Pausing momentarily, he let his gaze settle on the old wooden box, on the faded swirls of coloured paint that outlined thoroughly worn edges. It had survived well all these years, kicked around from here to there, seeing countless cities and villages and towns. It was a small and delicate reminder of the man he’d once been, and ultimately the man that nobody ever knew, not even Mother.
Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true, for Drusilla knew that man, briefly, before she granted him eternal unlife.
Spike snarled then, wondering at himself for straying from his mission, reflecting on something so distant past. And to even consider Drusilla at the moment, when he had business to attend to, when he had a Slayer to put down, the very person Drusilla tormented him with; the very person that made him feel…
Shaking his head and digging deeper, he pushed the offending thing aside. It would do him no good to think on the contents of that little box, no good at all. Settling his hand on the pack of shells, he drew it up through the scattered items in the trunk, and in his reckless haste knocked the old, delicate box so that it turned up on it’s side, contents spilling out.
Spike blinked as old bits of paper landed among his newer belongings, and something within his heart made him still and stare. Dropping the suddenly unimportant ammunition, he carefully righted the box and opened it, taking each beloved and equally reviled treasure and placing it back inside gently, emotions warring within him in the process.
There were times he wondered why he didn’t tear those papers to shreds, for all the good they did him. Secrets, they were, every single one, for he could never have read these verses to Mother.
Slumping down beside the trunk, he brought the small box out and set it on the floor in front of his crossed legs, and he stared for the longest time, and he remembered.
Opening the lid, he drew out a tattered page to read a few short lines…
… and he closed his eyes.
As a young poet, he’d poured out his heart in each well-thought line, whispering his desires as he carefully penned every word. He’d close his eyes and recite his secrets then, and he’d feel the ache course through his body, tighten and flush his skin, carve a hungry smile about his mouth until he'd catch himself in a quiet groan.
Spike carefully unfolded another faded page, a small smirk forming as he read…
With emerald eyes and looks so fair
And she called me by my secret name
And she hooked her finger in the air
And so I kissed my ladylove
Her taste so sweet upon my lips
So moved was I, I clung to her
For heaven was at my fingertips
His eyes widened...
After one hundred plus years of fucking and fighting and dashing and bashing, these simple, humble words still brought with them the secret smile and heated rush. It wasn’t Cecily he envisioned in reading them, no, she was long lost to his heart. And indeed, it wasn’t Cecily he’d envisioned when he wrote these secret pleasures, either. It was a dream girl, someone always there in his mind’s view whenever he closed his eyes, someone who didn’t think any less of him for expressing his desires. Truly, the young poet thought he’d never find such a creature in the real world.
Spike stared at the paper and swallowed at the ache in his throat. After all the decades gone by, there was only one person who incited such an ache within him, one person who, when she touched his cool skin with her delicate heat, could make him feel that rush again. It was that golden girl, that strong and wilful girl, that beautiful and glowing and irritating girl that made his still heart want to leap in his chest and beat like a wild drum.
“Bloody HELL,” he growled as he sprang to his feet, pacing wildly, that old bit of paper still clutched in his hand. He looked first at the small box, and then the gun… box, gun… doorway… gun… What was he thinking? What was he doing hashing over things best left unhashed? There was nothing good could ever come of it, he told himself. She could never love a creature like him.
He let the paper drop to the ground, picking up the shotgun then and loading it hastily, fumbling and dropping shells, cursing through clenched teeth. Chest heaving, he cocked the gun and paused, staring at the doorway to his crypt, willing his feet to move and take him down a road that would see the end of his misery.
When his feet didn’t comply, he roared and threw the shotgun with all his might, then covered his head and ducked quickly to the ground as it fired upon impact with the wall, sending a shower of lead and masonry to the floor all around him.
The dust had scarcely settled when the crypt door swung open with a bang, and he dared not move when the girl in question stormed in, stake at the ready.
For the moment hidden from view behind the old stone casket, he opened his eyes slowly, his gaze fixing on that old bit of paper he'd dropped, barely visible in the dim candlelight. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes again, wondering how he should handle this, wondering why she was even there, until...
"Spike! What the hell happened? I heard a gunshot."
She sounded... worried. Her heart was racing. He could feel the blood pounding through her veins. And though it was the threatening presence of the Slayer he sensed, it was the concerned voice of the girl he heard.
"Are you okay? Spike? Where are you? Answer me!"
Before he could even consider a reply, he heard the stake clatter to the ground, and she was crouched beside him then, running her hands over his back and sides, feeling for wounds. A beat later and she flipped him over to straddle him roughly, and he dared not open his eyes as she repeated her inspection, her warm hands splaying over his chest and sweeping downward, then back up and over his shoulders. His body hardened beneath her, but still, he dared not move.
When he felt her palm at his cheek he finally opened his eyes, and he blinked softly at the expression he found in her gaze, for it mirrored his own just then. It lasted merely a moment, though. She must have been satisfied that he was unharmed, and she was up like a shot, walking away backwards, slowly, eyes still fixed on him. Finally she turned for the door, but not before looking back at him over her shoulder.
It was that last, soft look that further gave her away, and as he rose up he reached for her, hoping she might stop.
"Come back," he whispered. When she disappeared, his hand dropped to the floor, but not before he grinned a tender sort of grin.
He picked up that old bit of paper, stroking his fingers gently over well worn words, and he shook his head in wonder. After all those years... One hundred plus years... He'd tried to hide it, dared not admit it, but his heart soared whenever she was near. The poet within him had finally found his dream girl, and the vampire - his match. He couldn't harm her, no matter how angry she made him. After the soft look she gave him, that look of care, he determined he'd do whatever he could to see that again and again and again. Hell, he'd never stop annoying her, but he'd certainly not hurt her.
Chuckling a little, Spike rose off the floor and dusted himself off, and as he put away the old, worn bits of paper, storing the box away carefully this time, he made a quiet vow. He'd go through hell and back to be near her. He'd give his life to protect her.
He'd give everything... to love her.