April & Poetry
Part 1

Written By: Ragna
Rating: PG
Summary: Spike lost someone he loved a lot.

Disclaimer: I am not in any way affilated with the show.
I don't not own any of the characters from the show. I do
own rights to any characters I have made up. No copy rght
infirgment intended.

"She was lovely. So very lovely." Spike stood in front of the gathered people. "And I loved her very much. You have no idea how much I had loved her. You never even guessed. April...in every way, she was beautiful. And vibrant. And I've always wondered what she saw in a forsaken demon like me." He shook his head. "I never figured out why she loved me, why she stayed. Why she went to hell and back to save me." Buffy looked at him. "Why are you telling us this?" she asked quietly. "Because...just because." *** It was April. And in Southern California, April said it was so warm. Not like I'd ever know. She loved spring, loved summer, relished the thought of being outside, in the sun. And how I wished I could see her! I hadn't wanted to fall in love again, not after Dru. Not when I still hurt. But April... I'd gone to San Diego State one evening, just to stroll around. And I heard the voice of an angel reciting poetry. It was a poem by Sara Teasdale, and I've always remembered it. It was called "I Shall Not Care." How did it go? Oh, yes. When I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care. I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough; And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now. I've always thought that poem was a strange one, but eerily descriptive. And April stood there, the moonlight flowing over her, softly illuminating her face, which at the moment was bunched up in frustration. "What's wrong, love?" I had said, startling her. Papers went flying, and she scowled. We went down to pick them up and ended up hitting our heads. It was one of the classic scenes in all those romantic movies. After we hunted down the papers and stopped rubbing our heads, the scowl had disappeared. She had the most beautiful eyes, a pale blue. Almost like the ocean, only lighter. She was nothing like Dru. Nothing at all. She was a freshman there, about to give a dramatic interpretation of that and some other poems, like Dickinson's "The Grass" and Poe's "El Dorado." Her main piece, though was from Anne Sexton. I'd had the pleasure of meeting her once. She was a very interesting woman. Have you ever heard "Her Kind?" No? Well, April taught it to me. I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light; lonely thing, twelve fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, inumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your car, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind. And it was that moment she pulled a stake out. I should have realized she was a Slayer. *** I held her off. Fighting Buffy so often, I'd gotten good at it. It was easy. I went for her weak spots, which were easily noticeable to me. And I got her on the ground, with me on top of her, her own stake aimed at her heart. I couldn't kill her. And we both knew it. So I kissed her instead. After getting over the initial shock, she reciprocated. Her mouth felt so warm. I can still feel that warmth. I need that warmth, now. We stayed on the ground, kissing passionately, all through her class. She failed the project, but she believed she got something better. So, Buffy, you no longer hold the distinction of being the only Slayer in love with a vampire. You're just the only surviving one. *** A year went by. I betrayed my kind, helped her fight. And at night, we'd return to her apartment. It was beautiful, in a gothic sense. I loved her bedroom. It was a room with lots of wrought iron candle holders, candles, fresh roses every other day, courtesy of me. And a mahogany vanity. She never let me touch the vanity, not even as I helped her pack to move to London. We were moving to London, her and I. Together. I had never been so happy. And when we arrived, it was wonderful. Evenings spent slaying vampires, killing my own kind and keeping my lover safe. Mornings spent stroking her hair as we lay in bed, me listening to the slow beat of her heart and the even breathing. Afternoons spent being like two normal humans in love, excepting when she had to go to meet her Watcher. It went on like that for a long time. Three years. Three wonderfully blissful years. *** It was in January when things started going wrong. The vampires were getting stronger, and she was losing more fights. Not that they would kill her...I would step in. And she started sleeping more, having less energy. I got concerned, and together, we went to the doctor. I waited outside while she was examined. But I was holding her hand when the doctor frowned. Holding her hand when he told her she had cancer. Holding her hand when he said it was incurable. Holding her hand when he said she had less than six months to live. Holding her as she wept when he said he was sorry. He suggested she try chemo and radiation...it might prolong her life span. But she said no, she didn't want that. And as we left, she said she didn't want to be turned either. It was the first time, in almost four years, that we'd ever fought. I mean really fought. I walked away from it with more bruises from her than from anything I'd ever fought before. And I looked in a few minutes later, to see her sobbing in a heap. My poor April. I couldn't bear to watch it. I picked her up, and carried her into our room, lit the candles, and held her, singing softly until her sobbing stopped and she was at peace. *** She was fading fast. We had found out in the first week of January. By Valentine's Day, she was getting so weak she could barely stand. And when she could, the pain coursed through her, and I could tell. I could feel it as well. Only two weeks later, she had regained some of her strength. Never before had I believed in miracles. But to this day, I believe she was blessed with that month or so. We even started planning for the future again. Only a few days ahead, you understand. Not like weeks, or months, or years. But we planned a party, for her birthday. Her 21st birthday, just her and I. A milestone in her life. One I'm glad she got to see. When she'd been taken off active slaying duties, her friends stopped coming by, as did her Watcher. That, more than anything else, infuriated me. I was her only company. I was the only one who truly loved her. *** The night before her birthday, we were talking. We had the best conversation as we laid next to each other, our lust sated but our love for each other shining through. And the topics ranged from how we were feeling to what I should make her to eat. But I loved those little conversations. I miss them a lot. That night, I told her about Dru. About the madness, the manipulation, things I'd never told her before. I'd been afraid she wouldn't understand. And now, I was afraid she would die. Her strength had started to leave again. I just wanted her to live long enough to hit the milestone, and have one more special memory. She was suffering. It was so very obvious. But that night, she told me I was what kept her going. I was what kept her alive. I had never known that. We slept early, so we could be awake in the morning. And when I shook her gently, her eyes opened, and she smiled at me, a small, delighted smile. I made her stay in bed. She was too weak to fight anyway. I brought her her presents, and she opened them so carefully. And I made sure I had pictures. I wanted to see the happiness, wanted to have physical proof that it existed. Here they are, You're welcome to look through them. She was beautiful, wasn't she? Even when she was that sick, she was still so very beautiful. And she loved the presents. They were simple, just like her. A book of poetry, her favorite chocolates, and a ring. The ring surprised her the most. It was just a simple silver band, with thin gold causing patterns on the top. She slipped it on her finger. It was a perfect fit. We were a perfect fit. *** She died that evening. I knew when it happened. She kissed me lightly, then drifted back to sleep. I felt her grow cold, heard her heart stop and her breathing lessen until it was gone. And then, I sobbed. I didn't go on a rampage, I didn't destroy anything. I kept everything intact. I always want to be reminded of her. Always. And on her grave is her favorite poem. She scribbled a note, before she died, saying she wanted the poem inscribed on her tombstone. It was April when you came The first time to me, And my first look in your eyes Was like my first look at the sea. We have been together Four Aprils now Watching for the green On the swaying willow bough; Yet whenever I turn To your gray eyes over me, It is as though I looked For the first time at the sea. She died four years to the day we met. She's buried in San Diego, where the sun can shine down on her most of the year. I still live in London, in our home. I can't bear to leave it yet, to leave her. I just can't.