Chapter 27

A covered carport had been added to the Summers’ house on Revello Drive years before. Buffy pulled the van under its shelter and released her seatbelt. She parted the curtain behind her and smiled. The two vampires and Xander were all asleep. Xander was leaning against the armrest of the seat with Spike clutched to his chest. Angel was sprawled across the back seat. His body was leaned forward; his head was pillowed on his arm, which rested on the seat in front of him. His other arm was draped over the seat, and his hand rested atop one of Xander’s, which in turn rested atop one of Spike’s.

“Angel,” she whispered, “Come on, honey, wake up.” Buffy knew that there would be a row if Spike woke and saw Angel touching Xander; she was well aware of the younger vampire’s jealous nature. Angel’s chocolate eyes opened, and he smiled at his mate. She gestured at his hand, and he nodded and pulled it back. Buffy leaned further into the back and tapped Xander on the knee. “Wake up, everybody, we’re here,” she announced in a louder voice. She levered herself out of the front seat and came around to open the sliding door. The three men yawned and stretched.

As they piled out of the van, Willow and Dawn came out the back door. Buffy hugged her sister, and then her best friend. “Mojo all … mojo-ed?” she asked. The witch nodded. “We’re warded out the wazoo, and all vamps except for our two are really, really uninvited.” Buffy nodded. Angel walked around the side of the van and enfolded Buffy in his arms. She looked a little surprised, but hugged him back tightly. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she giggled. He kissed her temple, then released her and walked into the house. Buffy and Willow exchanged a look. Buffy shook her head in bemusement. “I don’t know what that’s all about,” she said, “but I am *not* complaining.” Willow shrugged. The redhead looked around the far side of the van for Spike and Xander, and then pulled back, blushing. She grabbed one of Dawn’s and one of Buffy’s arms and pulled them forward. All three girls took in the sight of their childhood friend being thoroughly kissed by William the Bloody. Willow cleared her throat and the two men separated reluctantly.

Inside, the house was controlled chaos. Dawn explained to Xander that she and Jase owned a house nearby and that the family’s old house was more of a command center. None of the potentials actually lived there, but someone was on duty at all times. Most of the potentials had settled down in Sunnydale. Several attended college, a few of them even had burgeoning families. Dawn took Xander around and introduced him to those he didn’t know, while Angel and Spike went to the kitchen for blood. Everyone gathered in the old dining room for a briefing. Dawn took the floor and explained what they knew, which was not much. A tall, dark-haired girl reported on the whereabouts of all of the potentials, and it was decided that they should simply wait for nightfall and for Dru to make her move. The meeting dispersed.

Xander wandered into the den and settled on one end of the couch. Spike stripped off his duster and tossed it over a chair. He walked back to Xander, pushed his knees apart and settled on the floor between his lover’s feet, leaning back and resting his chin on Xander’s leg. Xander absently stroked the soft hair at the nape of the vampire’s neck. Glancing over to a pile of schoolbooks on the end table, he laughed softly. He reached out to snag one and turned it over in his hands. “I used this book when I was in school,” he laughed. “There’s a poem in here that I loved …” His voice trailed off as he flipped through the pages. After a few fruitless minutes, he consulted the book’s table of contents and found what he was looking for. “You’ll like this one, Will,” he told Spike. “It’s my favorite, but Shari found it offensive – she took it too literally.” He cleared his throat and began to read.

“Nothing is plumb, level or square:
the studs are bowed, the joists
are shaky by nature, no piece fits
any other piece without a gap
or pinch, and bent nails
dance all over the surfacing
like maggots. By Christ
I am no carpenter. I built
the roof for myself, the walls
for myself, the floors
for myself, and got
hung up in it myself. I
danced with a purple thumb
at this house-warming, drunk
with my prime whiskey: rage.
Oh I spat rage's nails
into the frame-up of my work:
it held. It settled plumb,
level, solid, square and true
for that great moment. Then
it screamed and went on through,
skewing as wrong the other way.
God damned it. This is hell,
but I planned it, I sawed it,
I nailed it, and I
will live in it until it kills me.
I can nail my left palm
to the left-hand cross-piece but
I can't do everything myself
I need a hand to nail the right,
a help, a love, a you, a wife.”

