Author’s Note: Whew, okay, this fic is based on the novel and movie ‘Possession’, from which the title of this fic came from. That title along with the characters doesn’t belong to me, and is credited to A.S. Byatt. So is the plot (just thought I’d throw that in, since there was no room in the Disclaimer). This is the third and final AU fantasy I’m doing based on a film (there maybe more down the line, but for right now, this is it). Like ‘Girl Next Door’, this one relies heavily on the adaptation aspect, so expect things to be VERY different.

Just so there is no confusion; the poets Samuel LaMorte and Claudette Monroe are completely and totally made up! Just like the poets in the novel. The original poetry in the book is so damn beautiful, that I will be borrowing a few lines of it, to sprinkle throughout this story. Those will be credited to A.S. Byatt and are not the intellectual property of little ol’ me. There’s a dual love story within this fic, and yes Samuel and Claudette are Mary Janes, but I’ll try to make them interesting enough and deep enough, so that I won’t have you reaching for something to gouge your eyes out with. Or, you know, groaning in sheer boredom ;D.

Oh and the opening scene borrows from the opening of the book (again, not mine entirely). And, Spike’s last name ‘Bolden’, just a tiny little homage to Ripe Wicked Plum’s classic (and my favorite fic) ‘Green Card’.




**********************************************************************

‘Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness lady were no crime.’ - Andrew Marvell





The air hung heavy with dust, a thick dust that suggested a time period long before things like ‘The Clean Air Act’ and holes in the Ozone Layer.

William Bolden sat cloaked in the shadows amongst the stacks in the UCLA library, the evidence of his hard work scattered across the table; open books, note cards, papers…

He coughed a bit from the dust, turning the page in the book he held. His eyes locked on the yellowed, dog-eared pages, scanning for obscure facts like ‘what jam did he use on his toast’ and other utterly fascinating tidbits.

He sighed heavily, making another note on one of his cards. Back home at Oxford, the renowned Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was hard at work compiling information for his next book, a study on Samuel LaMorte, a long forgotten British poet, whose works were enjoying a bit of a revival among the stuffy, scholarly crowd.

Once the journal LaMorte kept had been unearthed in the basement of the UCLA student library, Wesley didn’t waste a second, sending his lowly assistant Will to the other side of the world to gather all he could out of it.

For a while at least, Will was more than happy to get out of the mother country. LaMorte had been a favorite of his long before the pompous jackasses he worked with discovered him, plus, it was an excuse to get away from Dru. Things had been strained between them for a while and they both needed a good break. His journey across the Atlantic had been great, until he realized one thing…

Samuel LaMorte was a boring ponce.

The embodiment of chastity and virtue, LaMorte’s poetry celebrated things like the ‘beauty’ of monogamy, and how much he loved his dear wife. Fine for an eight-lined poem, but utterly boring research material.

Which is why, so far, the only interesting fact Will had dug up from this journal was the type of jam used on LaMorte’s toast (Gooseberry).

"I’ve gotta close up now, Spike."

Will looked up for a brief moment to catch the grinning face of Xander Harris, one of the student workers in the library. They had become fast friends since Will had arrived in Los Angeles three weeks ago, Xander dubbing him with the nickname ‘Spike’ because of the haggard appearance of Will’s curly, bleached locks the first night he stumbled into the library.

"Five more minutes, Xand." He mumbled absently, turning another page.

"You’ve been down here all day, you look like shit, it’s time to leave. Come on, we’ll go out, get you some dinner, maybe another bottle of hair dye…"

Will cocked an eyebrow as he removed two folded pieces of parchment from the spine of the next page. This was new, probably another draft for a poem on how great the married life is…

"What is it?"

Not a draft for a poem, but a letter, yellowed, stained, worn with age. The writing was certainly clearer than the scribbling in the rest of the journal:


Dear Madam,

I most enjoyed our conversation last night. Those parties can be so dull, I find there’s only so much talk about the weather and newest plays I can stand, your talk of fairies was a breath of fresh air. I am truly sorry if you thought me rude, it was not my intention to make fun.

