Angel pulled onto the curb of 1700 Beechtree Street. Buffy hadn't said a word on the way over, other than to direct him. The house was a large Victorian and had been converted into two apartments. She lived in on the lower level. He followed her up the drive and waited as she fumbled with her keys. She quietly opened the door and ushered him into the dark entryway.
"Home sweet home," she told him, flipping on a light.
Her little apartment was a little larger than she had let on, yet sparsely decorated.
"I'll give you the nickel tour," she offered. "Living room." She walked him through the large living area. She had a denim sectional, a large coffee table and a wall unit housing what looked like a pretty nice stereo system. No television.
"No TV?' he asked, thinking it odd since she had always been the first to reach for the remote when she was a teen.
"No... I uh... I read a lot," she sheepishly told him. He was surprised.
She walked over to the dining area.
"I found this dining set at an antique store. It looks just like the one from my house... from Revello Drive. I had to have it," she told him.
He had the feeling she never used it.
"Kitchen," she said as she walked him through a large eat-in kitchen. She took him down a hall and pointed out the bedrooms and bathroom. "Lots of closet space," she offered, trying to sound somewhat cheery.
She took him back to the kitchen. She reached for a doorknob to what he assumed was another closet, maybe even a pantry and he noticed as a breath hitched in her chest.
"Watch your step. And make sure you duck." she instructed.
It was a basement. Maybe this is where the washer and dryer are, he thought. But why would she want to show him that?
She pulled the chain and turned on a single, bare light bulb. He gasped as he looked around dim room. His eyes swept from the cot up against the wall to the bookshelf housing various books. A heavy bag hung in the middle of the room with a crude drawing taped to it. He moved to take a closer look and heard a small giggle escape from her.
"What is this?" he asked, recognizing the fangs and the hair as his own.
"Spike drew that after he saw you kiss me... when you brought me the Gem of Amarra," she admitted with a smile.
Angel went over to the bookshelf. He recognized the books. Descartes, Byron, Shakespeare, Machiavelli, Tennyson, Wordsworth. They belonged to Spike.
"You surely don't mean that you read... these?" he asked.
She was grinning. She looked proud of herself in a way he'd never seen before. She sat on the cot and closed her eyes.
"I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space, rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth swung blind and blackening in the moonless air," she recited softly. "That's Byron, you know.
He knew. He stood and watched her in wonder. Who was she? This wasn't the Buffy he'd loved so many years ago. That Buffy thought that all poetry began with Roses are Red. That Buffy thought that a "classic" was a John Hughes movie starring Molly Ringwald. Now, there she sat, reciting poetry from Spike's collection of classics. And she actually understood the meaning behind the verse she was reciting.
"Buffy," he began only to be cut off by her again.
"Do you know how much he loved me?" she suddenly asked.
Angel didn't want to think about it. She went to the bookshelf and pulled out a plain, black leather-bound book. She flipped through the pages already knowing which one she would read.
"When she smiles, I feel the warmth of the sun on my face. I feel as if God really could love me, forgive me for the gravity of sins I've committed. When she smiles, I feel a soul I shouldn't have. I would gladly drown in her tears. I'd burn in her effulgent smile. I'd die by her hand and have nothing but thanks for living long enough to know her."
Buffy slammed the book shut and returned it to its place on the shelf. Angel didn't recognize the verse she'd quoted.
"And who wrote that?" he asked her.
"William Grieves. The night before he died for me."