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Chapter Thirty-Five

It was three days later and Spike hadn't been able to stop himself from looking over his shoulder every so often, wondering just what in the bloody seven layers of hell Buffy was up to. But he hadn't seen much of her; not if one didn't count meals, the times they passed in the hallway from one place to the next, or when one of his sisters decided to pull everyone together for some family activity—like a card game.

Damn, he missed his music and his fuckin' TV.

The card games weren't so bad, but if they asked him to play croquet he was going to make like a dead man and find a dark hole to sleep in. One wouldn't think it possible, but Lily was notorious for cheating at that bloody game, giving no quarter. No point in playin'. At all. Reg would wind up squabbling with her like a banshee. An' he did not wanna be in the middle of that fuckin' mess.

He should probably warn Kit at some point, the poor bastard.

Didn't matter right then though; point was, he really didn't want to find out what the slayer had up her sleeve anytime soon. How in the hell was he going to prove to him that she loved him? That they were good for one another? Especially when he'd already made up his mind. Bonkers. The woman was daft. Completely daft.

"Excuse me, My Lord?"

Spike blinked from under the book on his face. He'd taken to lazing about under a tree in the flower garden, totally taking advantage of the sun when it danced between the leaves and branches of the tree above him. Hey, s'not like he had long to enjoy it, right? Soon enough Lily and Kit would have that book figured out and he be split an' shipped home, sun allergy fully intact. Might as well make the most of it. That and the food.

"Yeah...?" he asked, tilting the book off his head to look up at the man in a black and white uniform. One of Kit's staff.

"I have a letter for you, My Lord."

Spike gave a yawn and set the book aside, sitting up. "Let's have it then." He held his hand out and the other man placed a sealed envelope in it. "Thanks."

Then he bowed and wandered off without another word.

He forgotten how quiet men and women who worked for a household were; that and how much they knew. He had no doubts Mr. Penguin Suit knew everything that going on under Kit's roof. Spike wasn't sure if he should care, given that they were demons—most of 'em.

He shrugged and opted to open the letter, wondering who sent him anything. Everyone he gave a damn about was already here. As William, he'd never had friends—certainly not ones who sent him correspondence.

He unfolded it curiously after taking it out of the envelope and ran his gaze over the lines. And then that gaze narrowed. His heart skipped. Once.

"What...?"

He read it again, unable to stop himself...

To teach thee, I am naked first; why then

What needst thou have more covering than a man.

Spike swallowed, he stared at the words. Two lines. Two simple lines that made him all at once happy, wanting, and... he couldn't place it. Shocked? It was silly, damned stupid. He...

"Bollocks," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, next scratching the back of his neck. No one had ever sent him poetry. Once more, he found himself staring at the words, trying to place them. To teach thee... He blinked. Donne. He laughed softly and it all clicked into place. The double entendre was not lost on him. At all.

Buffy had selected lines from a poem that irrevocably told of a man going to bed with a woman and undressing her. Himself. The double entendre though... that was a little more extra. He knew she was trying to tell him that she'd be baring herself—emotionally.

"Clever," he whispered, unable to stop the way his heart warmed. Creative too, he'd give her that. She wasn't ignorant in all the right ways to fight her little war at winning his heart. "Be as bare as you are, is that it?" he asked to no one, a not-there Buffy.

The wind was all that answered him in return.

Even so, he couldn't take his eyes off the carefully written script. Her handwriting too. Not fancy script either. That's mostly how he knew, aside from the obvious. He also couldn't deny that it eased some of the ache he'd been carrying around after their last conversation in the library. However, a few lines of poetry couldn't fix what was between them; there were too many decaying layers.

"Gonna have to try better than that, luv."

#

She did.

He was torn between loving it and hating it altogether. He couldn't say it was annoying to find flowers on his pillow with more broken lines from love poems older than him. Both always gave him pause, and he took time to inhale the scents—the flowers and what Buffy left behind involuntarily. But today... today he found chocolates. Delicately made chocolates that he could tell had not been bought in a local store. He knew the small strip of town a few miles down the road didn't have one; he'd asked Kit, wanting to get his candy fix in before he couldn't anymore.

No, Buffy had gotten someone to help her figure out how to make them. Something he'd been craving for nigh on a week now. Looking at them made him twitch. Part of him worried they tasted like shit and the other part of him didn't want to give in at all. Though... when he finally gave in popped one in his mouth he hadn't been able to stop the moan that left him, nor the string of expletives.