I was told you would be attending Mr. Rothchild’s affair, and I had hopes we might continue our discussion. I am eager to learn all you know about this topic, if you are willing to teach.

Sincerely,

Mr. S. LaMorte


"Bloody hell…" Will mumbled, re-reading the letter three more times.

"Again, I’ll repeat…" Xander began, sighing loudly. "What is it?"

"A letter…"

"Wow a letter." He snickered, rolling his eyes. "Did I tell you, Spike, that you have the most exciting job in the world."

"It’s addressed to a ‘Madam’…clearly not meant for LaMorte’s wife…"

"Spike, you’re losing me…"

"This journal was started after he was married, there’s all sorts of Nancy-boy rot about his wife in it…but this…Harris, do you have any idea what this could mean?!" A smile had broken out on his face, and Will’s eyes twinkled with the kind of childish gleam one gets on Christmas morning.

"Yes." Xander nodded, solemnly. "It means you haven’t had sex in a very long time."

***************************************************************

"Claudette Monroe…"

"Hey, I actually remember this." Xander grinned proudly. "She was a lesbian poet, hero to hairy-legged, mullet sporting women all over the world." He said, tapping the side of his head with his index finger. "And who says I never paid attention in class."

"What did she write her poetry on, oh genius one?"

Xander paused for a moment, the evidence of his hard thinking written all over his face. "Lesbian poet, had sex with women."

Spike laughed. "Yeah, you paid attention."

"Only to the important facts."

"Ms. Monroe mainly used her favorite subject in her poems…"

"Which was, smart ass?"

A smile slowly crept across his face, widening as he spoke. "Fairies."

************************************************************

"Shouldn’t you let Wesley in on this…"

"No! No, Wesley. The stupid sod would take all the credit, I’m doing this on my own."

Spike flung his duffel bag into the trunk of the car, shutting it. After discovering the letter, he had spent another week with Xander by his side, doing extensive research on Claudette Monroe, it all leading him to the small town of Sunnydale, just a few hours away, and the only living ancestors of Monroe, the Summers.

"Xand, I don’t think you fully understand the weight of what I’ve found…"

"You’re right, I don’t understand. You find some long lost letter, written by some stuffy, dead British guy in between his tea and crumpets, and you act like it’s the fucking Holy Grail."

"That’s because it is, the ‘fucking Holy Grail’." Spike rolled his eyes, adding. "Of literature any way. What I found, changes bloody history! Imagine if LaMorte didn’t practice what he preached…"

"And had an affair with a lesbian."

"Well, if they had an affair, she wouldn’t be a lesbian, now would she, mental giant."

"How do even know you’ve got the right girl?! This guy could have talked about fairies with the chamber maid for all you know."

"It’s a feeling." Spike grinned, opening the car door.

"At least let me go with you, someone’s gotta be there to remind you to take breaks from working, and shower regularly."

"No, I need you here in case Wesley calls. Remember, if he does, just give him the banal facts I’ve got written down, and say nothing, and I mean nothing about a letter."

"Yes sir." Xander muttered, giving Spike a mock salute.

Spike glanced almost lovingly at the journal occupying the passenger seat, as he begun to drive away.

"You’re gonna make daddy a lot of money." He smiled happily, whistling along to the song on the radio.

****************************************************************

"Buffy…Buffy…Buffy!"

Buffy Summers glanced up from her textbook, scowling slightly at the young girl in front of her.

"What?" She asked simply, going immediately back to her reading.

"What are you doing?" Dawn said in her best ‘little girl’ voice, swaying back and forth on her tipi-toes.

Her older sister had only been home from college for a week, and had spent most of the time locked in her room or with her head buried in one of those giant textbooks of hers. She remembered Buffy being boring and bitchy during high school and it seemed her first year at Sunnydale U had done nothing but heightened those qualities.

