At his declaration, Buffy promptly burst into tears.
"Hey now, pet, why the crying?" Spike asked as she reached to the side and put his arm around her.
"I'm a terrible muse!" Buffy exclaimed. "The worst!"
"Oh, come now, luv, I'm sure that's not true."
"It is!" Buffy insisted, sniffling. "You can't write anything."
"That's not your fault," Spike told her. "I couldn't write before you got here either."
"And I was supposed to help with that," Buffy told him. "But I can't. I'm a failure!"
"You're not a failure. You've just got assigned to a bad poet, is all."
Buffy shook her head. "No. A good muse can inspire anyone to create something beautiful, but me? My biggest claim to fame is that I was the muse for a man who's now regarded as the worst poet in the English language."
"Now that has to be stretching it a bit," Spike replied.
"Nope. Listen to this." Buffy cleared her throat and began to recite.
"Little Fido's master had to go on a long journey,
So Fido followed her master, and ran cheerfully,
And often the master would speak kindly to the dog,
As along the road together they did jog.
"Her master rode on a very beautiful steed,
And Fido followed behind at slow speed,
And so they traveled on and on,
And the road was dusty, and they felt woe-begone.
"The sun shone hot, and the horse was covered with sweat,
And poor Fido was tired and began to fret,
And she felt so tired that no farther could she go,
So Fido lay down and whined with her heart full of woe."
Spike winced, holding up his hand to stop her from speaking anymore. "Okay, I get the idea, but pet, you can't hold yourself responsible for some bloke writing horrible poetry."
"My bosses sure can," Buffy told him. "That's how I got stuck in the file room. And now, you're my last chance. If I can't get you to finish your manuscript in time to get it to your publisher by your deadline, I'll be relegated to the file room for the rest of eternity. And I mean the rest of eternity."
Spike was quiet for a moment, trying to absorb the shock of what she'd just disclosed. He hadn't thought Buffy could have so much riding on him being able to write. If he couldn't come up with a manuscript for a viable book of poetry, it wasn't just his career at stake. He'd be condemning Buffy.
Talk about pressure…
"Look, maybe I haven't been able to write since you got here because I've been trying too hard. How about we take the night off, yeah? Relax a bit, maybe go somewhere and have a little fun."
"Would that help you write?"
"It could," Spike told her. "I've gotten ideas for some of my best poems when I wasn't thinking about it."
Spike was glad to see her smile return. "Then let's go out."
"All right then, pet. But we're going to have to do something about your clothes. Not that what you're wearing isn't lovely, but…"
"Oh, don't worry. I was briefed on the proper style of dress here before I came." Buffy stood up, a bright light shimmering around her for a moment before it went away and Spike saw that her clothes had indeed changed. Instead of the chiton she'd worn ever since she'd arrived, she was now wearing a short, black skirt, knee-high leather boots and a light blue halter-top. The intricately-beaded hairstyle she normally wore had been replaced as well, and now her long, blonde hair simply fell in waves around her shoulders.
"Is this good?" Buffy asked.
Spike swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden twitching in his jeans at the sight of her now. He hadn't been able to get a good look at her legs before, but now they were much clearer. "Yeah, pet, that's good," he told her when he'd found his voice again.
"So now we can go someplace where you can not think about writing in order to be able to write?" Buffy asked hopefully.
Spike chuckled at her question, forcing himself to push down the lust the sight of her dressed the way she was had stirred in him. For one thing, he knew she had the ability to read at least part of his thoughts, and he wasn't sure how she'd respond to knowing what he was thinking now. Did muses have policies about that sort of thing?
He shook his head, and decided to forget about it. She was here to help him write, not to relieve his sexual frustrations. "Just let me get myself a bit more presentable, and we'll go."
"I'll wait for you here," Buffy told him, her bright smile firmly in place again.
Spike couldn't help but smile back.
Buffy looked around as they walked down the street together, her eyes wide as she took in the sights of London. It had been so long since she'd seen this city, and it amazed her how even with as much that had changed, so much had managed to stay the same. She liked that. It made her seem less out of place.
She ventured a look at the man beside her. She'd thought from the beginning that his hair was a very strange color, almost white despite the fact that he didn't look at all like an old man. Buffy wondered if perhaps he'd had an accident that wasn't mentioned in his file. Regardless, she'd found she'd come to like the color, deciding it suited him. It made the dark blue of his eyes stand out even more with their stark contrast to his hair.
She was also lamenting that he'd re-covered his chest before they'd left his flat. His chest had been a truly beautiful sight, reminding her of the statues in the Great Hall back home. Buffy had enjoyed watching him as he tried to write, the movement of his muscles beneath his skin making her tingle in the most unusual—yet strangely enjoyable—way. Perhaps it was better he was fully covered now. Maybe watching him had distracted her so much that she hadn't been able to be properly inspiring.
However, when she realized where Spike had taken her, Buffy's admiration quickly switched to annoyance. She stopped short, her hands firmly on her hips. "This is that pub again!" she exclaimed in outrage.
"Yeah, it is. What of it?" Spike asked.
"You just wanted to go drinking again! You tricked me!"
Spike laughed. "Pet, I'm not here just to drink tonight. I've got mates that come here too, for socializing and the like. I thought it might help to be around other people."
Buffy eyed him warily, but decided to go along. "Okay, but don't make me have to drag you home. A little drinking is fine, but I don't want you so drunk you can't hold your pen."
"I'll remember that," Spike said with another laugh. "Now come on, and you can meet my mates."
