The previously forgotten tax form lay on the table in front of her as Buffy told Spike what had actually brought her to the library. Somehow telling Spike made her realize that her grumpy reaction to the whole tax business was really about a lot of other things too. As she talked she remembered that Willow had been pretty dismissive about her tax worries and Giles had accused her of whining. So, instead of talking with one of her friends, here she was spilling her guts to Spike of all non-people. How strange was that?
“I’m just so tired of not being able to be anybody but the Slayer. I’m supposed to be a sister, but I never have any time to be with Dawn. And when I am around I’m too tired to be any good at it.” Buffy struggled to keep her voice even. It felt good to say it out loud, and she just didn’t care that her sounding board also happened to be her archenemy. “And I’m supposed to be a student, but I barely make it to classes. I’m taking a class on poetry. Okay, I admit I took it because I figured I’d have a better chance of doing the reading because poems are way shorter than books, but I don’t think I’ve been to two classes in a row, and I’m behind on at least one assignment that I know of. I was supposed to read a poem and analyze it. Of course, I had to clean out a nest of Gorblek demons the afternoon I would have learned how to analyze a poem. So I didn’t do it.”
Spike didn’t say anything. He just looked at her in this odd, kind of open way that made her want to continue talking. Buffy was keenly aware that nothing in his demeanor suggested that he would judge her or try to minimize her complaints. He was just listening, attentively -- as though he had all the time in the world.
Buffy looked down at her hands. “It just doesn’t seem fair that I have all this responsibility for keeping the world safe all the time. I don’t expect to have a normal life. I know that’s so not in the cards for me. But I’d like at least a little normal every once in awhile.”
She looked up again and was a little surprised to find Spike still looking at her in the same accepting, uncritical way. ‘This is weird,’ she thought, ‘but also good. He’s acting so… Oh, my God! He’s acting like he cares about me!’
The revelation hit her with sudden force. He was giving her his full attention without any qualifications. She didn’t have to be strong for him. She didn’t have to be the Slayer. Feeling cared for -- without conditions -- was so completely unexpected, so not of the normal, that it broke the dam holding her carefully controlled emotions in check. If she’d had time she would have run away before he could see what this simple act of warm regard could do to her. But she didn’t have time. There was no warning. Before she could bolt and protect her tough girl reputation, the tears were falling fast, her body doubled over with sobs.
The whole time Buffy was talking Spike experienced waves of turmoil. She’d sat down. She was sitting right there. God she was beautiful. And sad. She was so sad about not being able to just be a girl. His impulse to comfort her was overwhelming. But it made no sense. ‘I’m a fucking master vampire. She is the vampire slayer. There is no universe in which it makes sense that I want to make her feel better. Except this one, apparently.’
Buffy looked up at him again. Her eyes were a little shiny, and it looked like she was trying to smile. But then her face just crumpled as her body convulsed. For a fraction of a second Spike thought she’d sustained some sort of physical attack. It wasn’t until he registered her tear-streaked face that he realized Buffy the Vampire Slayer was crying.
Spike’s vampire speed betrayed his better instincts, and before he knew what he was doing he had his hand curled over hers and was already speaking, “I could help, you know.”
Buffy’s sobbing stopped almost as quickly as it had begun and she tried to imagine what he could have said that sounded so much like, “I could help.”
She pulled her sleeve over her free hand and used it to wipe quickly at her tears before she looked at him in confusion. “What?”
“I could help you, you know, with the assignment.”
“Assignment?” Buffy had already forgotten what she was talking about just before she looked up and got the catharsis-inducing care-o-gram. But Spike didn’t know that she was crying about being the recipient of a little unconditional love and not about failing her poetry class.
“I-I’ve read a bit of poetry in my day,” he tried to explain, “That’s what I was reading when you barged in.” Spike indicated the book he’d set down, still open, on the library table. “I could show you how to analyze a poem. Then you could do the assignment that you missed. Be all 'normal girl,' as you might say.”
His hand was still over hers. Her pulse was going mad, and he longed to just keep holding her slender fingers. But the intense wrongness of the picture they made was undeniable. With a sheepish look, he slowly retracted his hand as he tried to create a distraction to cover the fact that he’d touched her at all.
“But there’s one condition,” he began, straightening in his chair and leveling Buffy with a decidedly cooler gaze. “You can’t tell a soul. It’s bad enough I can’t hunt humans anymore, but if word got out that I’m helping them with their homework it would shoot what little rep’ I’ve got left all to hell.”
Buffy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Y-you read poetry?”
“Yes, Slayer, that's what I was just saying. See, this book right here? Poetry.”
“Read me some.”
Now it was Spike’s turn to be surprised. “Huh?”
“Please. Just read me the poem you were reading. I agree to all the conditions. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Wouldn’t do my reputation much good either, would it? So, will you read to me?" Buffy leaned slightly forward in her chair and fixed Spike with an expectant, almost pleading expression.
“Y-you mean you want to start right now?”
“Why not?” She straightened and looked at him with resolve. “Like you said, I don’t have any time to waste, expiration date and all.”
He started at Buffy’s matter-of-fact acknowledgement of her mortality. “Oh, Buffy, don’t say that.”
“Why? It’s true isn’t it?” Buffy squinted at him intently. “And what’s with calling me Buffy all of a sudden?”
Surprised himself at the use of her given name, Spike tried to suppress a stutter when he answered. “I-I don’t know. You’re not like any other Slayer. Maybe it doesn’t apply to you.”
“Doesn’t matter, I still want you to read to me.”
“Okay, but let me find something else…” Spike started to reach for the book, determined NOT to read the poem he’d been reading to himself. But Buffy was too quick, and she had it in her hands before he got to it.
“No,” she insisted, “I want the one you were reading. I could tell you liked it a lot. I’d like to understand why.” She looked down onto the page before her. “It’s called ‘The Triple Fool,’ see, this is great, I’m already lost. I have no idea what even the title means.”
“Oi, Slayer, it’s not the best choice for what we’re doing.”
“Why not? It’s a poem. Read it. Come on, you said you’d help.” Buffy thrust the book toward him on the table.
“Bossy bint, aren’t you? Don’t you need your notebooks and pens and whatnot?”
“Spike, stop stalling. This can just be a warm-up. You can start with the serious teaching later. Just read it to me. Please?”
Tbc…