"Playing soccer." Buffy deadpanned, turning the page in her book. Dawn frowned for a moment, rolling her eyes, why did she always have to be the one to put up with Buffy.

"Sorry to bother you." The younger girl sighed. "Mom wanted to know if you got Mr. Bolden’s room ready?"

"Bolden…?"

"You know, the guy coming form LA." Dawn said, putting her hands on her hips. "Don’t you pay attention to anything around here?!"

"Nope."

Dawn snorted, throwing her hands up in the air, next time she’s sending Giles in to do the dirty work. "Let me know if you score a goal." She smirked, heading out of the bedroom.

**********************************************************

"Dawnie, the downstairs bathroom needs more towels…"

"Okay mom."

"Oh, and is Mr. Bolden’s room ready?"

"Don’t know, don’t care." Dawn shrugged, heading down the stairs.

**********************************************************

It was after five o’clock in the evening when Spike drove up in front of the Summers Bed and Breakfast. He would have been in Sunnydale much sooner, if he hadn’t stopped at every McDonalds in between the two towns.

The sky had went from overcast, to pitch black in what seemed like a matter of seconds, rain pelted the car with a loud, almost deafening ring. Yeah, he picked a real good day to come.

He sighed heavily as he opened the door, preparing himself to make a mad dash to the porch. Immediately, his clothes were soaked through as he ran, quickly bounding up the stairs.

The door flew open as a bright flash of lightening streaked across the sky, illuminating the face of the woman on the other side. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves, her fingers drummed impatiently on the door, a look of sheer annoyance on her face.

She was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.



Chapter 2:



London 1859

It was after five in the evening when the carriage stopped at the gates of the Rothchild home. The city of London had been drowned with rain for most of the day, but even this was not enough to convince Alexander Rothchild to cancel one of his parties.

Samuel LaMorte sighed loudly as the carriage door opened. He hated attending these things, especially alone. His wife, Patricia had taken ill, only a common cold, nothing to worry over, and had persuaded him to leave her side for the night. She thought it rude to accept one’s invitation to a party and not come if there was no dire emergency. Sam shook his head, smiling at the thought of her, he had married a woman with far better manners than he had.

A bright flash of lightening lit up the sky as the door opened, illuminating the face of the woman on the other side. Her chocolate brown hair was pulled back in a low bun, her fingers drummed impatiently on the door, and a look of sheer annoyance that he’d never seen on the face of a woman, crossed her features.

She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

**********************************************************

Buffy felt her breath hitch in her chest as she stared at the man in front of her. Her eyes transfixed on his shirt, soaked through, the material clung to him, accentuating his lean, chiseled form. His hair, a mess of platinum blonde wet curls, matted to his forehead giving him a very boyish appearance. She had never seen cheekbones so prominent, and his lips were fixed into an almost mocking smirk.

"Plan on letting me in any time soon, luv?"

She quickly shook away the tingles his deep, accented voice sent down her spine, giving him a mocking look of her own.

"That depends. Will you sing ‘White Wedding’ if I do?"

"You must be Mr. Bolden!" Joyce Summers said, quickly easing her daughter out of the way. Buffy’s new tendency to be difficult wasn’t exactly good for business. "Please come in, you must be soaked."

"Only a little damp." He smiled, stepping into the house. The Summers Bed and Breakfast at first glance appeared to be a cozy little B and B, with the same feeling his grandmother’s house back in Yorkshire had, warm and relaxed.

"I’ll see if I can find some dry clothes for you to change into." Joyce smiled.

"Thanks."

"Buffy, could you check Mr. Bolden in, please."

Buffy narrowed her eyes at the man who was currently making a puddle on their carpet, and sighed, turning on her heels.

"Guess I’m supposed to follow." Spike muttered, running a hand through his wet hair, reluctantly following her.

"Your name." She said in a clipped voice, her eyes fixed on the computer screen.

"William Bolden."

"Your checkout date, Mr. Bolden?"

"To be determined." Spike smiled. "And, drop the Mr. Bolden rot, luv, call me Spike."

