Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Still I rise~ Maya Angelou
The weeks passed in a cliched blur. Classes, aptitude tests and SAT preps all jumbled together in a pile of responsibility that Buffy stored in her mind under "School Crap". With so much stuff going on in school, the hormonal hurricane that was Dawn, the headaches her mother just couldn't seem to shift, and the near constant doctor appointments because of them, Buffy almost didn't have time to think about what went down with Spike. Almost.
After the disaster that was counselling, all she wanted to do was go back to blissfully thinking that Pratt was a soulless, evil, thing, but these he was, every Tuesday and Thursday, listening intently to Willow and being icily civil towards Buffy. Which was fine. It wasn't like she missed the "banter". Really. In many ways, it was an improvement- albeit a weird one.
But there was this little nagging voice in the back of her head, that kept reminding her that nobody could reveal something like that, even to a stranger/ mortal enemy, without something changing. And something obviously had changed, since Spike was now treating her... well, not like an acquaintance, or even a person. More like a potted plant. She was there, but she wasn't important in any way. Just a part of the library.
So Buffy returned the favor, and pretended she didn't notice the fresh bandages on his right hand.
Halloween was on them, faster than you could say "pointless commercial holiday". Some of the teachers tried to engage the students by decorating their classrooms, or giving "spooky" themed classes. Spike felt that he'd appreciate the week off better, the delightful midterm break he used to have back home.
This was one of those classes. The English teacher, Ms Miller, had thrown various pumpkins and fake cobwebs around the room, complete with rubber spiders. One of the lads in the room had pried one of the said spiders free, and was dangling it in front of a nearby cheerleader. She squealed in... fear? delight? Spike couldn't tell, and turned his attention to more pressing matters, like the back of Buffy Summers' skull.
It had been well over a month since the last session, and not so much as a "hello". It wasn't like he was expecting much by way of an confrontation, what with Snyder's threat hovering over them like a bad smell, but he was expecting a something. He hadn't meant to say as much as he did, just enough to make the shrink uncomfortable, enough to make Summers question her Prince Charming's morals. But then it had felt irritatingly good to talk. Not that he'd ever say that to anyone. All he knew was that he'd said something to make Summers look at him differently. She could barely look at him at all.
He bloody missed it. Quipping with her, throwing abuse back and forth, waiting to see what americanised insult she'd come out with next. Dancing as he had so poetically put it some weeks ago, because lets face it, dancing was all they'd ever done. Dancing around the fact that things had changed between them. It wasn't as easy as I hate you and I know the feeling's mutual anymore. Not since last May. Not since-
His head snapped up at the knock on the door. The British librarian, Jeeves or something, poked his head through, stepping into the room awkwardly.
"Excuse me Ms Miller, could I borrow Buffy Summers please?" He said, handing the teacher a note with a shaking hand.
With his eyes still trained on the back of her head, Spike expected her to move in surprise. What he hadn't expected was for her to tense up, the graceful slope of her shoulders stiffening in anxiety. Spike frowned at his poetic choice of words- since when did he associate Buffy Summers with the word "graceful"?
He watched he sweep her books into her bag, swinging it up onto her shoulder in one fluid motion. Ms Miller handed her an assignment for homework and gave her a reassuring, and slightly condescending, smile. Jeeves put his hand on her shoulder and lead her out of the room, patting her back clumsily. Spike rolled his eyes and returned his attentions back to the printed poem in front of him, trying to ignore the foreboding that was settling in his stomach. With the class settled, Ms Miller began to read, and Spike mouthed the words in silence.
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those I defend, I do not love...
When she did not return to school for the rest of the week, Spike figured that Snyder had found some way to ship her off the Our Lady's. He tried to carefully word the questions he asked Red, making sure he didn't sound to interested. Because he wasn't. Scout's honour.
"Summers has done a runner then, has she?"
"The Slayer can't deal with my glorious presence then?"
"Too busy terrorizing small children an' spitting on grannies, to go to school, yeah?"
Red's lips pressed closer together every time until they almost disappeared completely, and the librarian (who's name was Giles as it turned out) looked up from his books and gave him a sharp "That's quite enough, Spike."
Maybe it was Giles' stormy glare, or Willow's pleading eyes, but Spike shut his mouth, and went back to pretending that he didn't care whether Summers lived or died.
That tactic was working fine until Friday.
Friday's were a tricky old day. He spent his Friday afternoons hanging around until he was sure the rest of the student body had vacated the lot. And then he'd turn back into the school.
It was his own fault really. Shakespeare and poetry and all that nonsense had always just made sense to him. It was like it was a language that he just happened to be fluent in, without trying. He'd even dabbled in writing some stuff himself during his misspent youth, with disastrous results. No one was ever meant to find out.