All eyes had been on Buffy from the moment they'd walked into the pub, and she'd very quickly had everyone captivated. She'd almost immediately taken to darts, and Spike wondered if she either had practice from the last time she'd been out of her file room or if she was using some sort of magic. Either way, none of the men she was playing with seemed in the least bit bothered to be losing to her.
After the third game, Spike decided he wanted to rest a bit. "I'm going to sit for a while, pet. Right over there." He pointed to an empty booth.
"Do you want me to sit with you?" Buffy asked.
"No, you keep playing. You've been having a good time."
He could tell Buffy was torn. She didn't want to sit down, yet she felt like it was her job to accompany him. Spike decided to try to assure her that it was okay for her to stay. "I'll be fine just watching you, pet," he told her. "That's right inspiring in itself."
"It is?" Buffy asked.
"Yeah, it is."
"Okay. I'll stay here then," Buffy said with a smile.
"Have fun, luv." Spike picked up his pint and walked over to the booth. True to his word, he kept his eyes on Buffy, enjoying being able to observe her from afar. Even in the hazy light of the pub, she seemed to shine, a glow about her that Spike decided must be attributed to her otherworldliness.
"That's quite a little spitfire you've brought with you tonight, William. She seems to have cleaned out my pockets, and yet I can't find it in myself to care."
Spike looked up at the man who had slid in across from him in the booth. "That she is, Rupes. Can't say I've ever met a bird quite like that one."
Rupert Giles had been Spike's professor during the short time he'd attended university, and even following that he'd served as the younger man's mentor. Giles had even played a rather influential role in getting Spike published in the first place.
"Well, I do say I'm glad you met her. I was worried about you, alone in that flat all the time, pining away for Drusilla," Giles replied.
Spike shook his head. "She's not my girlfriend."
Giles frowned, Spike's statement surprising him a great deal. "Then who is she?"
For a moment, Spike contemplated the question and how to answer. He probably should've just gone with the girlfriend thing, though he'd never liked the idea of lying to Rupert. The truth, however, was something that would be hard to explain.
He decided to try anyway. He wanted to talk to someone about this sudden and bizarre turn in his life, and who better to do that with than his old mentor?
Spike leaned forward, speaking quietly so only Giles could hear him. "Buffy's my muse."
Giles sighed and removed his glasses, a gesture Spike had come to be familiar with whenever Rupert was upset or annoyed. "William, please don't tell me you've started this up again. It was the same thing with Drusilla. You focused so much on her being the one that inspired all of your poetry that as soon as she left, you couldn't write a thing."
Spike shook his head. "No. You're not getting it, mate. Buffy is literally my muse. As in sent from on High to get me over my writer's block."
For a moment, all Giles could do was gape. Then finally, he asked, "How much have you been drinking lately?"
"I haven't been drunk. Okay, so I was when she first showed up, and I thought she was probably a hallucination, but I'm sober now, and she's still here—plus other people can see her, so unless this is mass hysteria, she's real."
"William, of course the girl herself is real. That's not what I'm questioning. But there's no way she can be an actual muse. That's bloody ridiculous. Granted, she's a very charming, attractive young woman, but…"
"There's more to it than that, Rupert," Spike said. "She can do stuff…like magic. Like tonight, before we came here she was in this girly toga thing, and then poof—that outfit she's got on now. And she just appears out of nowhere sometimes. Plus there's the super strength thing, and she turned my Sex Pistols album into bleedin' classical music. With just a wave of her little hand!"
The look on Rupert's face made it clear that he didn't believe a word Spike had just said. "Will, you know as well as I do none of that can be real."
"And two days ago, I would've said yes, but I'm telling you, this girl is the genuine article."
Giles arched his eyebrow. "And so you're now magically over your writer's block as well?"
"No, that's the problem," Spike replied, shaking his head. "I'm just as blocked as I was before. And Buffy, well, apparently she's gotten into some trouble in the past, and is now on muse probation or some such. I'm her last chance."
"William, I'm saying this to you as a friend. I believe you need to talk to a psychiatrist. Obviously, your stress from not being able to write has made you reach your breaking point."
Spike sighed in frustration. "Giles, I'm not Dru, all right? I don't see little pixies talking to me all the bloody time." Spike frowned, his experience with Buffy making him wonder if his ex had truly been as insane as he'd believed, but dropped the thought when he realized it didn't really matter at the moment anyway. "Am I stressed? Sure. Am I crazy? No. I know what I've seen Buffy do, Rupert, and there's no way she could do those things and not be what she says she is."
"William, I don't…"
"Rupes, stop thinking like the old stick-in-the-mud you are, and actually look at the chit."
Giles sighed heavily, but decided to oblige Spike by turning around and watching Buffy for a moment. "I suppose she is rather…shiny, but a muse?"
"She's fleecing every one of those men of their hard-earned dosh, and none of them cares a whit. Hell, they're happily handing it over to her. Tell me that isn't strange. And she's not the only good-looking bird in a short skit to ever waltz into this place either."
Giles frowned as he watched what Spike was talking about. He did have a point… Giles knew he hadn't cared much himself when he'd lost to Buffy. She'd just been so charming, that… He frowned. Was it possible what his former student was telling him was true? It couldn't be…an actual muse right there in London was completely unfathomable.
Still, he'd known William a very long while, and while he'd been a bit unpredictable at times, the young man had never been completely barmy. Logic and trust in an old friend warred inside of him, until he finally lifted his glass and said, "If this girl really is your muse, William, then I hope she inspires you well."
Spike lifted his glass and touched it to Rupert's. That was something he could drink to.
Sadly, the poem Buffy recites is a real one, and yes, the poet is regarded by many as the worst poet in the English language. His name is William McGonagall, and if you're interested in some of his other, uh, works, they can be found here: http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/
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