Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: This was written as a challenge response on another site. Thank you to Versheenah for the inspiration! It takes place in Season 4 when Spike returns with the Gem of Amara (Harsh Light of Day).
London, England - 1938
"The next item up for auction is a personal journal from the Pratt family estate circa 1880. The leather binding appears to be in good condition, and the pages, though yellowed, are still intact. You'll notice the 'P' embossed on the cover, clearly the original owner spared no expense. Without a first initial, it is impossible to determine to which Pratt family member the journal belonged." His assistant held the diary up in the air for everyone to see. "I'm told the contents is mostly prose, though there is no evidence that any of it was ever published. We'll start the bidding off at £1000.00. Who will give me one thousand?"
Multiple paddles were raised. "£1000.00 from the gentleman in the navy jacket, do I hear eleven hundred?" The auctioneer pointed to his left, "I have £1100.00, do I hear twelve? Yes, £1200.00 down in front."
"£1500.00!" was yelled from the back of the room, as another numbered blade was raised into the air. Murmurs broke out amongst the crowd.
"Very well, fifteen hundred pounds is now the current bid, will anyone give £1600.00?" The gentleman in Navy raised his paddle to up the ante. "Seventeen hundred? Another bid from the front. The bid is now at £1700.00, can I get eighteen?"
"Two thousand pounds!" once again from the back. One of the bidders that was about to raise lowered their arm back down, the price now a bit too rich. The auctioneer continued, "£2000.00 it is, from the enthusiastic bidder in the rear of the gallery. Do I hear twenty-one?"
There was no response. "Two thousand pounds going once…going twice…" the gavel hit the podium with a crack, "Sold, to number 104 for £2000.00."
The successful bidder was a collector of Victorian antiquities and was not as interested in what the journal contained, so much as he was in the journal itself. Although the man was a professor of History, he sought objects from the Victorian Age as a hobby. Once the event concluded, he paid the sales price to the clerk and collected his new found treasure.
Later that evening he found himself sitting in his study, his hands encased in silky white gloves. He grabbed the journal from his desk with the utmost care. He handled the delicate book as if it were made of glass. Opening the front cover, he noticed that a page or two had been torn out. Perhaps the first page contained a name or an inscription of some kind. What a shame that any clue to the journal's ownership was lost.
He flipped a few pages at a time and couldn't help but admire the elegant penmanship. Though there were several instances where words or stanzas had been crossed out, the overall appearance was quite beautiful. At closer inspection, it appeared that the writer may have been left-handed, based on the peculiar slant to the script. That was unusual. Left-handedness was often viewed as undesirable in those times.
After several pages more, he stopped on a page that contained yet another short poem. It wasn't the verse that caught his eye, but rather the stains that adorned the page…the remnants of some liquid that had dripped on its surface. Were they tears? Curiosity prompted him to take the time to actually read the poem rather than skipping over it to further examine his purchase. The words were simple, the length quite short, but the emotions it conveyed were profound.
Once he started, he found he could not stop reading the words that had so obviously poured out of the writer's heart. The author (he assumed was a man) had been the victim of unrequited love. His words were filled with the agony and hopelessness of it. It seemed ironic that a man that was clearly inexperienced in matters of the heart would choose to write love sonnets. As more and more were read, however, it became clear that the writer's naivete infused the poems with an underlying sweetness. They held a reverence towards love, something the works of a more jaded poet might lack.
Before he knew it two hours had passed, and it was well past his normal bedtime. He carefully closed the cover and secured the journal in a covered box for its protection. He could easily take it to the Oxford Library, and have its contents scanned to microfilm. That way, he could retain the original volume, and provide its contents to his literary counterparts for evaluation. He thought of all the people to whom he would show the collection of poems, as he drifted off to sleep.
That's how the poetry of William Pratt made its way into the world.
Sunnydale Campus, 2003
Buffy was so captivated by the book in front of her, she noticed neither Willow's approach, nor the hidden presence of the peroxide-blond Master vampire.
"Hey, Buffy. What'cha doing?" Willow had never seen her friend so engrossed in reading…well, anything really. Buffy and reading were usually non-mixy things.