Buffy cocked an eyebrow, a bemused expression crossing her face. "Spike?" She snickered.

"Like Buffy’s the epitome of class." The wicked smirk quickly disappeared from her face, replaced with the all too common look of annoyance. Spike grinned, he had never met a beautiful woman who was more anal retentive than this one.

"Um, your bags…" Buffy began, giving him a pleading look. Spike chuckled, shaking his head.

"It’s fine, luv. I’ll get them later, wouldn’t want you to get wet."

"Thanks ever so." She replied sardonically, stepping out form behind the desk. "I’ll show you to your room."

"I’m right behind you, luv."

"Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Bolden." Buffy stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning to face him.

"I’m not your ‘luv’."

****************************************************************

"Claudette, really, the help will get the door you know that." Lizzie Rothchild shook her head disapprovingly at the girl, maneuvering around her to greet Sam.

"I was close to the door, Lizzie, sorry if I saw the logic in opening it."

Sam couldn’t help but chuckle, this woman sparkled. Her creamy white skin, smooth and unblemished, looked as soft as silk, a rosy blush adorned her cheeks, which were well rounded and slightly plump like a cherub. She had a poise and gracefulness that was well reflected in her petite form, and a hint of mischief that gleamed in her emerald green eyes. His eyes of their own volition, traveled her form, the well rounded hips, the lusciously curved breasts…

"Sam, this rude creature is Claudette Monroe." The sound of Lizzie’s screeching voice snapped Sam out of his trance, and effectively reminded him that he was a married man, a happily married man. What in the world was he thinking, looking at another woman in that manner!

"She’s a bit of a poet also, at least she fancies herself one…"

"It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Monroe." He smiled, taking her hand, placing a polite kiss on the back of it. He tried hard to ignore the jolt that coursed through his body as his lips touched her skin.

Another flash of lightening brightened the dimly, candle-lit room.

"Likewise, Mr. LaMorte."

*****************************************************************

Spike pulled the wet T-shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor with a ‘plop’. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until he spotted that bed, with its big, fluffy comforter and pillows, he couldn’t resist flopping down on it, shutting his eyes.

It seemed the moment his eyes were closed there was a knock on the door. Spike sighed loudly into the pillow, reluctantly rolling off the bed. He smiled a bit as he opened the door, the thought it might be Buffy on the other side crossing his mind, before quickly being kicked back to the corner by the part that reminded him about Dru.

Instead of the tiny, blonde spitfire he had met earlier, there stood a younger, smaller brunette version, no more than thirteen, with a slight red Kool-Aid mustache above her lip.

"Oh, hi." Dawn said in a tiny voice, her eyes growing wide. Usually their guests were old, really old, practically near death. Mr. Bolden was like no man she’d ever seen, a complete hottie and half naked right in front of her…

"Hi."

"Uh, um…" She stuttered, there was something she was supposed to say, oh God, what was she supposed to say?!

"Are these for me, Bit?" Spike asked, gesturing towards the bundle of clothes in her arms.

"Um…um…" Dawn muttered. She couldn’t speak, not for lack of trying, but the words just weren’t coming out, and at the moment, she wasn’t entirely sure she remembered how to communicate.

"I’ll tell you what, Bit, why don’t I just take these off your hands, okay?"

"Okay…" Great, that word she could say.

Spike nodded, taking the clothes out of her hands. "Okay." He smiled, closing the door. Dawn groaned inwardly, walking over to the wall, beating her head against it. Her first time in the presence of a hot guy and she screws it up! He must think she’s retarded…

"Stupid, stupid, stupid…"

"Is everything okay, sweetie?" Joyce asked, giving her daughter a look. She had the strangest children…

"Oh yeah, mom, everything’s fine." Dawn said, smiling painfully wide. "I’m just gonna go shoot myself now."

Joyce glanced at her youngest, then at the door to Mr. Bolden’s room, a knowing smile crossing her face. "Okay, sweetie. When you’re done, Mr. Jenkins down stairs could use some more towels."

