As Spike finally appeared to acquiesce, Buffy felt a profound sense of relief. Her crying jag had caught her unprepared, and she knew that it would have gone on much longer if Spike hadn’t rescued her. Were a powerful Maj to appear and put the truth mojo on her, Buffy would have to admit that it was his touch that had done the trick. Even as she argued with Spike about reading to her, Buffy could feel the path that a tiny bolt of lightening had taken from her hand directly to her very center. Although he’d already removed it, an echo remained of his cool hand on her fingers, and she felt equal parts delight and dismay at the pleasure it gave her. But nothing short of big magic was going to get her to acknowledge a truth so strange and disturbing. Without missing a beat, Buffy seized onto Spike’s offer of academic help both to end the emotional tailspin that had her blubbering like a two-year old in front of William the Bloody and to cover the real reason she was able to stop. In possession of a face-saving way to staunch the embarrassing tears, Buffy wasn’t about to let go without a fight -- all the more so because she saw an opportunity to satisfy some of her curiosity about him.
Spike, too, was relieved, although her insistence on reading that particular poem felt a little like jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. He was happy to focus Buffy’s attention on anything but the aberrant actions that had brought them to this bizarre but companionable interlude. Though he could feel his grip slipping with every passing second, Spike was trying mightily to hang onto a shred of his Big Bad persona.
“Right then, Slayer. I’ll read you the bloody poem,” he sighed as he reached for the book. “Now don’t worry if it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense the first time through. Just listen and try to get a feel for it. It’s not written in the kind of language you're used to, but you’ll get the sense of it alright if you give it a chance. Ready?”
Buffy wiggled around a bit and made a show of getting comfortable in her chair, raising her eyebrows expectantly to indicate that she was indeed ready. Spike silently gasped at the fission of excitement that her movements sent coursing through him. Then he picked up the book, looking down at the page for a moment to steady himself.
“This one’s called ‘The Triple Fool,’” he said, “It’s by John Donne.”
Spike took a deep breath, cleared his throat and, finally, he was reading.
I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where's that wise man, that would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Spike kept his eyes locked on the page, afraid they would betray the extent to which he identified with the poem. For her part, Buffy had no clue what the words mean, but she was immediately arrested by his voice. He was speaking in a lower register than usual, with a resonance she’d never heard from him before. It was a different accent, rounder and more lyrical than how he usually spoke. This voice wrapped around her like an embrace. She started to wonder if this was how he’d sounded before he was turned.
Spike read several lines before he noticed that he’d slipped effortlessly into his original diction, the voice of a young Victorian gentleman with an Oxford education. Reading a poem in that voice let him re-inhabit a part of himself so long dormant he’d nearly forgotten it existed. Back then, so long ago, he’d longed to read a poem like this to a beautiful girl. He read to his mother many evenings, but she preferred pastoral and spiritual poetry, nothing of romance or passion. While Dru loved to hear him read, she had no patience for real poetry, preferring nursery rhymes, doggerel, or the occasional limerick. Spike had learned them all for her, but never found her a willing audience for any of the many love poems he’d committed to memory.
Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.
In order to concentrate better on Spike’s voice, Buffy closed her eyes. Lost in his deep baritone, she noticed that this more cultured pronunciation sounded almost exactly like Giles, just deeper. Listening to this voice made it possible to imagine Spike in tailored tweeds, maybe some sort of cravat tied at his throat, instead of black denim and cotton jersey. She still had only the slightest notion of the poem’s meaning, but she wouldn’t have interrupted him with a question for the world.
If it was possible for a vampire to blush Spike was sure his face would be flaming. Luckily for him, borrowed blood doesn’t work like the native article. He heard Buffy’s increased heartbeat, but wasn't sure what it meant. He didn't want to underestimate her, but he doubted she’d twig to the meaning of the poem, at least not on the first pass. Part of him hoped she’d never figure out why this was among his favorites.
But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain;
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
Spike glanced up from the page to steal a look at his audience. He was stunned to find Buffy’s eyes closed. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she had a delicious piece of chocolate melting in her mouth. Her expression was one of intense concentration and pleasure. Had he known she was responding almost entirely to his voice, rather than to what he was reading, he’d have been even more confused. Unable to tear his eyes away from her face, he recited the final lines of the poem from memory.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.
Several beats of silence followed the echo of the last word. Buffy’s eyes fluttered open to find Spike’s staring straight into them. She was motionless, her eyes never leaving his as the silence seemed to blossom between them.
She had admired his beauty earlier when she had watched him reading to himself. This was different. When she looked at him now, it was as if he were completely exposed to her, as if all his masks were removed. She could detect not one molecule of guile, no pretence, and most surprisingly, no protection. The ultimate predator had let down his guard and bared himself to the one creature on earth pledged to destroy him.
Buffy was a little lost, bereft even, now that he had stopped reading, but Spike remained motionless. Paralyzed, he waited for her to say the cruel or indifferent word that would stab a metaphorical stake through his heart. Even with the certainty that she would relish this opportunity to crush him, he was still powerless to replace the swaggering armor that he usually wore.
“Is that all?” Buffy asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yes.”
“More tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Same time?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Buffy brought her fingers to her mouth, kissed them and reached out to press the kiss onto Spike’s lips. Then she was gone -- out of her chair, across the library and out the door in the blink of an eye.
Dumbfounded, Spike touched his fingers to his mouth for a moment. Then he picked up the tax form, folded it, and placed it in his hip pocket.
Tbc….