"Huh? Oh, hi Wills. Sorry. I was just re-reading a poem for my modern lit assignment," she responded.
As she had some time to kill before her date that night with Oz, Willow asked, "Do you need any help?" Poetry can kind be kinda tricky."
"We're supposed to choose a poem from our reading list and write a two-page essay on what it means to us." Her eyes fell back down to the page in front of her, as a small crease formed between her eyebrows.
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad. Have you chosen one yet? Oh, are there any from Yeats, Elliot, or Cummings? They're some of my absolute favorites."
"Yeah, I think there's some of those initial ones on the list, but I really like this one from an unknown poet we've been studying. There's something about it…it just makes sense to me. And it rhymes, which is of the good. I don't get poems that don't rhyme," Buffy shrugged her shoulders as she finished.
Spike, who had remained under the cover of a nearby bush, listened to the exchange with disgust. 'Initial ones'? That's what she calls the works of T.S Elliot and E.E Cummings? No wonder I hate this bint. No appreciation of the written word, he thought to himself as he patted down his duster for a cigarette. He'd followed the Slayer all afternoon, until she'd taken her place at the picnic table she still occupied. The sun shone off her glorious blond tresses and had kept the vampire mesmerized until her little friend showed up.
He rationalized the attention he paid to his enemy as nothing more than the thorough study of an opponent…an attempt to get the upper hand that would help rid his life of the Slayer forever. The Gem of Amara changed the game…with it he could bag his third slayer and prove his loyalty to his Sire. Was it his fault that the Slayer was especially beautiful in the sunshine? He'd never seen the golden tanned hue of her skin in the dark, or the way the sun made her eyes sparkle like emeralds. Stop it, you stupid git, he chastised himself. Remember your dark princess. He didn't buy all her crazy nonsense about him being surrounded by the girl. He'd kill the Chosen one just to prove to Dru that they still belonged together.
Snuffing his cigarette out, he chuckled to himself as he thought about her preference for poems that rhymed. You know, I bet her idea of a poetic masterpiece is bloody Dr. Seuss. Aghhh. Both the vampire and the poet buried inside were angered by her blatant disrespect of the art form. I really need to kill her, and put an end to my misery, he thought bitterly. Just get it over with, once and for all. Spike calculated the odds of taking out the witch and advancing on the Slayer before either had a chance to defend themselves. He had the element of surprise on his side. They would never expect an attack in broad daylight. The Gem insured he would not become inflamed by the sun. As he worked out his battle strategy, he heard the witch ask Buffy to read her the poem she had selected.
Spike paused, unable to resist the urge to eavesdrop. This ought to be rich, he thought smugly.
Buffy seemed somewhat reluctant to read the words aloud. She peered back at Willow and told her friend that the poem was very personal.
Confused, Willow asked, "What do you mean, personal?" She didn't understand how a poem written by someone else would be personal to Buffy.
"It's a love poem, well mostly, but it's a little sad too. I don't want to be a Debbie downer, what with you and Oz and all the happies."
"Oh." Willow seemed to think it over for a moment, and then said, "It should be fine. I like love poems even if they're sad."
Who knew the Slayer had a romantic side? This 've got to hear. It pro'ally makes her go all smarmy over my grand-sire…the poncey bugger! I swear, if she mentions tall, dark and brooding ONE time, I'll rip her pathetic heart righ' outta her chest!
"Willow, are you sure? Cause I can totally do the assignment on my own."
"I know you can, Buf, I'm just all about the helping. Yep, that's me, helpy girl. Besides, it'll give us a chance to spend some quality girl time together," she replied hopefully.
Good, keep the witch occupied…that'll make my job easier. And then, you're next, Slayer!
Buffy looked back down at the page and told her friend the title. "It's called, 'Where are you my Love'. The book says that this professor guy went to an auction in London and bought some old journal from the Victorious period that was filled with a bunch of poems, including this one. There was no name on it, just a letter 'P' on the cover, so no one knows if it was a man or a woman who wrote them."
"Do you mean, the Victorian Era?"
"Yeah, that. Anyway, the poems got published and no one has ever claimed to have written them. They became super popular and now they're considered classics."