Damn woman.

So he'd gone to Reg first. Why? Because for some reason he was certain she had some part in this little war game. She'd practically smirked when he'd told her about the first note, doing her best not to grin like a cat who got the cream. Devious is what his youngest sister was.

"You've got to tell her to stop. And you have to bloody well stop helping her," he told her as soon as he found her all by herself sitting in a big chair in the library, his voice near snapping with irritation.

She looked up at him from her book, one brow going high. "Hello to you too, brother dear. Whatever are you going on about now?"

"Don't play coy with me, Reg." He was towering over her now and jerked the box of chocolates out to her. "The poems, the flowers, and now the candy. 'M not stupid. It ends."

She snorted. "Honestly... Someone's taking the time to show you they care and you're angry? Are you daft? It's all you've ever wanted, Will. To have affections returned."

"Be that as it may," he said through his teeth, deciding to make use of his higher language skills, "I'm trying to stop, Reg. And the notes and candy aren't helping anymore than the flowers."

"Stop what? Loving her?"

"Yes, damnit."

"Tell her yourself," was her immediate reply.

"I did!"

"Well obviously she doesn't believe in giving up," Reg muttered into her book. "What in the hell do you think I can do about it, even if I wanted to?"

"Bloody women," he said in a woosh of air, spinning on his heel away from her to pace back and forth. The chocolates he'd dropped on the table next to her quaint little seat.

"Oh you're just irritated that the tables have been turned."

"What does that fuckin' mean?" He glared at her.

"Well... you tried to get in her good graces before and it didn't work out very well because you were both idiots." He made a sound under his breath, but she went on. "At any rate, you should be pleased that it's her turn now, shouldn't you? You've never really been wooed before, brother dear. Not like this. Perhaps you can pick up a few tips." And then she did look at him them, her brow arching once more. "Offering to kill the previous love of your life? Really?" and then she tisked, waving a finger at him. "Poetry would have been so much better."

"I can see I'm getting no help from you," he bit off, not at all happy about the current state of affairs.

She only smiled into her book, pretending to read.

He stomped out of the room at that point, frustrated and in need of a smoke. A drink. But he didn't miss her shouting reply.

"You really should just give in! Learn to be happy!"

...Only to come back to retrieve the candy; which he regretted instantly when Reg laughed at him further—albeit into her book like the imp she was.

#

"I think I'm running out of ideas," Buffy said aloud as she stared up at the ceiling. "I need to up my game."

"Raise the stakes, as it were?" Reg asked on the floor next to her.

"Yeah... somehow..."

They were in Buffy's room because she knew for certain that Spike wouldn't come in there, not unless he absolutely had to. The rat had been sniffing around the both of them since he'd figured Reg was helping her. She couldn't trust him not to try and get into Reg's. Not that he wouldn't knock first, but Buffy didn't want to deal with the hassle.

"I'm starting to think that no matter what I do he's not going to give me a shot."

"Hm..." Reg hummed. Buffy could see that out of the corner of her eye she was tapping her chin. "Maybe you need to start forcing your way into his daily activities more. Or... making your presence more... presenty when you are around him."

"Presenty?" Buffy asked, laughter in her voice.

"I've listened to you revert to modern speech patterns. I'm only trying to emulate them."

Buffy smiled, not really having the heart to tell her that her normal breed of slang was mostly a Scooby thing. "It's not a bad idea..." Maybe she needed to corner him in a few hallways like he'd done to her. Though, that felt a little wrong.

"Or..."

"Yeah?"

"Maybe you guys just need some time alone. A romantic evening."

"That's not something Spike would ever agree to."

Reg sat up with a grunt, using her arms as leverage. Buffy followed suit and turned to look at her. Before, they'd been laying side by side with their legs in opposite directions and their heads closest together. Reg, she could see, was tapping her chin again. "You need a really grand gesture. Something in person, something personal, something to really catch him off guard..."

"A grand gesture..." Buffy echoed, thinking. Cogs in her brain were turning, clicking into place, and making her feel as though she were on the cusp of something. And then she blushed.

"Ohhhh..." Reg made a sound, something between reveled curiosity and wanting. "You've got something in mind, do you? Let's have it."

Buffy bit her bottom lip. "Yeah... maybe... something that might get him to agree to that romantic evening... Not sure."

"Do tell!"

