Well, however she'd gotten there, Buffy certainly didn't mind that she had. Spike's bed was warm and comfortable, and when she turned her nose against the pillow, she could catch the lingering traces of his scent. It was a mixture of leather, tobacco, and soap wrapped up with a rich, masculine scent that Buffy could only associate with Spike. It was nice, comforting.
In part, Buffy wanted to stay right where she was. She couldn't remember a time when she felt this relaxed, and she hated to leave such a warm, safe haven. However, she had a job to do, and she already didn't know how long she'd slept and left Spike without a muse when he needed one the most.
She sat up, then slid off the edge of the bed, her slipper-covered feet touching the wood floors without a sound. Buffy went down the hall, and her heart leapt when she saw Spike on the floor by his couch, papers spread around him—papers with writing on them.
He looked up when he noticed she had come in, a wide grin across his face. "Buffy! I'm writing—look!"
Buffy clapped her hands and squealed with delight before she hurried over to his side and saw that he already had several drafts of a poem surrounding him. "I'm so proud of you, Spike," she told him. "You got over your block and you didn't even need me to do it."
Spike looked at her sharply then, his smile fading. "What do you mean, I didn't need you?"
"I was asleep when you started writing, so…"
Spike cut her off by pulling on her hands so she was kneeling, their eyes level now. "Buffy, this poem—it's inspired by you, pet. I found you in sleeping in here this morning, and I carried you into the bed so you'd be more comfortable. Then I looked at you, sleeping so peacefully with the sunlight streaming over you, and god, Buffy, I'd never seen anything so beautiful in my life. You took my breath away, and then you gave me back my words."
He snatched his most recent draft off the top of the pile and handed it to her. Buffy read it silently to herself, tears filling her eyes as she did. It was about her. He'd written of the moment he'd just described to her so beautifully that it made her heart ache. In all the time she's spent as a muse, no poet had ever spoken of her with so much passion. Every word, every emotion there on the page was completely raw.
"Do you like it?" Spike asked, his voice uncharacteristically timid.
"Oh, Spike, I love it," Buffy replied. "It's the most beautiful poem I've ever read."
To her surprise, he blushed. "I don't think I'd go that far."
"I would," Buffy said as she handed the poem back to him, hesitating for just a moment before she let it go. "I've watched you, and how you try to be hard on the outside, and I…" Buffy lowered her eyes. "I think it makes the true softness in your heart even more beautiful."
"Buffy…"
Her name on his lips was gentle, and Buffy looked up to meet his eyes again. She saw something there that sent a shock right through her, though she didn't understand it enough to put a name to it. "I've known a lot of poets before, and so many of them have been pretentious and arrogant, writing because they think it makes them better than others, part of a literary elite," she told him. "They choose styles for their difficulty or rarity, so they can go brag to all their friends about their 'brilliant' Petrarchan sonnet. But you don't seem like that at all. I think you write because you have to, because your heart becomes so full, that you have to let it out somehow."
Spike stared at her, mouth agape. No one had ever understood him that way before. He supposed Buffy should, being his muse and all, but it touched him deeply all the same.
Their eyes locked, several moments passing around them, though between them, time seemed to stand still. Buffy felt something she didn't ever remember feeling before, wanted something she didn't understand. Scared of what it could be, Buffy pulled away. "I should…let you write more."
Disappointed that the moment had ended, but still knowing it probably should have, Spike nodded. "Yeah. Don't want to waste any of this inspiration."
Buffy picked up his pen from where he'd dropped it on the ground and placed it back in his hand.
Spike leaned back against the couch, looked out over all the drafts of his poem surrounding him, and let out a deep breath. He'd done it. He'd gotten over his block. Granted, it was only one poem, but one poem was better than what he'd had before.
Now, he needed a break.
"Fancy a bit of a walk, pet?" Spike asked, craning his neck so he could look at Buffy where she was seated on the couch.
"You need some fresh air?" Buffy asked.
Spike smiled at her. "That's it."
"Okay. I'll change my clothes again." Buffy closed her eyes, surrounding herself with a shimmering light the way she had night before, only this time instead of the skirt and halter, she was wearing jeans and a simple shirt.
Spike didn't think she looked any less stunning.
"You look good, luv," Spike told her, loving the way Buffy beamed at the praise. "Just let me get myself looking presentable, and take you to a place where I like to go to think, all right?"
Buffy's smile grew, making it clear that she liked that idea. "All right. I'll wait right here for you." She sat back down on the couch as Spike left to get ready.
"This is where you come to think?"
Spike turned towards Buffy, taking in her frown and wrinkled nose. "Yeah. What of it?"
"It's…it's a cemetery."
"Well, yeah. Good place to find a bit of peace and quiet. Sides, place like this, it makes you think." Spike pushed open the creaky metal gate, reciting as he did. "So we go inside and we gravely read the stones. All those people, all those lives, where are they now? With loves, and hates, and passions just like mine. They were born, and then they lived, and then they died."