Wait, what?! It CAN'T be! If Spike weren't already dead, he was fairly certain his heart would have just stopped. Before his brain had fully processed that information, he heard the first line of the poem and froze.
Buffy recited the poem with a softness she rarely displayed. It made her sound delicate...and defenseless? Had Spike not been taken so completely off guard by her words, he may have enacted his plan of death and destruction. Instead, he sat completely dumb-founded as the verses left his enemies' mouth.
"Where are you my Love" by Poet Unknown
Take me sweet darkness, as I lay down and rest
Give me reprieve from this pain in my breast
Reminders that life without love is amiss
Of comfort or caring, or even a kiss
Is it me, am I different, is there something I lack
For I can find no one to give their love back
Like a nightingale born in a nest filled with doves
Surrounded by family and friends, but not love
My walls, I have torn down, resisting no more
Leaving me naked and bared to the core
Yet love still eludes me, and casts me aside
The heartache I feel, I can no longer abide
My love, where are you, one half of my soul
Without you, my heart feels so empty and cold
In dreams I can feel you, no desire to weep
A prayer that is answered, as I drift off to sleep
Awake, I keep searching, I hope not in vain
I know you're still out there, feeling my pain
My love, I will find you, the search can be done
For the rest of our days, we two shall be one
The poem finished, and no one said a thing. It was Buffy that broke the silence first, as she wiped the moisture from the corners of her eyes. "It's so beautiful, don't you think Wills?" she asked expectantly. "I read this, and from the very first moment it felt like the poet had somehow pulled the words from deep inside me. I can't really explain it; you know me and words."
Spike hadn't moved a muscle. He had so many revelations to sort through; he didn't know where to begin. That? That was my poem, he thought. Bloody hell! THAT WAS MY POEM! It may have been a hundred plus years, but he remembered writing every word. The ground nearly dropped from under him as he tried to grasp what had happened. My poems were published…people have read them. People have read them and LIKED them!? The bloody Slayer likes them! One random thought after the next ran through his mind. Spike could sense William "puffing up his chest" as it all sunk in.
"Not such a bloody awful poet after all, am I?" Spike spoke the words out loud unintentionally. He covered his mouth when he realized his mistake. Mustn't draw her attention, mate.
Buffy might have heard him had she not still been trying to explain the significance of the poem to Willow. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but the writer gets what it feels like to be surrounded by people, but to still feel alone. As the Slayer, I feel that way all the time…you know, one girl in all the world. I didn't think anyone else could understand that feeling, and then I read this, and I knew someone did."
Willow's eyes widened, "Do you think the poet was a Slayer?"
"No. I didn't mean they know what being the Slayer is like, just that they know how it feels to be alone, but not alone, you know?" Buffy stared past Willow as she continued, "I mean, I've got you guys and Mom, but not anyone to love-love. Some nights when I'm out on patrol, I try to imagine what it would be like to have someone in my life that loves Buffy the girl and Buffy the slayer. I've been looking Wills, for so long, but I can't seem to find them."
"Well, what about Angel? You guys loved each other, right?"
"I thought I did. I thought he was the only one for me. But then I met Angelus. And even after you re-ensouled Angel, I couldn't shake the way he had acted without it. So cruel. So cold. He treated me like dirt and tried to kill me. He slept with Drusilla without a second thought…and all I could think was if he truly loved me, soul or not, he would never have done those things." Buffy's voice cracked as she finished the last part.
Willow put an arm around her friend. She had rarely seen her this way. Buffy was many things, but lonely wasn't a word that came to mind when she thought of the normally strong girl she was hugging.
"Oh Buffy. I had no idea you felt that way. I'm so sorry."
Spike had listened to the exchange, and to say he was surprised was an understatement. His mind spun from the discovery that he was a published poet. In addition, he now wrestled with the words of the Slayer…the implication that they were kindred spirits. How was it possible that SHE, of all people, could know what I felt when I wrote those words? William was jumping in triumph, his work had finally been acknowledged, but Spike still reeled at the thought that his poem had touched the Slayer so deeply.
