Chapter 25
Buffy woke up snuggled comfortably against Spike. This was the second time she'd ended up sleeping with him after crying in his arms, and the second time she'd slept wonderfully and woken up feeling refreshed. Like things were going to be okay.
Careful not to wake him, Buffy got out of bed and got dressed. She ran a comb through her tangled hair, then grabbed the money Spike had left her and went shopping.
She had originally thought that she'd have to make do with just a couple of cheap changes of clothes, plus the toiletries she needed. It turned out, however, that Spike had left her a little more than three hundred dollars.
Her eyes lit up at the thought of all the shopping she could do. She could get herself some really nice stuff. But after she thought about it, she realized that she'd feel bad spending Spike's money on stuff she didn't really need. She'd stick to reasonably priced stuff; just get herself what she'd be likely to need while she was in L.A.
Buffy started her blitz of the stores. She moved from store to store, looking for the best deals. Since her parent's divorce, Buffy had learned how to get stylish clothes cheap. She didn't just buy stuff for herself, though. She also bought clothes for Spike. After all, he didn't have anything with him either.
She was tempted to improve on his style, but she had a feeling the two of them would find enough to fight about in L.A. without adding fashion to the list. So she just got him some plain black t-shirts and jeans.
She found a store that sold her brand of shampoo and conditioner. As she was grabbing the bottles, she noticed another brand that had a citrus scent. It was a cheap one, and there was no way she'd use it on her hair, but it gave her an idea. She started looking for an orange scented body wash. She had to go to three different shops before she found one that really did smell like oranges.
"Is it a gift?" the clerk asked as she wrung Buffy up.
"Huh?" Buffy asked.
"I just thought maybe it was a gift. Usually when people come in looking for a specific scent, but they don't know the brand, it's a gift."
"No, it's for me. I just wanted a change," Buffy said.
She hurried out of the store. 'Stupid salesperson, with her stupid questions,' Buffy thought, trying not to think about why she had decided to change what body soap she used.
She had most of what she needed, but she still had money left. It occurred to her that she should get a gift for Spike. Even if it was his money, it seemed the right thing to do. She would pay him back anyway, although she wasn't sure how. But she would find a way, and then it really would be a real gift.
The problem was, she didn't know what to get him. Suddenly the mall seemed incredibly preppy. What could she possibly find here that Spike would like? What did Spike like anyway?
She wandered from shop to shop, aimlessly. Hoping that something would reach out and grab her. That was how she found herself in a store that sold cheap jewelry and accessories, and looking at a black leather, studded dog collar. It was the only remotely Spike like thing she had seen in the whole mall, but she couldn't really see him wearing it. It was simply the most rebellious thing she'd seen in the mall.
"I hope you have the boots to go with that," a husky voice said in her ear.
Spike put his hands on her waist as he slid up behind her. Buffy could imagine what she might be wearing in his head and tried not to blush.
"I would never wear this," Buffy stammered, trying to sound stern.
"Is it for me then, luv? Thinking of chaining me to the bed?" he teased her.
Buffy could no longer keep from blushing as the thought of Spike naked, and chained to the bed in his crypt, crept into her mind.
"I was just looking. And I'm done anyway. So let's go."
"Not quite done yet. Come with me."
He led her out of the store, and through the mall to another shop that sold women's clothing. He led her straight to the department that had the formal dresses.
"What. . ?" she started to ask.
"Look, pet," he interrupted. "Sunnydale's not exactly a cultural mecca. Figure since we are here in L.A. anyway, I should take you out nice and proper. Take you to see a show. Any show you like, even if it's bloody Cats." He rolled his eyes.
"Any show I like?"
He sighed. "Whatever you want. Now get yourself a dress."
Buffy smiled at the thought of buying herself a new fancy dress. Especially from a stylish establishment like the one Spike had picked.
"Well?" Buffy asked when Spike just stood there.
"What?"
"I can't pick out a dress with you standing there. It's no fun if you see it ahead of time."
Spike thought it over for a minute, handed her some more money, and left the store. She saw him move out into the mall and hang about some benches while looking menacing and aloof.
Giddily Buffy dove into the racks. At first she worried about what sort of dress would be appropriate to wear in front of Spike. She worried again about color and cut, and what signals they might send. But all of that just gave her a headache. She knew she'd never find the right dress that way. So she put it out of her mind that the dress was for Spike, and simply chose one for herself.
Finally she found her dress, paid for it, and rejoined Spike outside.
"Finished?" he asked impatiently.
"Yes. Do we still have the hotel room?" He nodded. "Good, I want to shower again and change."
They headed back to the hotel.
After a few moments of silence Buffy asked, "So you don't like Cats?"
He looked at her from the corner of his eye, "The only good thing about it, is that most people think that that Andrew Lloyd Weber bloke wrote it. Even so, they ruined Rhapsody on a Windy Night."
"Huh?" Buffy asked. She had no idea what he was talking about. If Andrew Lloyd Weber hadn't written Cats who had? She was pretty sure it wasn't Rogers and Hammerstein.
"Rhapsody on a Windy Night? T.S. Eliot?"
When she still gave him a blank look he gave her his, 'You really don't know anything,' look. They had moved into the garage that was shared by the hotel and the mall. Spike stopped, closed his eyes, and began to recite:
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
His voice had shifted. It softened. His accent changed, became what Buffy thought sounded more proper. Almost like Giles'. Spike had opened his eyes, but it was as if he was looking at a vision that only he could see. Or maybe reading from a book that only he knew of.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crow of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength had left
hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life,"
The last twist of the knife.
For a moment, they were both caught in the same trance. Then suddenly Spike moved. He tucked his thumbs through his belt and looked around, embarrassed.
"Right, well. Doesn't matter," he mumbled. He set off in the direction of the hotel again as if he was in a big hurry.
"Wow," Buffy said, running to catch up to him. "How'd you learn all that?"
"People used to do that, you know. Before television. Learn things. And I didn't stop reading once I died you know."
"Oh." She didn't know what to say. "It was nice. I don't know that I get it. But it was nice," she encouraged him.
"Just forget about it." He stopped suddenly, and Buffy almost ran into his back. He spun around to look at her, his eyes glinting golden. "Not a word to Angelus."
Buffy almost corrected him, but he was too serious. If she didn't know better, she'd almost say he was scared. So she nodded.
"I promise. Not a word."
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