And so she did. With each detail, Reg's eyes got wider and wider, her mouth forming a smile that seemed permanently fixed in place. Her hands were fists near her chest and Buffy thought she looked a little like a bomb waiting to go off, more like a firework.

"That's rather brilliant!" But then she frowned. "Though... how are you going to get..."

Buffy smirked and then called out Tara's name. In a quick flash, the Wicca was there.

"You caught me when I wasn't too busy," she told both women. "What's up?"

Buffy then asked her a curious question, one that had the other woman hesitating as she processed it.

Tara blinked a few times, but then Buffy could tell that she'd caught up with that she and Reg had been talking about. The brunette laughed softly, just barely covering her mouth.

"I believe I can help."

"Good."

#

A full five days had passed.

Spike had not seen hide nor hair of love poems, chocolates, or flowers; not in his room, not on his pillow, an' certainly not in the pockets of his clothes. He'd been impressed with that last one; it left him wonderin' if she'd slipped it there herself, or, if she'd gotten one of the maids to do it for her. It was probably the last one; he didn't think she'd come in his room since before the morning he'd come back to himself. There'd been a sort of unspoken boundary in that bloody regard.

He huffed as he entered his room, glancing about as if to assure himself there was still nothing. As he shut the door he also wondered...

Had Buffy finally give up? Finally?

His heart tightened a little at that. He couldn't help it, reminded as he was of all the damned effort he'd put into trying to prove how much he'd cared about her before the entire house of fuckin' cards had fallen on them both. There was also a part of him, one he would never admit of course, that had enjoyed it. The poetry had been his favorite. Granted, they hadn't been her words, but they been words—damned good ones. Ones he'd cherished growing up when no one wanted anymore to do with him than they wanted an extra helpin' of steamed shit.

Spike sighed as he pulled off his waistcoat and tossed it over a chair. Next, he reached for the buttons on his shirt. While he could honestly say he wasn't going to relive the past with the slayer, he could say he'd been happy while it lasted—the doting on his person. But it also made things easier now that it was over. Finally, he could focus on healing. At the very least, maybe one day, they could be friends.

Tap. Tap.

Spike blinked.

Tap. Tap.

His eyes narrowed where he stood and his head turned, glancing towards where he thought the sound was coming from.

Tap. Tap.

What was that? He couldn't see through the thick curtains that covered his window, but it did sound like it was coming from there. He paused and accepted the curious confusion that overtook him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He strode across the room, heart jumping once as possibilities filled him. She wouldn't... Why would she?

He pushed aside the curtains, unlatched the window, swung it open inward, and found himself face to face with...

...Buffy.

Spike blinked and looked below. He was on the second floor, after all.

A platform had been installed, one made of wood. He looked at her, swallowed once at the sight of her holding an acoustic guitar. It was slung over her shoulder with a strap and in her hands, cradled as if she were, in fact, about to perform.

"I know it's not exactly Romeo and Juliet buuuut... they were kinda too young and stupid, plus, your room didn't come with a balcony." She was smiling softly.

"What—."

"Don't say anything," she interrupted—whispered in a plea, sounding serious and afraid all at once. "You talk too much and I never talk enough." She paused, bit her lip, closed her eyes, and them looked at him once more. An exhale left her nose. As her gaze locked with his... Spike knew—right then—whatever she had planned... he wasn't prepared for it.

His heart wasn't.

He wanted to beg her to stop. He needed to her to. And yet...

"I'm not very good with words," she said next. "And you've been patient with me. So... I'm just going to let the song do the talking."

"Buffy," he tried again, but it was too late, she was already strumming—singing. And he was breaking all over again.

Saying I love you

Is not the words you want to hear from me

It's not that you want me

Not to say, but if I only knew

How easy it would be to show you how I feel

More than words is all I have to do to make it real

Then I wouldn't have to say that I love you

'Cause you'd already know

It had begun in his chest—a swelling of feeling that had always been there, just under the surface. He'd buried it when he'd left for Africa. Deep down. Far away. Eventually, it would have burrowed so deep that it would have gone away altogether.

Loving her.

Every fiber of his being was in giving simply because he didn't know any other way to love someone. Even his own family, he'd loved them the same way—compassionately and unconditionally. And now...

His throat burned as she ran her fingers over the chords, as her eyes focused on where she placed them to get the right sound. It hit him then like a lightning bolt. She'd been gone for five days because she'd been practicing. For this. For him.

It's why he hadn't caught her too often in the halls walking by; it's why she'd only been around for dinners.