All he could do was stare. A comical mixture of emotions warred for dominance on the vampire's face. Confusion, sympathy and awe were among them. He couldn't decide what he should feel about her now, but he knew the exact moment when as one (the man, vampire and demon) decided that her death would have to wait.
The admission of her heartache over Captain Forehead served as another painful reminder of Drusilla's behavior towards him. You'd think a hundred plus years of love and devotion would earn a bloke some loyalty, if not fidelity. But no, the minute Daddy came sniffing back around, off went Dru without a backwards glance, he thought angrily. Then she went an' tossed me aside for a Fungus Demon!
"It's ok Wills. I'm fine. I think I'm still upset over the Parker thing. I don't know what I did wrong."
"Aww Buf, it wasn't you. It was stupid Parker, who's just a dumb boy, who was stupid cause he didn't call you…and it's all his loss…cause he's stupid," she finished enthusiastically. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Thanks. I know you're trying to make me feel better, but the whole thing just makes me feel like an idiot."
What's this now? The slayer let some wanker get a poke and then leave 'er high and dry? Well at least she's putting ol' Angel behind her. Spike laughed to himself, glad to see the Slayer had moved on.
Buffy stiffened; her head swiveled in the direction of Spike's bush. "Did you hear that?" she asked Willow.
"No. I didn't hear anything."
Realizing his cover was blown, Spike made a mad dash to the nearest building, not wanting a confrontation with a Slayer right then.
As Buffy reached the hiding spot, the last of Spike's duster disappeared around a corner.
"Huh. Guess I'm just hearing things." Buffy was about to step away when she glanced down and saw a cigarette butt under the shrubbery. A thought began to form but was interrupted when Willow spoke up.
"Hey, it's getting late, you wanna head back to the dorm?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm right behind you." Any thought of the noise or the cigarette forgotten. "I'll work on this later," Buffy added as she picked up her stuff from the picnic table and followed behind her new roommate.
Later that night, Buffy found herself sitting on a grave marker with her poetry book and a notepad in hand. The full moon was out in a cloudless sky, so between that and a nearby streetlight, it was nearly as bright as daytime. She'd worked on her assignment for the past 45 minutes, since her patrol proved to be futile. Not so much as a single fledgling was found.
Unbeknownst to the Slayer, Spike had already dusted three vamps and killed a rather nasty looking Haklar demon, known to feed and mate on alternating full moons. He wasn't taking any chances. He wanted to make sure he had the Slayer all to himself that night.
He sat on top of a nearby mausoleum and tried to think of a way to approach the Slayer that would not end with a stake to his chest. Nervous, though not about impending death as the Gem should keep him safe, but because he couldn't figure out what to say. He wanted so desperately to talk to her about his poetry but hadn't a bloody clue where to start. Inpatient, as usual, he tossed out any ideas he had and threw caution to the wind. He jumped down off the rooftop and silently made his way to her. He stopped about five feet short as he gathered his wits and said simply, "Hello, cutie."
Buffy's head snapped up as her eyes landed immediately on the vampire before her.
"Spike?" she questioned. "You're back?"
"Yeah. Guess you could say 've got me some unfinished business," he replied.
"Oh? Let me guess. You've come back to add that third notch to your belt?" That was way snarkier then she meant it to be.
Spike instinctively put his hands out in front of himself and implored, "Whoa now Slayer. Take it easy. Not here to fight. In fact, was wonderin' if we might have a chat?"
"Okay? Who are you, and what have you done with Spike? In case you've forgotten…YOU vampire, ME slayer. We don't chat. We kill, remember?" she was already annoyed. "Our little truce is over. You and your ho-bag girlfriend promised to never come back here." Remembering Drusilla reminded Buffy of her talk with Willow earlier. Wait, was Drusilla here too? Buffy looked around; afraid she was about to be ambushed.
"If you're looking for Drusilla, don't bother. She's not here. We broke up."
"Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you?" she quipped but found that she did a little.
"No! I was just letting you know that I am here alone is all."
"And again I say, okay?" Buffy was just about to ask what was up with all this, when something she had dismissed earlier, came back. "Wait a minute, that WAS you! In the bushes today, on the quad!" Realizing she'd just accused him of being out in broad daylight, she continued, "But that can't be right. If it was you, you'd be big pile of dust guy."
