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Author's Chapter Notes:
Quote from the last stanza of T.S. Eliot's Portrait of a Lady
Chapter 5: The Proud Man's Contumely

"Right then, let's have it," Spike said, starring down Buffy who was the last one left in the room. He was back to his old accent now that the last of the students had cleared the classroom.

"I don't even know where to begin," Buffy said. Realizing she was still sitting in a desk, and that Spike was standing in front of the blackboard looking very authoritative she quickly got up to even their positions. "You're impersonating my father, and pretending to know about Shakespeare, and who knows what else?"

Spike actually relaxed, as if he'd been expecting a much worse reaction. He straitened up again suddenly and stared at her in a challenging manner.

"What do you mean pretending? Just because I don't go in for that French deconstructionist crap that's all the rage now doesn't mean you can find a single hole in my literary theory."

Buffy just blinked at him in confusion. When Spike realized she had no idea what he'd just said he snorted and muttered, "Not like you'd know Derrida if he bit you on the derrière." He looked down at his feet for a moment, then looked up at her through his lashes, "So will you take the money now?"

"I can't. . . what happens when you get caught anyhow?"

"I'm not going to get caught. And so what if I do? I'll find another way to make some money for you. Truth is my first idea was to make a quick trip to Vegas, but the Scoobies needed my help keeping the vampire population down, and looking after the Nibblet when. . . Can we get out of here? I need to get out of these clothes."

Buffy smiled and nodded. Although she personally thought Spike could use more color in his wardrobe, this look just wasn't him. It was sort of cute, in a fixer-upper kind of way, but it was hard to have a serious conversation when Spike looked like he should have been in Revenge of the Punk Nerds.

She wondered how anyone could have bought his disguise, although maybe it was more to keep demons from recognizing him, than to fool humans into thinking he was a real collage professor.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, back in the direction of the gym. Suddenly Spike stopped. Buffy walked a couple more steps before she realized he wasn't next to her anymore. When she turned to look at him, his whole posture spoke of nervousness.

"Are we. . ?" he started, then stopped again. "What I mean is. . . Look, it's just. . . what are we?"

"Me Slayer, you vampire?" she answered unsure of his question.

"No, I mean, yeah, there is that. But even without the chip, I couldn't kill you, and you haven't tried to slay me in a long time. What I'm asking is. . ." His voice got very quiet. "Are we friends?"

She considered his question, really considered it. It was a lop sided question. They both knew he was in love with her, so the real question was, did she consider him at least a friend? Which kind of begged the question, what did she mean by the word friend.

Only a week ago she had clearly separated him from her friends when she had confessed to him what her afterlife had really been like, and told him that he could never tell her friends. And yet that confession had brought them closer together. She had trusted Spike with her most precious secret, and even before her death, she'd trusted Spike with her mother's and her sister's life.

She took a step towards him and looked him in the eye, "Impersonations of my father aside, you're the person I trust most right now, so yeah, I guess we're friends."

His face lit up with a goofy smile, and she hated him for it. Hated him for loving her. Hated him for letting such a little gesture effect him so much. It would have been different maybe, if he hadn't loved her until she came back from the dead, that would have meant that he saw how wrong she was and loved her for that. But he was really as bad as all the others, holding onto the belief that she was still Buffy, just like she'd been before she'd died.

He took a hesitant step towards her, "So if we're friends, then, you'll take the money. Because," he stopped her before she could interrupt. "I'm just trying to help out a friend, no strings attached."

There was so much hope, so much expectation in his eyes, that Buffy couldn't quite bring herself to say no to him, even if she could quite say yes either.

"I'll think about it, okay?"

He smiled and nodded, and they resumed their journey to the gym. Buffy waited outside while he went back in to change. As she leaned against the cool brick wall, she tried to process everything that had happened so far that night, but she wasn't doing a very good job of it. Especially since one odd little detail kept niggling at her mind.

After a few minutes, Spike reemerged, looking like Spike once more.

"So, um, as a friend," Buffy started to ask. "How come you never told me you wanted to be an actor?" It was a ridiculous question, there was no reason Spike would have ever told her anything like that, but it was the only way she could think of to broach the subject.

"What?" Spike asked genuinely confused.