***********************************************************

Spike shook his head, slipping the T-shirt on. Bloody strange women in this place, he thought as he reclaimed his spot on the bed, shutting his eyes.

He’d call up Xand and get started on his research tomorrow, right now all he could concentrate on is sleep, and the tiny blonde downstairs, despite all of his best efforts to push her away.



Chapter 3:


This is was it, his Dante’s Inferno, his ninth circle of hell, being in an auditorium full of angry, embittered women.

Spike sighed loudly, pulling his baseball cap further down, covering his eyes. After a fairly good night’s sleep, he awoke early that morning, and headed over to good ol’ Sunnydale University, where they were holding a summer lecture series, one just happening to be on the ‘Empowerment of Womyn’ which included a discussion on Claudette Monroe.

After listening to endless lectures on the ‘ornate power in giving birth’ and the ‘menstrual life force’, he was feeling most uncomfortable, and the looks he got from the hairy-pitted females around him weren’t helping matters much.

Monroe, although lesser known than LaMorte, had become over the years, an almost iconic figure to feminists. The lesbian poet who played by her own rules despite the social restrictions of 19th century England. A smile crept over his face as the lecture on Monroe began, if these women only knew their hero had a few more secrets in her closet…

As Spike turned on his tape recorder, out of the corner of his eye he spotted Buffy entering the lecture hall. She quickly took a seat, trying to be as quiet as possible, but still got looks of death from some of those around her, for making a sound.

He eased himself out of his seat, moving down the row, plopping down next her.

"Fancy meeting you here." He whispered, grinning.

"I wouldn’t peg you for the women’s studies type, Mr. Bolden."

"Call me Spike, and oh yeah luv, I’m very in touch with my feminine side. The power of the menstrual cycle and all that."

"Mmm-hmm." Buffy snickered. "So what are you really doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I’m here to learn."

"Me too." He smiled.

"You know, Claudette Monroe is my ancestor." Buffy said, trying to look at his face to gauge his reaction, which was hard to do with that ridiculous hat covering his eyes.

"Is that so?" Spike smiled.

"Yeah, you don’t sound too impressed…"

"Do you want me to be?"

Buffy shrugged. "I don’t care either way, I was only trying to make conversation…" She smiled, adding. "Spike."

"So, Buffy…" He began, lifting the ball-cap away from his face. "Is that what you’re doing here? Came to see what the rest of the world thinks about your beloved family member?"

She hadn’t noticed it the night before, but Spike had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. They had a certain gleam, as if they were smirking at you when his mouth wasn’t…

"No." Buffy said, forcefully removing her gaze from those eyes. "I’m just here to learn. She was a brave woman, a trailblazer. I’m trying to find out all I can about her."

Spike nodded, suddenly climbing to his feet. "Then let’s get out of here. You won’t learn the real deal by listening to these birds yammer away."

*******************************************************

"Care for an hors d'oeuvre, sir?"

"Hmm?" Sam asked, he hadn’t noticed the waiter standing at his side, despite his best efforts, his eyes had been fixed on Ms. Monroe all night. If he kept staring at her like that, she was bound to think him slow-witted.

"An hors d`oeurve, sir?" The waiter repeated, sighing rather impatiently. Sam shook his head, his gaze once again falling on Ms. Monroe.

"Tell me, do you know anything about that woman?"

"What woman, sir?"

"Ms. Monroe."

"I don’t gossip, sir." He said rather haughtily, turning to walk away. "It’s in poor taste."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. He was behaving ridiculously, he shouldn’t even want to look in the direction of another woman! He and Patricia were sublimely happy and couldn’t be more in love, he should be ashamed of himself…

His inner chastising continued as he made his way over to Ms. Monroe, smiling politely.

"Ms. Monroe, Lizzie tells me you’re quite the poet."

Claudette smiled, giving him a small nod. "Lizzie says I’m quite many things, a poet not being one of them."