Spike started to panic; he was being forced to choose. Did he admit he was there and hopefully have the chance to talk to the Slayer, or did he deny everything? Decision made he responded, "Funny that. I WAS on your campus today and may have overheard you and the witch talking."
"You what?!" she barked. "How? It was daylight!"
"Don' get your knickers all in a twist, luv. I was just gettin' to that part." he smirked. He could tell she was upset but couldn't resist poking the angry bear. Still evil, after all.
Making sure the ring was secure, he prepared to let the truth out. He never got the chance. Before he could get out the first word, he grabbed her by the shoulders, shoved her roughly to her knees and twisted the head off an advancing vampire. The dust rained down on them both as the Slayer slowly got back to her feet, from her awkward position at Spike's crotch.
"Why'd you do that?" she demanded. "I mean, thanks and all, but Slayer here…that's supposed to be my job. What gives?" She stared him down with as much intensity as she could muster. Spike couldn't help but find it adorable.
"Hang on, kitten. That's a lot of questions." Raising his hand up between them while counting off on each finger he began, "One. Was me listenin' in today on the quad. Two. Because I have the Gem of Amara. Three. Because you and I were trying to have a conversation. And four. Cause killing is fun." He raised his scarred eyebrow at her awaiting a response.
"Gem of Ama-whatsa?"
"The Gem of Amara. What? Didn't ol' Rupert ever tell you about it?" he teased. He wasn't about to either. Let her find out about the Gem's nifty features some other time.
"And this Gem thingy lets you walk in the sun?" Buffy assumed she already knew the answer to that when she remembered why this discussion started. "Hey, you were spying on me!"
"Yes, it does, and I wouldn't call it spying as much as doing reconnaissance." He retorted. "Do you always ask some many bleedin' questions?"
Buffy quickly thought back to her chat with Willow and tried to determine what he might have overheard. Her cheeks reddened as she recalled her confessions about Angel and Parker. "So, let me guess, this is the part where you make fun of me, right? Go ahead, do your worst." She braced herself for some sarcastic quip, but it never came. Confused she looked back up at Spike.
"No Slayer, wasn' gonna make fun of you. Point of fact, I've been kicked around by love myself a time or two. Not the type to kick someone else when they're down."
"Thanks for that. Needless to say, me and love aren't exactly besties at the moment."
"Yeah, know the feeling pet," he admitted. "Tho' I agree with the witch. That Parker fella sounded like a real wanker."
Buffy snickered at that, then asked, "Did you hear what I read to Willow?"
Cautious not to let his emotions cross his face, Spike answered, "Yeah." He wanted so badly to confess he wrote it…and it looked like the Slayer was about to give him the chance.
"I'm writing on essay on it for my class. But you already knew that. I'm curious, what did you think of it?" She looked at him with those big green eyes of hers. "You were alive at the time that it was written, what's your take?"
"As I'd started to say before we were interrupted, funny thing about that. The poem. I mean."
"You thought it was funny?" she questioned, clearly confused.
"No, luv. I mean, I know that poem. Every line, every stanza."
"It is a classic. Is it a favorite of yours or something?" Buffy wasn't sure if she was more surprised by the fact that they were having an actual conversation OR by the fact that Spike read poetry.
"Although it IS one of my favorites, I guess you'd say that this falls into the 'or something' category."
Buffy, thinking she knew where this was headed, rolled her eyes at the vampire and said miserably, "Oh my God, Spike. Tell me you did not eat the poet. You didn't, did you? Is that why no one ever claimed they wrote it?"
Equal parts anger and amusement flashed across the vampire's face before he responded, "No. I did not eat the poet. But I suppose you could say that I did kill him."
"What?!" Buffy was instantly upset.
Only now seeing the misunderstanding he'd just caused; Spike rose to his own defense. "It's not what you think, Slayer. Calm down."
"Calm down? Spike, you just admitted to killing someone."
"Actually, I didn't. It was Drusilla."
