Pop Quiz:

You have just covered the man of your dreams in your vomit. What is the appropriate 'I'm sorry' gift?

A) Dry clean his shirt. And polish his shoes. And then, pretend like it never happened, hoping to regain some modicum of s profession environment until the end of the semester.

B) Tender your resignation, along with a dozen red roses. Also, include a card that reads: "I'll always love you." Then, move. Preferably, to somewhere in Europe. Eastern Europe. Bratislava, anyone?

C) Dry clean his shirt, and polish his shoes. Say you're sorry. AND ASK HIM OUT FOR COFFEE.

Buffy's shower did little to soothe away her fears. Her nerves were still standing on end; every time the towel caressed her skin, she jumped and then admonished herself for her idiocy. She knew she had to face him the following day, and the thought of it filled her stomach with an icy block of dread.

'He thinks you're a total spaz,' her conscience mocked, 'now he'll never jump you! He'll be too afraid you'll pull another Linda Blair on him.' The voice paused. 'Unless, of course, he's into that sort of thing.'

Buffy scowled. Maybe the Professor wasn't the only schizophrenic one. Lately, that little voice in the back of her mind, that one that told her not to eat a WHOLE chocolate cake and that rent money was more important than any 'shoe emergency,' had gotten louder, and much more irritating. She found herself questioning its motives when it interjected, 'You know, maybe you should just call him and apologize. Over a cup of coffee.'

"Well, this is a change," Buffy said aloud, not caring if her roommates heard and thought she was crazy; if anything, they would be correct in their assumptions. "Normally, you try to shove me away from fun things. And humiliating things. Now you're encouraging a little bit of both?" She narrowed her brows, and eyed herself suspiciously in the mirror. "What are you up to?"

The voice chuckled and said, 'Only what your heart desires, m'dear. Believe it or not, this is all you.'

-------------------------------------------------------

Upon completion of his shower, Spike found himself amazingly awake and rejuvenated. He contemplated calling Buffy, to see if she was alright. After all, they had class tomorrow—if she was sick, he's have to go to her place tonight and pick up her half of the graded term papers! He went to reach for his jacket, ready to descend upon Buffy like a Guardian Angel, when he realized that 1) He had no idea where Buffy lived, 2) the poor girl was probably too embarrassed to see him right now and 3) he wasn't wearing any clothing.

He wondered when he had become such a blundering fool. He was 32 years old, for God's sake! Much too mature and wise to act like a lovesick puppy of 20. And a lovesick puppy of 20 was exactly what Buffy deserved; a man her own age, a classmate, a peer. Not a dirty old man lusting after her.

He sat on his bed and shook his head in disgust.

"When did I become so pathetic?" he asked his reflection in the mirror. "When did I turn into…my father?"

Spike's father had always been a playboy, for he was a man on a mission: to find the fountain of youth. And it seemed to Spike that his father thought the fountain of youth was found betwixt a lady's thighs—the younger the better. He remembered sitting up at night and listening to his mother sob in the next room, the loneliness eventually driving her to take her own life when he was 16. He never forgave his father for that, and had strived his whole life to be his exactly opposite: staid where his father flaunted propriety, intellectual instead of lecherous, respectful and aloof instead of cocky and conceited. The only bit of true rebelling, in the strictest sense of the word, that he ever did was right after his mother's death.

Spike, insane with grief and desperate for affection, he turned to brothels, hoping that the ladies of the night could fill the hole left in his heart. At 16, young William became a legend amongst the working girls of London, so much so that they began calling him "the Spike," for the way his thin hips pounded into you, it felt like he was attempting to drill to China—only in the most pleasurable way imaginable.

Eventually, "the Spike" became entangled with an exotic beauty, dark hair and eyes but skin so pale it was almost translucent. She was older than he was, not just in years, but in experience as well, and life had left her mind twisted and fragile in its wake. "The Spike" became "Spike, Drusilla's Dark Prince" and he would have remained so until his dying day—until Dru left him. One day, Spike came home and found all of her things gone, with only a note remaining. It read:

My dear, sweet boy.
I enjoyed you for a
while, but my Angel
has returned to me.
Go and frolic in the
light now. This world
was never yours.

Dru

He cried for three days. Then he packed up his belongings, found his father, and demanded to be sent to university. His father, eager to get him out of the way (an almost grown, extremely handsome son around tends to cramp the style, you see), shelled out the money necessary, and Spike threw himself into his education like a drowning man clings to the last bit of boat he could find that wasn't covered in human remains or partially eaten by a shark.

Learning became his saving grace; knowledge lit the path through the dark and tangled web of his depression. Like a sponge, he absorbed all he came into contact with, and when done, he found that he could ring the information from his brains as easily as saying his name. Thus, he became a professor.

And thus, our story can continue…