Yet when he did start writing, the words had been flowing almost without interruption. He'd cover once piece of paper before tossing it roughly to the side to continue on to the next, forming a scattered pile of drafts. His words—his passion—were raw, and Buffy was in awe as she watched him.
Never before had she known a poet who wrote like Spike. He didn't stop to count the meter or obsess over obtaining the perfect form. Instead, the poetry came from him as if he could not stop it, as if he had too much inside not to allow it to burst forth.
And every word was for her. His longing, his desire, his pain—all for her.
When he'd finally finished, he'd leaned back with a sigh, taking in the sight of the papers scattered around him before he'd turned to Buffy and moved across the room to her without a sound. Quickly, he'd gathered her in his arms, kissing her deeply before he'd carried her back off to his bed.
He'd spent hours there with her, touching her, kissing her, making her feel things she'd never known were possible until she'd been literally dropped into Spike's life.
Now, he was asleep again, curled at her side with his arm draped casually over her waist. A tear rolled down Buffy's cheek as she watched him sleep, a heartbroken smile tugging at her lips.
She had too many questions running through her mind, and not a single answer was to be found. Deciding she needed some advice, she kissed Spike softly atop his head before she slipped from his arms. A shimmering light surrounded her for a moment before her chiton and beaded hairstyle were back in place, then she disappeared from the room in a flash.
Buffy soon located Anya reclining by a fountain, reading. Anya had always seemed to Buffy to be one of the worldlier of her fellow muses, having a practical nature that was uncommon for such a being. Perhaps she could give Buffy the answers she needed.
Anya smiled when she saw Buffy approaching, and set her book aside. "Have you returned from your assignment, or is this another visit?"
"Another visit," Buffy told her friend. She took a seat beside Anya. "And actually, I need some advice."
"I can give advice," Anya replied. "Is your poet still not writing?"
"No, he's writing. He's writing quite a bit, actually. He's very inspired, and I have no doubt he'll be able to get enough poems ready to hand it to his publisher before his deadline."
"That's wonderful!" Suddenly, Anya's bright smile faded. "Only you've still got some sort of problem. What's that all about?"
"I just, um…" Buffy looked down, drawing patterns against the marble floors with the toe of her slipper. "I know we're to remain virgins, but I was wondering what exactly constitutions staying pure. If a man were to say…put his mouth or his hands, you know, there would that be a problem?"
Anya's jaw fell. "Buffy! Has he done these things to you?"
"No. Well, not those things…" Buffy glanced up.
"But he's done something?"
"We've been careful not to break the rules," Buffy insisted. "It's difficult for Spike, but he's been so good about it. But I've been wondering if he could maybe do more. Like the mouth thing. He certainly likes it when I put my mouth on…"
"Buffy! What in the name of all the gods have you been doing?" Anya asked. "You know this is dangerous, don't you? We aren't supposed to have these sorts of relationships with mortals—and for good reason. This is a business relationship, and when you start making it about other stuff, things go haywire."
Buffy looked up completely, meeting Anya's eyes. "But I can't help it. Spike makes me…feel things. He's so handsome and kind, and he makes my body react in the strangest ways."
Anya wrinkled her nose. "But Buffy, he's…human. Humans are inferior to us. All he's going to do is grow old and die, and then where will you be, huh?"
The thought of Spike dying—even many years in the future—made tears rise to Buffy's eyes. "I can't help what I feel for him, Anya!"
"Then get over it." Anya sighed, her tone softening. "Buffy, I'm your friend, so I'm going to give you some friendly advice. Remember who—and what—you are. You have a purpose, a reason for existing—way more than these little humans ever will. They don't even last long enough to have purposes. They're like—flies. They live, and they die, and everything they do in between then is pretty much pointless. But us—we're eternal. When this Spike guy is nothing but dust beneath the earth, we'll still be here, still have purpose." She cleared her throat. "So whatever this is you're feeling for him, get over it, get it out of your system, whatever. If you need him to put his mouth between your legs to figure out what's going on, have at it—you'll still be a virgin. But be careful, Buffy. Think about what you'd be giving up if you let him go any further than that—and what you'd really be getting in return. A pointless, mortal life. No man, no matter how handsome, is worth being subjected to one of those."
Buffy fought back the tears threatening to spill from Anya's words, as she knew her friend was right. She did have a purpose in life, and what right did she have to turn her back on it? She helped people, and being with Spike would mean she couldn't do that anymore. She couldn't let herself be so selfish.
"Thank you, Anya," Buffy said. "I really appreciate your help."
"I'm happy I could be here for you," Anya replied. "And really, do be careful with this one. Finish your job and come home before you get in too deep."
Buffy knew she already was in too deep, but she nodded her head anyway. "I will. Thank you again."
Anya patted Buffy's shoulder, the gesture almost awkward. "Anytime."
Buffy nodded and stood, giving Anya a quick goodbye before she shimmered out of sight, reappearing in the main room of Spike's flat. She started towards his bedroom, but stopped, Anya's advice still fresh in her mind. She needed to focus on what she was sent there to do, not these strange feelings developing between her and her poet. They were only going to lead to badness in the end.
