you needed, dear?"
She found out how to love. It was enough. Buffy nodded.
The nice lady seemed pleased, the corner of her mouth turning up in a gentle smile that seemed oh so familiar.
"I'm very happy for you. Would you like to come back to the library with me for a chat?"
And Buffy did. Wanted to walk along the drying grass of London, step through the fog and splash in the puddles of a world that was beautiful, in spite of it's imperfections.
"That would be great."