An Englishman in New York

A/N: As if we didn't already have enough, I give you more angst.

Volcano


“What did you do?!” Buffy shouted in greeting the moment Spike stepped through the door of their room. Sure, Parker hadn’t called her before, and he had only called to tell her that he’d had his ass kicked, but she was certain that he would have asked her out – if not for Spike.

“Christ, Summers, take a ruddy chill pill, will you? He got on my nerves,” he snapped, closing the door behind him. He would never tell Buffy why he had hit Parker; she didn’t need to know.

“That’s all you’re going to say about it?! And what’s this about you being the new singer for Dingoes? Are you stalking my friends?” It was an irrational accusation, she knew, but it was the best thing she could think of. Sad, Buffy, very sad.

“No, you bint! It was an open audition! Open, that means even to people like me!” he bellowed, snatching the sheet of notebook paper and photo off his bed. In spite of their argument, he made no snide remarks about either. She had a beautiful mother, and her sister was bloody precious. He gently set the photo on her nightstand. “Besides, you were the one who left the fliers on my bloody desk.”

“It was dark and I was tired! I meant to put them on mine.” She was surprised. He hadn’t made any cracks about the picture, and it wasn’t the best that had ever been taken. Dawn had been going through an awkward stage then, and her mother’s hair was frizzy.

“If you’re trying to tell me to quit, you’d better forget it.” His voice was suddenly calm, which annoyed Buffy even more than when he’d been shouting.

“I’m not! Gah!” Why did he have to be so frustrating?!

“I’m goin’ to bed,” he announced suddenly. Pulling off his boots, he collapsed onto the bed without bothering to get under the covers.

At least he took his boots off this time, Buffy thought. She wondered why he never got undressed… not that she wanted to see anything. Gathering her pajamas, she ducked out of the room to change and brush her teeth in the bathroom.



Meanwhile, Spike dug through his wallet and found a picture of his parents. Reusing the sheet of paper she had written on, he wrote, “No brothers or sisters,” and set the photo and paper on the nightstand where she would find it. That done, he rolled onto his side and tried to sleep, something he knew would be nearly impossible.



When Buffy returned from the bathroom, she found that Spike had turned his light off, and that he’d left something else for her. She liked their new method of communication; there was no arguing involved, but she had to admit that it was nice having someone she could fight with. Angel had been so emotionally fragile that she’d been forced to watch everything she said or did for fear of upsetting him. Spike, like her, seemed hard as nails.

Reading the note, she set it aside for the time being and studied the photograph. The woman had dark hair that was only a shade lighter than a true black, and her large mahogany eyes glistened with a seductive kind of intelligence; she was exquisite. The man wore wire-rimmed glasses and had a sweet smile that belied the gleam of brilliance which shined in his eyes. His hair was graying and slightly wavy, and he had the same blue eyes as his son. Spike had inherited his good looks from both of his parents, it seemed. Where had that thought come from?

She opened her nightstand again and located a picture of her father, one she kept for a reason that was unknown to her. She hadn’t spoken to him in years, not since he’d missed her eighteenth birthday. Setting the picture on Spike’s nightstand, she wrote three letters:
MIA. Pausing, she added, “And not from the military.” Setting the paper down, she flipped her light off and closed her eyes.

Neither found sleep that night. Spike couldn’t shut his mind down, and thoughts of Drusilla danced through his head mockingly; Buffy wept silently, Angel’s words –which Parker had proven to be true – came back to haunt her.