Buffy shifted her weight on Spike’s lap as she settled in to give him all the details of her triumph in poetry class. It was only with great effort he was able to suppress any sign of the effect her movements had on his raging erection. He didn’t want his lust to ruin this moment. Whether she knew it or not, they had just entered uncharted territory.
Buffy’s grin was apparently contagious. “So tell me,” Spike asked, grinning back at her, “what happened, exactly?”
Since their tryst in Buffy’s bed, Spike’s defenses had been on high alert. Despite the evil façade, he was still a Victorian gentleman deep down in the marrow of his lifeless bones. A relationship based solely on sex, no matter how physically thrilling, would never satisfy the gigantic romantic streak running through his psyche. Now, in little more than a day, he had gone from hoping for a few crumbs to the possibility of securing the whole bloody bakery. Never having given up the human habit of respiration, Spike held his breath, waiting to see if his wildest dream was about to become real.
“The professor read the poem aloud,” she said. “But first he told us to close our books and just listen. I freaked because I thought there’d be no way I’d get it if I couldn’t read along. But I was so wrong. It was better, easier, to just hear it.”
Spike, saying nothing, bobbed his head enthusiastically, encouraging Buffy to continue. “So he read it and I had to just listen. And it was beautiful and I felt it, just like you said. And when the professor asked if anyone had any comments I had a bunch and he just kept nodding and saying “uh-huh” like he agreed with me.”
“And then?” Spike asked cautiously, hoping there was more to the tale.
Buffy’s impossibly wide grin managed to get just a little wider. “Then he checked his seating chart and looked right at me and said, “Nice job, Ms. Summers.” Just like that.”
Spike watched Buffy’s face as she relived the moment, her slightly manic smile softening into an expression of accomplishment. He couldn’t help feeling a bit stunned. That fact she’d run to share this story with him turned all his earlier expectations and suspicions upside down. Whether or not she ever told her Watcher and friends about him suddenly shrunk in importance. This was more than he could have ever hoped for and for once the talkative vampire was completely dumbstruck.
“Hey,” she said, poking Spike in the ribs, “don’t you even want to know which poem it was?”
Spike jumped at the prod, grabbing Buffy around the waist to keep from bouncing her to the floor. “Yeah, of course,” he sputtered, embarrassed at the dreamy-eyed git he could become in the presence of this little girl. “What was the poem and, more importantly, what did you say about it?”
Buffy sighed. “This is weird, you know?” she said, tilting her head and wrinkling her nose. “Here we are talking about school and poetry and stuff. I should be wigged, but I’m not,” she said, brightening again. “This is good, yeah?”
Spike brushed an errant piece of hair away from Buffy’s face. “Yeah,” he said, letting the silky strands slip through his fingers as if in a trance, “this is good, at least for now. Maybe we should just leave it at that and not think about it too much. ”
They were both silent, eyes locked, neither one moving. Spike braced himself for what seemed inevitable. Drawing attention to what they were doing couldn’t be anything but a mistake. He wanted her to see him as a man, not a monster. He had thought this was his chance, a small moment that would make or break whatever future they might have. He wasn’t fooling himself, he never thought his odds were better than one in a million, but to be so close was already a miracle so he’d stupidly hoped for more. “Oh well,” he thought. “It was good while it lasted.”
But once again Buffy was following a different script. “It was ‘The Silken Tent’ by Robert Frost,” she said. “You know it, don’t you?”
Spike laughed, mostly with relief. “No, luv. Robert Frost’s a bit modern for me. And he’s an American,” he added. “The ones I’ve committed to memory are at least a hundred years older and all of them were written by poets from across the pond. Don’t you have a copy?”
“Yeah, I have it,” she said, glancing away as though suddenly shy. “But I want you to read it. I like the way you say poems. Your voice makes them sound more…poemie.”
“I think what you mean is ‘poetic,’” he said. “Give it here, then,” he continued, feigning impatience. “Let me read it through once or twice so I can do it justice.”
Buffy produced the syllabus from her backpack and quickly found the poem in question. “Here it is,” she said, turning the page to face him.
Spike scanned the short poem, his eyes moving slowly across each line. When he finished reading it through the first time, he read it again.
“Alright,” he said. “I think I’ve got the gist. Shall I have a go then?”
“Yes,” Buffy replied, wiggling a bit in anticipation. “Please.”
Spike took a deep breath, mostly to steady himself from Buffy’s inadvertent assault on the painful engorgement in his pants. Suppressing a wince, he held the book up and focused all his attention on the printed words before him. Leaning in slightly to bring his mouth close to Buffy’s ear, he began.
