An Englishman in New York

A/N: This is for you, Carol, as requested. ^_~


Young Americans


The days passed in a similar fashion; Buffy and Spike argued non-stop when they were alone in each other’s company. They fought about Spike’s smoking and drinking, Buffy’s habit of changing her clothes in the room rather than the bathroom, and Spike’s habit of walking in on her during said changing of clothes.

In the few classes they shared together, particularly psychology, they worked together as a team and, as a result, received a solid one hundred on their first project. At lunch, Spike sat with Buffy, as Willow had taken to mysteriously disappearing after class, and they politely discussed one of their few shared interests: vampires.

Occasionally when one of them returned from class, there would be another note of some sort, a small tidbit of information, and they never spoke of it. Spike had revealed that he had attended school, not in the rough areas of London, but a private boarding school, and that his mother was actually of Gypsy descent and sometimes practiced magic as Willow and Tara did; Buffy had confessed that, as a child, she had worshipped Dorothy Hammel, and that she’d scarred her ankle by falling on the blade when she first learned to skate, today she had admitted that she had what most considered a morbid fascination with scars.

He didn’t find her fascination with scars at all morbid; he found it encouraging. He had his fair share of scars.

The Dingoes had been rehearsing nightly for the first on-campus party, which would take place tonight, but Spike was anxious about that night for another reason; it would be the last night he would share a room with Buffy. Neither had spoken of the roommate transfer, but Spike knew she would want him out of her hair as quickly as possible.

He cursed himself when he realized that he hated the thought of having to room with someone else. For as much as he and Buffy fought, they also got along in a strange way. They had an understanding… And he was captivated by her. Dru had been so delicate, so innocent in her madness, that he’d been more caregiver than lover at times. Buffy took every bit as much as she dished out and more.

Sauntering into the room as nonchalantly as possible, Spike found Buffy standing in front of her bed, wearing only a tank top and panties, glancing frantically between two different ensembles. He smiled when he heard her muttering under her breath; she must have a date. Nothing else would get her so worked up.

“Well, I guess this’ll be the last time I get to do this,” Spike quipped. “So I’m bloody well gonna enjoy it.”

“Eeep! Spike, you have to stop doing that!” she snapped. Grabbing a pair of black pants, she jerked them on hurriedly. “Now, what were you saying? Did you get expelled? More fighting?”

My God, she’s teasing me! “No, I just thought with the whole transfer and all… I know you want me out of here.”

“Oh.” Buffy took that to mean that he had requested a transfer. She had been meaning to do it, honestly, but… Well, in all honesty, she had gotten used to having Spike around. He never complained of her night owl tendencies, for he never went to sleep before 2 am either. It would be strange not having him to bicker with when they couldn’t sleep.

“Open this.” He thrust an envelope into her hands.

Addressed to William Wesley Calendar-Giles, it was obviously important. It was from the INS. A golden brow arching, she glanced at Spike inquisitively.

“Took my citizenship test before I came here, I can’t open it,” he explained. “Tried a few times, but it’s not somethin’ I can open myself, that.”

Nodding, Buffy opened the letter carefully, handling it as though her treatment of the envelope could somehow determine whether he had passed or failed. She read over the letter quickly, then read it again.

“For fuck’s sake, Summers, tell me what it says!” he demanded.

“You’re in.”

“I’m what?!”

“You’re now an American citizen,” she said happily. “Congratulations.”

Whooping, Spike reacted before he thought things through and hugged her so fiercely he lifted her off her feet as relief flooded him. It wasn’t that he wasn’t proud of being English; he just couldn’t return there for any length of time. England was no longer home to him.

Rather than pushing him away as she briefly considered, she returned the hug warmly, a soft laugh escaping her. She never would have guessed that Spike, who stalked around campus as though he were some sort of Big Bad, would get all… huggy.

“Sorry,” he muttered, setting her down on her feet. It would have been so easy to not let go of her, to smell her hair and feel how warm she was, but it was idiotic. They were enemies, forced into a brief period of cohabitation. “Anyway, I gotta split. Need to go meet the guys to warm up.”

“Yeah, you guys are playing that party tonight, aren’t you? Will’s been gushing about it all day. She’s going with Oz to hang, so…” It took her a moment to realize that they weren’t bickering about something. That wasn’t normal!

“So…?” he prompted, taking the she still had clasped in her hand.

“Ow! You gave me a paper cut, you pig!” she bit out, sucking on the tiny gash on her thumb. There, they were bickering again, that was much better. “I was going to say that I’d just go with you to keep Willow company, but since you’re acting like an ass –”

“Don’t be such a bloody whiney baby, Summers,” he grouched. “Just let me get changed.”

Buffy scowled and pulled a sleeveless silk shirt on over her thin tank top, arranging the gathered neck carefully. Why was she even going with him after he’d given her a paper cut? Because it wasn’t his fault, a little voice inside her brain whispered. It was then that she noticed Spike untucking his t-shirt from his jeans. “Are you going to change in here?!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he retorted. “You always do. For the love of all that’s holy, I’m just changin’ my shirt, so don’t have a bloody coronary.” With that, he gathered the last of his courage and drew his shirt over his head, pausing for a moment with his clean shirt in hand.

Buffy gawked. He was pale and appeared to have been cut from the finest marble save for several scars running the length of his torso. One began at his hip and curved along his side, an angry roadmap of pain. She found herself reaching out to touch one of them and covered the action by running her hand through her hair. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch.” He drew his clean shirt on over his head. To her credit, she hadn’t gasped, whimpered, or turned away in disgust. Perhaps she really did like scars. Either way, she would never have to see them again. Since she had no doubt submitted the form requesting a new roommate, he’d wanted her to… To what? To see him? “You ready?”

“Yeah,” she answered, grabbing a small black purse. When he offered no explanation for the scars, she didn’t ask. They were beautiful, she thought. They made him look more dangerous, and they meant he had survived something terrible, something that had only made him stronger.

Wordlessly, the pair left the dorm room together. Spike never noticed the transfer request form sitting in the trashcan beside Buffy’s desk.