"That bit about 'Those who can't do, teach.' I thought you actually sounded good."

He laughed. "Please, never wanted to be an actor. You'd have to be crazy to go in for that. Nah I was-" he stopped himself. Buffy could almost swear he was blushing.

"You were what?" she asked intrigued.

"Um, nothing," he said hoping she'd let it go.

She was far too interested in this chink she had found in the Big Bad's tough guy image. She was obviously going to have to dig a little.

She spun around and stopped in front of him, forcing him to stop walking. She moved in very close to him, and stroked the leather lapel of his duster with her thumb and forefinger. She smiled sweetly and looked up at him through her lashes.

"But I thought we were friends?" she pouted.

She knew it was wrong. Alarms were going off in her head telling her she had no right to play with Spike like this, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

"Um, well, I. . ." Spike licked his lips and swallowed, it was obvious she was having and effect on him. "Promise you won't tell?" he asked weakly.

"Promise," she said solemnly.

"I was a. . . poet. A bad one," he added hurriedly, as if that were better than being a good one.

"Really?" she asked. His only answer was an exasperated look. "Tell me a poem," she demanded.

"What? No!" He pushed past her as roughly as he dared without setting the chip off, and started to walk away.

"Why not?" she asked. "I like poetry," she added, hoping it would induce him to share.

"I told you I'm a bad poet."

"Am? You still write stuff?" Judging by the alarm in his eyes, and the fact that he started to walk faster, Buffy knew he still did. "Did you ever write anything about me?"

Despite the fact that she hated Spike's being in love with her, there was still enough girl in her to like the idea of someone writing poetry about her. She imagined him sitting in his crypt, writing by candlelight, with one of those big white feathers for a pen. Admittedly, Spike probably had something as unromantic as a bic, but at least she knew the candle light had to be authentic since he didn't have any electric lights.

When he refused to answer, or even look at her, she grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop.

"Please," she begged. "Just one poem?"

He took a deep unneeded breath and exhaled loudly. "No. Not even. . ." he said when he saw she was going to interrupt him. "If you. . . blow me."

It was typical Spike, but for some reason it hurt Buffy deeply. Of course Spike did that from time to time, although usually when he did so, he was trying to hurt her. She needed to get away from him, and without thinking, she ran toward her old dorm, not realizing that running would only ensure that Spike would follow her.

She hadn't gotten far, when she felt his hand on her arm, and he was pulling her to a stop. When he saw tears running down her cheeks, he slowly put his arms around her, giving her plenty of chance to resist. Instead she crumpled against his chest burying her face against his cotton t-shirt, and breathing in his smell: leather, and cigarettes, and Spike. It was strangely comforting.

"I'm sorry. Didn't mean anything by it," he murmured as he ran his fingers through her hair.

"It's not you," she said at last. "It's just, I was taking a poetry class my last semester, and I really liked it. And mom really wanted me to go to college so badly, and finish it. And I liked it, I really did, but it's too late to register, and I couldn't pay for it anyway. And you read the Shakespeare really well, I liked listening to you. And. . ." her voice trailed off as she looked for more reasons to explain her breakdown, which she didn't understand herself.

"Really, you liked listening to me?" he asked, shyly.

She looked up at him, and nodded.

He bit his bottom lip as if he was considering something incredibly serious, then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "All right, look. It's not by me, but. . . Well it's better than anything I could ever write."

He took her hands in his, and stepped back from her a bit, so he could more easily look her in the eye. Then he began to speak in his other, softer accent, "Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Doubtful, for a while
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful with a “dying fall”
Now that we talk of dying—
And should I have the right to smile?"

Buffy felt trapped by the words, and the emotion in his voice and eyes. Even if he hadn't written it, he felt it. And the intensity of his feeling held her in place. It frightened her, drew her in, and made her feel empty all at once.

She wished she could still feel something as intense as that, but she seemed to be nothing more than a shell since she came back from the dead. And yet Spike's feelings were so intense, they seemed to almost seep into her.

They just stood there in silence for several minutes, holding hands, and gazing into each others eyes. Both of them waiting for the other to break the silence.

Instead it was Xander who did. "Uh, hey guys. What's going on?"

Startled they both pulled back their hands and spun to face Xander, Anya, and Willow.





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