Bedtime Story
“You’re killing me, Slayer.”
“No.”
“Get in the bloody bed.”
“No”
Spike patted the empty space beside him. “Please?”
Buffy laughed. “I told you that I would come to bed when you told me who you used to be. Before.” She put her hands on naked hips. “You promised.”
“Promised. Yeah right.” He lay back on the bed and rested his head on his hands. “Guess.”
Buffy thought a moment. “Axe murderer,” she said.
Spike sat up and opened his arms to her. “Spot on, dead right, first time. Very good. Com’ere.”
A half smile played across her face. “No way. You’re lying.”
The vampire looked offended. “What, me, lie? Never, luv.”
“Riiiight,” Buffy said. “Who were you?”
“Alright,” Spike capitulated. “I was a Victorian.”
“Ah,” Buffy replied. “You’re what, 125 years old, and you’re English. Big admission. Okay,” she placed one knee on the bed, “You get this much. Now come clean.”
“Buffy,” he growled low in his throat, making swirls on her knee with his finger. “Give it up.”
“Nope. I stick to your word. Let’s see,” the wheels turned in her brain, “You were a chimney sweep.”
“A what? No bleedin’ way. Guess again.”
“You were a butler.”
He raised his voice. “I was not in service. I’ll have you know, we had servants.”
“Wow,” said Buffy, “You were rich. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Not rich. Comfortable.” He lay back on the pillow and let out a sigh. “I’m getting tired of this, Buffy. Enough silly games. Come to bed.”
“One more try. I promise. Besides,” she looked at his all too tempting body, “I’m getting cold. Okay. You were a…poet.”
His face went slack with shock. He never thought that she would guess, albeit accidentally.
“Oh my God,” Buffy giggled, “You were. You were a poet.” She climbed next to him and threw her arm around him, resting her head on his chest. “Tell me a poem.”
“Alright. Anything to shut you up.” He kissed her hand, and recited, “I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats o’re high and lonely hill, when all at once I spied a crowd, a host of golden daffodils.”
“That was beautiful,” said Buffy, resting her body on his and kissing him. “Did you write that?”
“Of course,” Spike replied, kissing her back, “Would I lie to you?”
They made love for hours. Afterwards, snuggling close to her lover, Buffy whispered, “That was Wordsworth. Now who were you, really?”