Spike laughed. “The missus thought you were insulting her, eh?” Xander gave him a rueful look. “Yeah – too literal. She thought I was bullshitting her when I gave her my interpretation of it.” Spike held out his hand and Xander passed the book to him. Spike stood and walked over to the discarded duster, digging his glasses out of one of the pockets and putting them on. Back on the floor, he read the poem slowly, twice. “OK, poetry boy, give me your interpretation,” he challenged. Xander smiled. “It’s about accepting your life for what it is – living in the house that you built, no matter how shoddy the construction. It turns out that the poet wrote it while he was in some sort of mid-life crisis. The part I like, though, is when the house settles for one perfect moment ‘plumb, level, solid, square and true for that great moment’. Of course, it all goes straight to Hell in the next second, but that’s not the point. What?” Spike was staring at him with his mouth hanging open.

“Sorry, pet, I didn’t quite expect the literary criticism. You surprised me.” Spike raised an eyebrow when Xander’s grin widened. “I like surprising you,” he said. “Good thing,” Spike observed, “because you’ve done nothing but since you showed up.” He turned back to the book in his hands, settling himself back against the warm human. He flipped pages, stopping now and then to read a few lines, and then moving on. “Here we are,” he said, finding something he liked.

“The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.”

It was Xander’s turn to look dumbstruck. Spike’s voice rolled over the words, infusing them with heat as they dripped from his lips. Blue eyes met brown, and a wicked smile curved the vampire’s lips. Xander shook his head. “You could read the phone book and make it sound sexy, couldn’t you, Will?” he asked. Spike laid the book on the floor and rose to kneel between Xander’s legs, resting his forearms on his lover’s thighs. He leaned in and brushed their lips together lightly. They shared a tender kiss, and then Xander grasped Spike’s hands to pull him onto the couch. He pushed him to the opposite end, and then leaned down to retrieve the textbook. Handing the book to Spike, Xander reclined back and plopped his feet into the vampire’s lap. “Read to me,” he demanded imperiously. Laughing, Spike opened the book and began reading.

Xander heard a small noise from the door and looked up to see Willow standing there. She was giving them the dreaded puppy-eyed look that Xander could not resist. He prodded Spike’s thigh and looked at him questioningly. Not faltering in his reading, the vampire nodded. Willow was instantly by Xander’s side, kicking off her shoes and snuggling into the crook of her best friend’s arm. She turned on her side and draped an arm over his chest. He pulled her close and rubbed circles on her back. Eyes closed, they both listened to Spike, who read at a measured pace, his accent returning to the clean diction and precise pronunciation of his Victorian origins. He finished the poem he was reading and paused. Willow spoke, not raising her head from Xander’s chest. “Read something epic, Spike. I could listen to you all day,” she said dreamily. Xander grunted his agreement.

“As you wish, my lady,” was Spike’s gallant reply. After flipping through the book for a moment he began to read again. Xander drifted, eyes closed, hearing and feeling the deep rumble of Spike’s voice as he read the opening stanzas of Book 1 of Paradise Lost. He could tell that his lover was really enjoying reading to them, and marveled once again in the changes in Spike. The Big Bad of the old days may have liked poetry, but he would never have agreed to read it to any of the Scoobies, and certainly not while wearing reading glasses. Xander resolutely pushed thoughts of the upcoming evening out of his head and concentrated on Spike’s voice.

Xander felt Spike shift, and noticed that Angel had joined them. The large vampire had settled himself on the floor at Spike’s feet, leaning back against the sofa. Xander found that he was more surprised by Angel taking such a submissive place to sit, than by his seeking out company. Over the few days in L.A. Xander had seen the changes in Angel, too. Where before, isolation and outright broodiness had kept Angel apart, he had become much more open. The guy still wasn’t outgoing or anything, but Xander had to admit that he didn’t mind having him around. Just as Angel settled, Buffy walked past the door of the den. She did a classic double take, and stood for a moment with her mouth hanging open. At a gesture from her mate, she walked into the room and folded herself into his arms, resting her head on his chest and closing her eyes. Spike and Xander exchanged a soft smile and the vampire continued to read.

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NOTE: Xander’s poem is “Love Song: I and Thou” by Alan Dugan; Spike’s is the latter half of “To His Coy Mistress” by Andrew Marvell.