"You didn't write that," Buffy replied as she followed him into the graveyard.
"No, I didn't. That would be a bloke who goes by the name of Morrissey. But I suppose with you being locked up in that file room for so long you wouldn't know The Smiths from Maggie Smith."
Buffy shook her head. "I don't know any of those people."
"I'll play some of The Smiths for you later, yeah?"
"Are they anything like those horrible Sex Pistols?" Buffy asked, her nose crinkled in disgust. "Because that was a terrible noise."
Spike chuckled. "They're a bit softer, luv. I think you'll like them."
"Okay, I'll listen to them then," Buffy replied with a nod. Then, she was all business again. "So what do you do to get inspired in a cemetery?"
"I take advantage of the peace and quiet," Spike replied. He hesitated for a moment before reaching down and taking her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. "Walk with me for a bit."
Buffy felt a strange, unfamiliar tingling travel from her hand up her arm at his touch. None of her other poets had been quite as…tactile as Spike, and she wasn't used to the physical contact. Still, it wasn't something she felt prepared to stop. Her hand felt safe and warm in his, and she didn't want to pull away. It was just holding hands—that wasn't crossing the boundaries set between poet and muse.
They walked slowly through the graveyard, taking the time to stop at the tombs and read what had been etched into the stones. Buffy was surprised to find herself understanding why Spike would come here to think. It was quiet, and there was a definite feeling of peace.
"You know, all these graves, and when I'm here, I'm not thinking about death," Spike said, tracing with his free hand the name of a man who had died over a century before he'd even been born. "Makes me think about life. It's only a matter of time before all of us end up here, and thinking about that makes it seem all the more precious. Time's limited, so you gotta enjoy it while you can. We've only got one shot to make the most of it."
"Sometimes I envy humans for that," Buffy admitted softly. "I hear so many of them go on about wanting immortality, but really? Not so great. After a while you just…go numb."
Spike's hand dropped from the grave marker and to his side. "You feel numb?"
"There's no other way for me to feel," Buffy replied honestly. "I exist solely to help others. I'm not allowed a life of my own—ever. I…" She stopped. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking like this. It can't be inspiring."
"No, luv, it's all right. Talk to me if you need to. I'll listen."
Buffy's serious expression lasted for only a moment before her usual bubbly smile was back in place. "Nope, I don't need to talk at all. I'm just happy to be your muse." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
"Buffy…"
"Really, Spike. All I want right now is to help you. It's important to me, okay?"
"Because you want to get out of that file room."
"No, because I want to help you." Buffy sighed. "I…I like you, Spike. You're nice to me, and I think you're a good poet. If I'm relegated to spend the rest of eternity in the file room, well, I'll manage, but it would be worse being there and knowing I was there because I failed you. You need me, and I want to be what you need."
Tentatively, Spike reached up and grazed his fingers against the soft skin of her cheek. "You are, Buffy."
For a moment, the world seemed to still around them, and Buffy felt her breath and heartbeat quicken. What was this? It certainly wasn't something she'd ever felt before, and new experiences were not something she was accustomed to—not after an eternity of much of the same.
Suddenly, she turned away, a crimson blush staining her cheeks. The moment broken, Spike pulled both of his hands away and cleared his throat. "So you want to head on back to my flat, then? I think I might have an idea or two I can try to push into a poem."
Buffy nodded, still unable to meet his eyes. "All right. You do have a lot of work to do."
They walked from the cemetery side by side.
Spike had written when he'd gotten home, starting drafts of two more poems. Buffy had been content to watch him write in silence, enjoying the experience of Spike's creative burst second-hand. The light in his eyes when he knew what he was writing was working, the way his tongue stuck slightly out of his mouth when he was really into something—Buffy found it all so endearing.
Eventually, a need to sleep had made the well run dry, and Spike had gathered his papers up and set them on the coffee table before heading off to bed. Alone, Buffy hadn't been able to resist reading what he had written, and soon tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Beautiful words, all about her…
Buffy set the papers back on the table and wiped her eyes, a need filling her to see Spike right then, despite knowing he was asleep. She padded down the hall and walked through his door, not wanting to wake him. The sight she found in his bedroom took her breath away.
A white sheet was draped casually over him as he lay sprawled on his back, moonlight streaming in to illuminate him. In an eternity of life, Buffy didn't think she'd ever seen anything more beautiful than this man. Every bit of him—his body, his mind, and his heart—struck her with awe. With a start, she realized exactly what he did to her.
He inspired her…
Unable to stay away from him, Buffy crawled into his bed, resting on her side so she could continue look at him. She told herself she'd leave soon, long before he woke up, but for now, she wanted to watch him sleep.
The song Spike quotes is "Cemetry Gates" by The Smiths.
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