*****************************************************************

Buffy stared intensely at the letter in her hand, reading it, then re-reading, over and over. She folded it, handing it back to Spike.


"This is bullshit." Buffy said curtly, taking a seat on the end of his bed. "It doesn’t prove anything."

"Bullshit? What, you think I wrote it?"

"Who knows." She shrugged. "You look like the type of guy who’d do anything for a buck."

"This letter, pet, is as real as that bug up your ass." Spike smiled smugly. "It may not spell out ‘adultery’, but it’s part of the puzzle, and I’m here to find the rest of the pieces." He gingerly tucked the letter back into the leather bound journal. "If I’m right, this changes history. Don’t you want to be apart of that?"

"Are you asking for my help?"

Spike shrugged, whipping out his pack of cigarettes, quickly lighting one. "You said you wanted to learn, ducks. I’m giving you the opportunity."

"Fine." She smiled. "I’ll help, only to prove how completely wrong you are."

******************************************************************

"Sam, is that you?"

Sam smiled lovingly at his wife’s form, slowly approaching the bed. He motioned for her to lie down as he sat next to her, not wanting her to use up any unnecessary strength. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, smoothing back her golden hair.

"How are you, love?" He asked, setting his candle down on the nightstand.

"Feeling much better." She smiled softly. "How was the party?"

"Boring and frivolous as always. I think Lizzie gets more loud and obnoxious every time I see her…"

"Is that possible?" Patricia chuckled.

Sam smiled, kissing her again. "You should rest."

"You’re not coming to bed?"

"I’m going to sit in the study for a while…"

"Oh I see…" She teased. "You’d rather spend time with musty books than be in bed with your wife."

"Well…" Sam grinned. "One does have to find every way possible to avoid a cold."

"Samuel!" Patricia laughed, hitting him playfully. "Off you go! Don’t keep your pen and paper waiting…I know how storms always give you inspiration."

Sam smiled meekly, rising to his feet. "They certainly do."

************************************************************

He quietly shut the door to his study, taking a seat at his desk. Sam dipped his pen in the bottle of ink, quickly setting it to the parchment. He hated himself for not being able to push her out of his thoughts, even while he was at his wife’s side, and he sighed loudly, exhausted, as he scribbled furiously on the paper:

‘I shan’t forget that first glimpse of your form, illuminated as it were by flashes of lightening.’



Chapter 4:


"What?" Buffy asked, stuffing clothes into her suitcase, feeling rather uncomfortable at the looks her sister was giving her. She and Spike had decided to take their research outside of Sunnydale, and to her grandmother’s house to be exact, with the intention of going through a few of Claudette’s belongings that had been passed down through the family.

Ever since she had announced her plans to go away with Spike, Dawn, it seemed was hiding around every corner, glaring at her intensely.

"Nothing." Dawn shrugged.

"Why are you looking at me like that?!"

"I’m just thinking of several ways to kill you slowly." She shrugged again, smiling. "Nothing big."

"Dawn." Buffy sighed loudly. "This is work, okay, Spike couldn’t repulse me more if he were made out of equal parts of shit and maggots."

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Insults mean jack when they come from movies…"

"Well, it applies."

"You’re full of it, Buffy! You want him, I can see it in your beady little eyes."

Buffy gave her sister a derisive look, shaking her head. "You’re delusional, I don’t want him, and my eyes are not beady!" She quickly zipped her suitcase shut, heading out the door in a huff.

Dawn folded her arms, trying to keep her anger to a minimum. Every time she got a crush on a guy, they always seemed to forget she ever existed once they laid eyes on Buffy. It was enough to make her wish that, her dear sister, get hit by a Mac truck.

"Your eyes are too beady!"

**************************************************************

Spike leaned against the car door, tapping his foot impatiently. He and Buffy were only planning to be gone a week at the most, yet the woman packed like she were going to the end of the earth instead of her bloody grandmother’s place.

He adjusted his sunglasses, smiling a bit as he watched Buffy come bounding down the stairs, a large suitcase dragging after her.