What he'd forgotten is that teachers tend to read homework. He hadn't handed anything up in so long, that he overlooked the fact that some teachers may be impressed with the ability he'd kept squashed for so long.
Ms Miller was the first. All it took was two short essays and she was keeping him back after class. After several meetings, she told him that she'd forget about last year if he did some work in his own time for extra credit. To his everlasting embarrassment he accepted, and now he spent the better part of Friday evenings discussing symbolism, and metaphors and what not.
And here he was now trudging down the school steps, lighting a cigarette as he went. The amber glow from his lighter suddenly illuminated a figure that he would have tripped over otherwise.
"Hey!" He proclaimed, dodging the body at the last second. She, because it was girl, looked up at him, and seemed unsurprised.
"Of course it's you. It's always you." She answered, turning back around, and resting her head on her curled up knees.
"Summers? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" He asked, more curious than anything. Absent from school, from his everyday life, for almost a week, and here she returned, cryptic and mysterious, barely visible in the November twilight.
She shrugged.
"Giles was supposed to bring me home... I think I forgot to tell him." She whispered, staring intently at nothing in particular. Spike was only half-sure she was answering him.
"An' you decided that... sitting here was your best bet? Not your finest moment I'll admit." He said, throwing himself down beside her. She barely registered him, though the corner of her mouth quirked upwards.
"It's nice here. It's quiet... normal. Free. Well more free than the hospital at least..." She added softly, arching her neck to watch the last bit of daylight fade away. Spike swallowed, suddenly wondering how he ever thought of her as anything but graceful, perfectly poised on the cold stone of the steps. How statue-like I see thee stand... He almost shuddered with the force of the thought. He always knew the Slayer was... well, hot, but calling her graceful bordered on something completely different from simple admiration.
"You sick?" He mumbled out, desperately trying to fill the silence that was just a little bit too comfortable. She hesitated for so long that he thought she simply didn't hear him. She sighed, inhaling in the smoky air.
"A shadow. That's what they said... what they called it. A shadow. This little blurry patch on her x-ray is what's causing the headaches, the tiredness, the... outbursts. All the badness because of a little shadow. Figures- I was afraid of the dark when I was a kid."
He knew that the shadow wasn't a metaphor- God knows he'd spent enough time in hospitals to know the medical connotations.
"Who pet? Who has a shadow?" He asked, and they were both surprised by how soft he sounded. Her lower lip trembled.
"My mom." She whispered, knowing that her voice would break if she said it any louder. Couldn't let him see how weak she was feeling. How helpless.
Spike nodded slowly, taking a long drag from the cigarette. He threw it in front of him, and they both watched it soar momentarily in the low light, then land in a shower of orange sparks and ashes. He stretched his boot forward and crushed it.
"M' sorry. Your mum's nice... a real lady."
Buffy stared at him, incredulous.
"When did you meet my mom?" She asked. Spike gave her a pointed look, raising an eyebrow. She turned a soft pink, mumbling a small "Oh right." Another moment of silence seeped through the air, and Spike's fingers twitched towards his pack of smokes, just for something to do.
"I never thanked you, did I?... For last May." She asked unexpectedly, and he dropped the carton in surprise. She coloured again, as he picked them up, looking at her suspiciously.
"Well, you were too busy blaimin' me weren't you?" He said, though his voice lacked the venom he normally would have included. This was just... teasing. She gave a short laugh, nodding in agreement, tapping her fingers against the tops of her thighs. He absentmindedly offered her a smoke and she just rolled her eyes. At least somethings hadn't changed.
"Well... thanks I guess. For the life save-age and stuff." She murmured, twisting in discomfort.
"Didn't do it for you." Spike answered, too fast, dropping his gaze from her hazel eyes. Something like surprise and hurt flashed across her face but she quickly replaced it with her usual vapid mask of indifference.
"I know." She muttered. They sat in silence for a only a couple of seconds before she pushed herself up off the ground. She stretched a little, and began meandering down the remaining steps. She paused once she reached the bottom, turning back to face him, barely visible in the waning light.
"Look, I know you hate me and all, and we'll get right back to that on Monday, but... this helped. I owe you one."
And with that she disappeared behind the carefully trimmed bushes.
Spike sighed, turning sideways, and lying back against the cold stone of the floor. He took a long drag from the newly lighted cigarette, and watched the smoke swirl into the cool air. He didn't know why, but the tight ball of anxiety finally loosened, and he felt like he could breathe properly again. He didn't want to dwell on what that meant for longer than he had to.
"I don't hate you." He admitted, with no one there to hear him.
A/N: Sorry it's been so long! I've just been really busy! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and leave a review if you did!