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
Spike’s voice returned once again to its more cultured, formal tones. He took his time, pacing the stanzas with care. Buffy closed her eyes and let the words wash over her.
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
As he read, Spike tried to watch Buffy’s face in his peripheral vision. Her long lashes lay dark against the pale skin beneath her eyes. Her lips pressed lightly together in concentration. He wished he knew the poem by heart so he wouldn’t have to divide his attention between the page before him and watching her lovely face.
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
Lifting his eyes from the page, Spike watched as Buffy sighed deeply before letting her lids lift. “That was great,” she said, dreamily. “You read even better than my Prof’.”
“Thank you,” he said in reply. “It’s a pleasure to read for someone who listens so well.” Reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, he posed the question he was burning to ask. “So, what did you say about the poem?”
Suddenly shy, Buffy looked down for a moment before speaking. “I’ll tell you, but first I want to know if you like it.”
“Like it?” he said, almost sputtering. “It’s bloody brilliant. I’ve a bit of this Frost bloke,, but I didn’t know this one. The fellow is definitely worth a read. Yes, luv, I like it a lot. And I’m grateful, really, to know about it. Thank you for bringing it to me.”
Buffy’s smile was so intense it seemed to radiate out into the room. “I knew you’d be interested,” she said, her voice a little wistful. “I’m not sure I know anyone else who would.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” Spike said, not wanting her to pursue the sad note he could hear in her reply. “Now, will you tell me what earned you that “Nice job, Ms Summers!’?”
“Oh, okay,” she said, turning the book around so she could see the poem. “First I said the poem is about a woman who the poet is comparing to a tent. That was pretty obvious, but he started nodding away so I figured I was on the right track. Then I said she has qualities that don’t seem to go together - strength and flexibility. She is someone with a clear purpose and direction, but she isn’t rigid. I think the thing that really got him was when I said she gets her strength both from her sense of herself – the pole in the poem – and also from all the ties she has to the people she is connected to through love.”
Spike felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. Whether or not she saw the parallels between herself and “The Silken Tent,” he could see Buffy was exactly like the woman described in Frost’s poem - her longevity alone was a testament to the power derived from her circle of family and friends. A circle he could never enter. Try as he might to mask his reactions, Spike’s body went stiff, betraying him.
“What’s wrong,” Buffy asked, her happy smile evaporating to be replaced by a worried frown. Swamped with emotion, Spike was too busy trying to hide his response to see her transformation. Anger, disappointment, and profound sadness converged and Spike was momentarily immobilized. Staring down at his boots, he tried to think of a way out with his dignity intact.
Buffy would have none of that. “Spike, look at me, “she insisted. “You are so dense, you know that?”
Surprised by her tone, Spike managed to look up from his boots, which had proven singularly uninspiring in any event. “What do you mean dense? I think I’ve got the thing pretty well sussed out,” he said, his voice hollow. “You have all the love and support you need. I don’t fit in anywhere and I never will.”
Buffy grabbed his chin and held his eyes level with hers, showing him the tears forming there. “You really don’t get it, do you. I’ve been relying on you for months. Without your help I don’t know what I’d have done,” she said, voice catching. “I may not have known why, but I knew you were there whenever I needed you.”
Spike looked totally confused. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” she started, looking down to search the poem,” I’m saying that you are one of the ‘guys,’ a ‘silken tie,’ you are one of the things that keeps me standing.”
The tide of emotion subsided as quickly as it had come over him. Grateful he hadn’t completely lost it, Spike recovered his composure, his body relaxing.
Buffy sighed. “Okay, now that we have that straightened out,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I was hoping we could get out of here and maybe go somewhere a little more private.”
Never one to dwell on the past, Spike was out of his chair, Buffy in his arms, in the space of a heartbeat. “If you don’t mind traveling via the sewers,” he said, “we can be in my crypt in ten minutes.”
Buffy’s smile returned. “Gee, I thought vampires were supposed to be fast,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “If you’ll put me down and show me the door, I’m sure I could get there in five.”
When her feet hit the floor, Buffy grabbed her backpack and stuffed the poetry syllabus into its largest compartment.
Spike shook his head in wonder as he led her to a narrow opening behind a bookshelf. “You want to race me?” he asked, incredulous. Buffy nodded.
“And what will be the prize when I win?”
Buffy pursed her lips thoughtfully before answering. “How about whoever gets there first can decide who’s on top?”
“Oy! Not fair!” Spike whined. “I can’t run with a rock hard erection.”
But it was too late. Buffy had already disappeared.
Tbc….
A/N: Please review or I won’t let you see what happens when they finish the race!
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This story really is winding to an end soon. Please review though. I love reviews!