He was cut off as Buffy raised her voice even higher, "Drusilla?! Is that supposed to make it better? She killed a very talented writer. Someone that felt things deeply and who shared those feelings with the world." She added much quieter, "With me," Spike still heard it, amazed that she felt so connected to the man she didn't know was him.
This was not going well. "Slayer, you're not listening to me. Bloody hell woman, do I need to spell it out for you?" He had lost all his patience at this point. "I wrote it, Buffy! The bloody poem. Not just the one, the whole bloody lot of them. I'm the 'Unknown Poet'." It felt great saying that out loud.
Her eyes grew big as her mouth fell open, unsure how to respond.
"Aren't you gonna say anything? He was expecting some kind of response at least. "Hello, Slayer. Did you hear me? I said I wrote the poem."
Buffy blinked a few times, as she tried to come back to her senses. She managed to utter one word, "Splainy?"
"I wish I could pretend that I don't know what that even means, but I do. You want an explanation." It was a statement, not a question. Buffy nodded in agreement.
"The journal they found, it was mine, from when I was human of course. The 'P' on the cover stood for Pratt, my surname. I was born William Pratt, son of Henry and Anne. My mother gave me the journal for my 21st birthday." Seeing that Buffy seemed quite interested in what he was saying, he went on, "I'd written dozens of poems in it over the years. Even tried to get a few published but they were always rejected. People in my social circle started calling me, William the bloody awful poet. I didn't know they'd been published until I overheard you earlier today."
She wanted to discredit the vampire, but really, why would he lie? A tiny voice in her head said because he's evil, but she paid it no mind. She remained quiet a moment longer and then surprised them both when she blurted out, "William, huh?"
Spike couldn't hide his shock at the question. He was ready for the Slayer to challenge him, or possibly strike out at him…but not this. "Yeah. But don't go spreading that around; 've got a reputation to uphold," he said sheepishly.
"Riiight. You're the Big Bad," the corner of her mouth quirked up as her eyes rolled involuntarily.
"Oi! I am, and you'd do well not to forget it." Spike started to lose his composure, when she spoke up again.
"Do you still write poetry?" She had become more serious again.
Surprised once again he responded, "I have from time to time, when the mood struck." He tilted his head and watched her reaction. 'Why're you asking?"
"I can't believe I'm saying this, and I swear to God if you tell anyone I WILL stake you…but I'd really love to hear more of your poems." She looked down at the ground, embarrassed.
In all his life, alive and undead, he never thought he'd hear anyone utter those words. Sure, his mother encouraged him, but no one else ever seemed to take an interest. Quite the opposite, really. Dru made a game of tearing up any of his writing if she found it. She mocked him and his sentimentality. He swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat and quietly replied, "You would?"
The look on his face pulled at her heartstrings, and it took her a moment to remember this was Spike, an evil monster. In that moment, he seemed anything but. It was clear to her that William had not been lost when Spike was turned. The man that wrote the words that made her feel understood for the first time since her calling was standing right in front of her. She hadn't seen the vampire this vulnerable since he was bound to a wheelchair and forced to watch helplessly as Drusilla cavorted with Angelus.
She saw the hopefulness in his eyes and was not about to squash it. "Yes, I would," she stated simply.
They stared at each other as they both realized the dynamic between them had just irrevocably changed. Somehow, in their own unique ways, they had each found in the other a reflection of themselves. These two strong warriors, with hearts filled with love, had searched the world to find someone who would accept their affection and who would return it in kind.
"I would like that. Never had a receptive audience before."
"Actually, your poems have been read by thousands of people, maybe even millions."
"Still trying to wrap my brain around that one."
"I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that it was YOU that wrote them," she added with a smile.
"Thanks ever so, Slayer."
"Come on, Spike. You've got to admit this is more than a little strange. We should be fighting each other, not making pleasant chit chat about poetry of all things."
"I see your point," he conceded. "Doesn't change the fact that you like what I wrote, though," he grinned.
"That's true," she seemed to be concentrating really hard on something. Then out of the blue asked, "What was her name?"
"Come again?'
"What was the name of the girl that inspired you to write it? The poetry, I mean."