"Think you got everything?" He asked, grinning sardonically.

"Funny." She snorted, shooting him a withering look. "Could you stop being an ass for one second and help me?"

Spike nodded, sigh a bit as he begrudgingly approached her, grabbing for the handle on the suitcase. His breath hitched in his chest as he tried to ignore the jolt he felt once his hand brushed hers.

"You got it?" She asked.

"Yeah." He nodded dumbly, obviously she hadn’t felt that, how could she not feel that?!

"I got it."

***********************************************************

"Terribly sorry." Sam mumbled, quickly taking his hand away from the book trying to hide his blushing cheeks. It had been exactly one week since Rothchild’s party, one week spent quietly obsessing over Claudette Monroe. After reading every book in his study cover to cover, he had come to the London Library in a desperate attempt to find some peace.

Claudette stood beside him, a vision in robins-egg blue, a playful smile graced her lips, and her eyes twinkled with the same mischievous gleam they had the first time they met. She clutched the book somewhat tightly in her hand, taking step back to regard Samuel. She admittedly had not paid much attention to him at the party, as a matter of fact, she had found him to be kind of doltish, and thought him to be slow-witted because of the way he seemed to stare at her. But now, in the light of day…he was rather good looking for a man, soulful brown eyes, sandy-blonde hair that seemed to flop in his face more often than not. He was tall and lean, but she could tell he was a muscular sort of chap.

"You like Wordsworth?" She asked smiling, trying to tear her gaze away his fairly pouty lips.

"Yes, very much." Sam said, nervously shuffling his feet. "I was very pleased to find it here, I wouldn’t think they would carry any of his works."

Claudette nodded, turning, heading into the other direction. "It was nice seeing you again, Mr. LaMorte."

"Wait!" He called, rushing after her, he couldn’t resist following her despite every bone in his body telling him not to, and quickly tried to convince himself that he was only going after her because she had the only copy of Wordsworth’s ‘Prelude’.

"I wrote you a letter…"

"A letter?" Claudette gave him a quizzical look, taking a seat at one of the tables. "I never received a letter from you, Mr. LaMorte."

"Well, I never sent it, and please, call me Sam." He smiled, sitting down next to her.

"I guess that would be the reason for my never getting it." She grinned.

"It was a letter of apology."

"Apology…?"

"For insulting you at Rothchild’s. I felt horrible that we got off on such a bad foot."

"It’s okay, Sam, I love it when people look at me as though I’m insane." Claudette smiled, chuckling a little at the frazzled look on his face. It was quite adorable…

"I never thought you insane…"He said, his expression slowly falling at the withering look Claudette was giving him. "Well, maybe a little insane."

She laughed, the sound of it sending tingles down his spine, and earning them hardened looks from the others around them.

"I wouldn’t expect someone as sensible as you to believe in something as ‘silly’ as fairies."

"Well, maybe if there were someone to show this ‘sensible’ fellow, that believing in things unseen is not silly, he might change his position on the matter." Sam grinned widely, taking the book away from her. "And I do believe I had this first."

*********************************************************



"Oh my god…" She moaned, covering, her face with her hands to cover up her sheer embarrassment. "Nana could you put the pictures away please…"

"Now, now Buffy." Spike teased, grinning from ear to ear. "We’re not done here, are we Nana?" He flashed the older woman his most charming smile, actually making her blush, and giggling like a schoolgirl.

"We most certainly are not, now this one William, was taken at Buffy’s third birthday party." She chuckled, pointing to the photo of a tiny blonde girl, with pigtails and cake all over face. "She just loved birthday cake, always have, and we had a time trying to get her away from it…"

"Is that so?" Spike laughed.

"Nana, could you please…"

"The second Joyce and Hank turned their backs, Buffy put her little face in that cake, trying to swallow the whole thing." Nana joined Spike in his laughter, both completely oblivious to the daggers Buffy was shooting them. This was exactly the reason why she limited trips to her grandmother’s house to ‘family only’.