What would I do if your heart was torn in two

More than words to show I feel

That my love for you is real

What would I say if you took those words away

Then I couldn't make things new

Just by saying I love you

God damnit. Why?

More than words

Why? he asked himself as his hand moved to cover his mouth, a heat crawled up his chest, his neck, and to his face—burning as she was silenced and allowed the instrumental portion play out. Tears. It isn't right.

Now that you've tried to talk to me and make me understand

All I have to do is close my eyes

And just reach out my hands and touch you

Hold you close don't ever let you go

More than words is all you ever needed to be shown

Then I wouldn't have to say that I love you

'Cause you'd already know

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to be as angry as he'd tried to be when he'd been yelling at Reg—telling her it wasn't helping, that she wasn't. He wanted to. And yet...

What would I do if your heart was torn in two

More than words to show I feel

That my love for you is real

What would I say if you took those words away

Then I couldn't make things new

Just by saying I love you

He... he held in a breath; he couldn't trust himself to breathe without...

More than words

As the song finished he was left staring at her, wet eyes betraying him. He wanted to will the tears away, and yet he couldn't. All he could do was gaze into her eyes, beautiful things of hazel green, staring at him with trepidation and concern.

He wanted to be right. He wanted to believe she didn't love him. Because believing that Buffy loved him meant taking a risk he wasn't sure he could survive if it all went to shit again. He wasn't capable of surviving her again.

"I never have the right words," she finally whispered. "I thought... I thought it was appropriate... the song." When he still didn't say anything, she swallowed visibly. "Will you go on a date with me? We've never done that, you know. I..."

"You learned all of that in five days?" he managed, his voice a strained whisper as he finally lowered his hand. He needed to know.

"Yeah... well, Tara helped." She was looking down at the guitar, her hands still partially clasping it. He could see the white of her skin where it pushed too hard into the instrument. "She offered to do a spell to teach me this song, make it easier... but... it just didn't feel right."

"You did it for me."

Buff's eyes shot to his, her gaze locked. He could almost see her own heart straining in that—reaching for any crumb he offered. Irony, it was bittersweet, but he couldn't deny it touched him.

He wanted to believe it was real. Her. The crumbs she was asking for—begging for.

"I'm terrified this is all going to go to hell," he managed, allowing something because he couldn't stop the words from coming out. It's just how he was made.

"I'm not asking for the moon, Spike," she said back softly. "Just let me show you how much I love you. Let me give you more than words.

"Please."

His mind raced. One part was screaming for him to give in—telling him that, here it was, finally, his feelings returned. This, that voice shouted, was all he'd ever wanted. Dreamed. But the other, that one was telling him he'd regret it. It didn't want to even offer her five minutes to show him they could be more than violence, hate, vicious words, and spite—that they could be more than what they'd once used and hurt each other for.

He wanted to believe her as much as he wanted to believe it was better to walk away. And yet... she didn't have to leave him love poems and flowers, she didn't have to make him chocolates, and she certainly didn't have to make her fingers bleed trying to learn a song for him.

"One date," he whispered before he changed his mind, before the other voice got louder.

He watched as it registered with her, as her eyes widened just enough to give her away. And then the smile came. Real, powerful, and nearly heady enough to knock him off his bloody feet.

"Thank you."

AN :: More Than Words was written and recorded by Extreme in 1990 and released in 1991. (Song was written by Gary F. Cherone and Nuno Bettencourt; Copyright is with Universal Music Publishing Group.) This song has a special place in my heart. When my husband first introduced it to me we had very little money, were living in a small room at his parents', and I was lying across the bed with my head in his lap as he serenaded while it played on the stereo. It's a fond memory and it has been one of my favorite love songs since then. Everytime I hear it I think of that moment and him. His first wedding ring, before it was destroyed (and saved his hand in a meat cutter) was inscribed on the inside with More Than Words because it's how I feel about us.

In terms of Buffy and Spike for this story, it works very well. I had to change the lyrics Buffy sang though because it needed to be from her to him. (You'll see what I mean if you look up the original yourself.) If it had been sung as it was, well, it would have seemed condescending. Spike always gave her more than words, and now, she's trying to give him more.

The poem is by John Donne and titled His Mistress Going To Bed. It's quite erotic, considering the time it was written in—the late 1500s to early 1600s. Donne himself wasn't really fully appreciated until the 20th century.

Thank you for reading.

—Blade