She sat in the corner, her knees pulled to her chin, no longer able to fight back her tears.
When he woke, Spike reached out for Buffy before he even opened his eyes, and frowned when his arm hit a cool mattress. He blinked, his sight now confirming what he felt—Buffy was gone.
He got out of bed and slipped on a pair of jeans before leaving the bedroom, yet stopped abruptly as soon as he saw her. She was curled up in a corner, asleep, yet with tearstains still on her cheeks. He knelt down beside her, shaking her gently until her eyes popped open.
"Spike?"
"Hey, luv. What are you doing out here? I woke up and didn't know where you were." He reached out to touch her face, yet stopped when she flinched away. "Buffy?"
The pain on his face when she pulled back from him stabbed Buffy in the heart, but she knew she had to do the right thing. She was only going to hurt him in the long run anyway. Who was she fooling, thinking they could have anything, even for a little while? She raised her head up, trying to be strong. "I don't think I should share your bed anymore, Spike."
His face fell a little more. "Why, pet?"
Buffy didn't know how to explain it to him. Her purpose called her to move from place to place, to never stay in the life of one poet for too long. How could she keep doing that if she allowed herself to be attached to one man and one man alone? She took a deep breath, then told him, "It's not part of my job."
Buffy's words hit Spike like a physical blow, one of his worst fears suddenly realized. The entire time he'd been intimate with Buffy, he'd worried that she was only letting him do those things to her because she felt obligated. He'd been able to mostly convince himself otherwise from her enthusiastic response to their times together, but now, the doubts were back in full force. She'd spent the night, huddled in the corner—crying—because he'd used her like a whore.
"Pet, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean…"
"No, don't," Buffy told him, reaching out to put her finger against his lips. "It's okay."
She lowered her hand, and Spike hung his head. It wasn't okay at all, and he didn't know how to make it better now.
"Can you write?" Buffy asked, trying to bring the topic back to business. She needed to focus on that before she launched herself back into Spike's arms and begged him to make her feel those wonderful things again. "You still need to get some more poems out before you have enough for your publisher."
"Yeah, I'll write," Spike told her, rising to his feet. He knew if he wrote, it would make her happy, and he wanted to do that for her now.
Buffy smiled, standing as well. "Good." She reached out and took his hand, her knees nearly giving out on her from just the small contact. His skin was so warm, so perfect against hers. "You'll have your manuscript ready soon, Spike. I have faith in you."
Spike smiled back the best he could before he pulled away from her and went over to his pens and paper to start writing.
Over two hours later, Spike still had nothing on paper. The room itself had been painfully silent the entire time, with Buffy simply curled up in a chair, watching him. All Spike could manage to do was chastise himself for hurting her, and because of it, the words wouldn't flow. Before, the time he'd spent in bed with Buffy had been a seemingly-endless source of inspiration, yet now he couldn't look back on it without feeling disgusted with himself.
Frustrated, he crumpled up a blank sheet of paper and threw it at the wall. Buffy jumped at his action and her mouth fell into a grim line. "Spike…"
"I can't bloody write," he said, getting to his feet and running his shaky hands through his hair. "I need to go out for a bit, get some air."
"Should I go with…"
"No," Spike said quickly before Buffy could finish her sentence. "I just need a little bit of time alone."
Buffy's hurt was obvious on her face, and Spike wondered why she even wanted to be around him after what he'd done. He supposed it was because she felt like that was part of her job. Maybe she even thought he was blaming her for his newest round of writers' block.
Spike went over to the chair where Buffy was seated and knelt in front of her, taking her hands gently in his. "Hey, luv, this isn't your fault, all right. I'm probably just tired, is all. A bit of fresh air, a little time alone with my thoughts, and I'll be writing again soon, yeah?"
"So you don't…want to be away from me?"
Spike released one of her hands so he could stroke the side of her hair. "Never, Buffy. I'll be back soon."
Buffy nodded her assent and Spike rose to his feet before going into his bedroom to dress.
Spike walked down to the cemetery, hoping he could find the sort of peace he normally did there and clear up his thoughts a bit.
He couldn't. His mind was whirling with thoughts of Buffy, both self-loathing for treating her the way he had as well as desire for her to let him do it all over again—which of course, only lead to more of the self-loathing.
He leaned against a large statue over an old grave, wishing he knew an easy way to deal with all of this. He knew it was probably wrong to want Buffy the way he did. She was a muse, a direct agent for the Powers That Be. Obviously, physical relationships were off-limits or her status as a muse wouldn't be dependant on her virginity. For all he knew, he'd already messed things up for her. What if she was stuck back in that file room she hated so much as punishment for what she'd done with him? He'd never be able to forgive himself if he'd caused her any further suffering.
The longer he stayed out the more obvious it became to Spike that he wasn't going to get to clear his head. Furthermore, the longer he was gone, the more he wanted to be near Buffy again. He shouldn't—especially after the way he'd treated her—but he couldn't help it. She'd gotten in his blood, and he couldn't help but crave her.
With a resigned sigh, he started back towards his flat.
It's just a little bit of angst, I promise. Please review?