"Wow, look at the time." Buffy said, climbing to her feet, stretching.

"It’s only 10:30, sweetie."

"Yeah, I know, but William and I have a lot to do tomorrow, so we should get to bed…shouldn’t we, William."

Spike shrugged, giving her a rakish smirk, turning the page in the photo album. "I’m not tired, pet, but you get some sleep if you want."

Buffy gave him an icy glare, stalking towards him and pulling him up on his feet. "Say goodnight, William." She practically commanded. Spike rolled his eyes at her, his scowl disappearing once his gaze settled on Nana.

"Goodnight, Nana. It was a pleasure meeting you." Nana pulled him into a bear hug, very nearly squeezing the life out of him. "Oh, it was a pleasure meeting you too. You’re a good kid." She smiled, patting him on the back.

Buffy sighed, heading towards the stairs with Spike dead on her heels.

"Um, Buffy!" Nana called. "I know it’s 2002, and you can call me old fashioned if you want, but you and William, separate bedrooms under my roof, guys."

Buffy turned bright red, her embarrassment swelling even more at the mock leering look Spike was giving her. That bastard…

"Nana, we’re not…"

"We’re just friends." He finished for her.

"I wouldn’t go that far." Buffy sneered.

**********************************************************

"I really like your Nana." Spike grinned. "Bloody charming woman, don’t know how you could possibly be related to her."

Buffy leaned against the door to her bedroom, her hand resting on the doorknob. "Go to hell." Spike’s smile only seemed to get wider as he approached her, his finger swiping for the corner of her mouth. "Pet, I think you got a little cake right here…"

She giggled in spite of herself, swatting his hand away. "Don’t be stupid…" Buffy could feel the breath in her chest hitch as she tried to ignore the white-hot jolt she felt the moment her hand touched his. She cleared her throat, nervously, opening the door to her bedroom. "Goodnight, Spike." She smiled, quickly shutting the door.

"Goodnight."

**********************************************************

"We should go sometime…"

"Go where?" Claudette laughed. She was sure that she and Sam had been sitting in the Library for over two hours. They talked about everything, from their favorite poets, to their thoughts on religion and politics, no subject seemed off limits, and he never held back or refused to speak on something with her because she was a woman.

"Yorkshire." He smiled. "That is where you discovered your fairies, isn’t it?"

"Discovered ‘my fairies’, is there any way you could possibly be more snide, Sam?" She chuckled.

"Well, if it helps, I am serious about this." His eyes locked with hers in an intense, almost overwhelming gaze, yet she found it incredibly hard to turn away. "I want you to show me."

Claudette smiled softly, nodding. "I would love to show you."

"Claudette, there you are."

She jumped slightly at the sound of the voice; quickly rising to her feet as the woman quickly approached them. She was decidedly plain, a bit on the frumpish side, but not homely. Her raven hair was pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck; her lips pulled tight like those of a school marm…

"Nancy." Claudette smiled forcefully. "Have you been here long?"

"Only a bloody hour." She sighed, smiling. "I should have known I’d find you in the very back of the stacks, it is your favorite place after all."

"Oh, Nancy, this is Mr. Samuel LaMorte. We met at Rothchild’s the other week, he’s a poet also."

LaMorte politely rose to his feet, giving the woman a small nod of his head and a smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." She said curtly, turning to Claudette. "Claude, if you’re ready…"

"Yes, yes. It was good seeing you again, Mr. LaMorte."

Sam nodded, silently noting her sudden formal addressing of him. "It was nice seeing you again, as well."

*****************************************************

"Please don’t give me that look, Nancy." Claudette sighed, as they made their way out of the building.

"What? I spend an hour looking for you, and I find you with some strange man, I don’t have a right to give you a look?"

"Never knew you to be the jealous type." She smirked.

"I’m not up for games, Claude." Nancy said sternly, stopping suddenly. "If this is not what you want…"

"He’s a friend!" She sighed loudly. "Only a friend."




______
tbc…