"Oh. No one in particular. Nancy boy that I was back then, wasn't too good with the ladies." He gazed off in the distance as he remembered his long-lost life back in London. "I had reached the age where it was expected that you would take a wife. As each social season began anew, I would put myself out there; I attended formal dance parties, poetry readings, fox hunts and the like. Hated most of it, mind you, but at least I tried."
Buffy noticed from the moment Spike had begun to speak about his past as William Pratt, that his rough British accent had morphed into one that sounded much more like Giles. She was captivated by him, trying to picture the punk rocker as a British gentleman.
"I thought that if I kept trying, eventually someone would see me and would find it in their heart to love me. That's all I'd ever wanted, to be in love. And then Drusilla found me, and turned me, and at first I thought she was my salvation." He sighed and seeing that Buffy was fully engrossed in his story, he continued. "For the first few months after my turning, I thought I'd found heaven on earth. My dark princess showed me the ways of love…both physical and emotional. Angelus and Darla didn't take to kindly to that, of course, so they decided to start playing games with us both." Seeing Buffy's raised eyebrow at the mention of Angelus, he quickly added, "Believe me pet, you don't want to know."
His voice had lowered, and she could hear a distinct edge to it that wasn't there before. Apparently Spike hated Angelus almost as much as she did. "I hate him." It came out of her mouth of its own accord.
"That makes two of us, pet," Spike agreed.
"What about Drusilla? She left you again, do you hate her now too?"
Without hesitation he answered, "Don't think I could ever do that…hate her. Spent a century by her side, and she did her best to love me. I think she did, in her own way. So I could never hate her." He looked back at Buffy's face, "I guess I'm only just now seeing that I never really found love. After all these bloody years. Not the kind of love I filled those pages with." His voice softened as he added, "Maybe I'm never meant to."
Buffy's heart felt a pang as soon as she heard his words. Without conscious thought she closed the distance between them and reached out her hand, laying it gently on his cheek. "Don't say that." Her brain caught up to her actions and she found, shockingly, that she was not repulsed by what she had done. This evil creature was capable of love, she'd seen it. He longed for it, just as she did. They were so alike, in so many ways…her prejudice had clouded her vision until today.
"We all deserve love, Spike…even you."
He was frozen in place, torn between the need to rip her hand away and rubbing his cheek against her palm to feel the heat of her skin on his. All rational thought seemed to leave him, and in a moment that he hoped he would not end up regretting, he reached up with his own hand and cupped hers to his face.
Eye to eye now, only a few inches apart, they stared at one another as Spike replied, "You too, Buffy."
She didn't know if it was his use of her name or the mere inches that separated them, but Buffy couldn't stop herself from closing the remaining gap. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and gently pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was chaste at first. Both of them tentative in their movements. Spike moaned in his throat as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her close. Buffy opened her mouth in response to their contact, and Spike spared no time in using that to his advantage. He pushed for entrance into her glorious mouth, and Buffy allowed it.
Their tongues danced and dueled with one another, much like their bodies did in combat. But today there would be no fighting…only this. Two former adversaries joined together in a moment of passion and acceptance. Something that neither of them had ever experienced quite like this before.
As Buffy realized she was in desperate need of air, Spike broke off the kiss. Both breathing heavy, though only one of them needed to.
"Wow," they said in unison, simultaneously shocked and pleased with what they'd just done.
Buffy's face held an expression of pure joy, as she gazed back at her blue-eyed companion. Her smile grew even larger, and Spike asked, "What's with the megawatt smile there luv? Hope its because I just snogged you good and proper."
"Believe me, I am all about the smoochies, but I also just realized something else."
"Oh yeah and what's that?"
"Well, now that I know the poet himself, there's no way I'm not getting an A on my modern lit assignment!"
"Oi! Is that what I am to you? Something you can use to improve your academic standing?" he asked jokingly.
"I never said I wouldn't make it worth you while."
"Is that so?" he leered. "William is the one that you'll need help from, and he is a proper gentleman. Not sure this plan of yours will work."
"No? Guess I'll have to try this then." Before he could blink, the Slayer had pressed back up against him and ravished his lips with hers.
Man, vampire or unknown poet, it no longer mattered. From this point forward, if the Slayer let herself love him, he would give her the world.