An Englishman in New York
folder
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,091
Reviews:
76
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,091
Reviews:
76
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Hero
A/N: We all have to be afraid of something -- even Spike. Besides, it's just not right if he doesn't call her slayer!
Yes, it's a cryptic note to end the chapter on, but I'm in a strange mood. Bear with me.
Hero
Buffy and Spike made the journey back to their dorm room in relative silence, occasionally commenting on a ‘randy’ couple they caught ‘snogging’ on one of the benches. She couldn’t help but laugh at the slang Spike used, just as he laughed when she used phrases like ‘of the bad’ and ‘the major wiggins,’ but neither took offense to the teasing.
“Have you seen my tarantula?” a bespeckled boy with bright red hair and a face full of freckles asked in greeting.
“Um, no…” Buffy answered, glancing at Spike with an amused smile. “If we see it, we’ll let you know.”
“D-did you say tarantula?” Spike asked nervously, scowling when Buffy snickered at his obvious dislike of the eight-legged freak.
“Yeah, he’s my pet, Winchester,” the boy replied. “I’m in room 28 if you find him. Winchester!” Wandering down the corridor, the redhead continued calling out the spider’s name as though it would come to him like a trained dog.
“That’s just… Well, it’s just sick and bloody wrong is what it is!” Spike declared as he pushed into their room, holding the door open for Buffy.
“I’ll see your sick and bloody wrong,” she mimicked his accent poorly, “and I’ll raise you a geeeeeeeaaaaaah!”
Chuckling, Spike set his guitar case in the corner and grabbed his scuffed duffle bag from under the bed. He opened the drawers of his dresser and began throwing the clothes in haphazardly.
“What… What are you doing?” Buffy asked a split second before she remembered the transfer. Oh. He really was tired of rooming with her if he was packing so quickly. “Never mind.”
“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow, pet,” he said with a smile that was almost bitter. “That scar on your leg, can… gah, bloody awful use of English and I’m English… may I see it?” Since it would be their last night together in the same room, he didn’t see the harm in asking. It was the first time either of them had mentioned anything written in the notes.
Nodding, Buffy sat down on the edge of his bed – oh, shit, I’m on Spike’s bed – and cuffed the leg of her pants. She indicated a faded scar that ran from the back of her ankle to the bottom of her calf. It was little more than a tiny white indentation, barely visible unless one knew what to look for.
“Wicked,” he exclaimed, gently tracing the scar before he realized what he’d done. To cover the hidden meaning behind his actions, that he wanted to touch any part of her he was allowed to touch, he immediately returned to packing.
“How’d you get yours?” she questioned, a trace of a smile on her lips. She shouldn’t have enjoyed something as simple as having her scar touched, yet she had.
“Knife fights.” Turning, he gestured to his eyebrow. “China.” Lifting the hem of his shirt to display the small map of scars lining his torso, he added, “Prague.”
“Knife fights? I guess the bad boy image is more reality than just a front,” she mused.
“Whatever you say, Summers. Whatever you say… BLEEDING, FUCKING HELL!”
“What?!” She fairly leapt off the bed at his sudden shout, but then she saw the reason he’d panicked. Skittering along the dresser mere inches from his left hand was the largest tarantula she had ever seen. When Spike remained frozen, she grabbed a pencil from his bag and impaled the spider on it, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the horrid squishing sound.
“I-I could have done that!” Spike stammered, more horrified that he’d been too panicked by the sight of the spider than he was by the squelching noise.
“Sure you could,” Buffy teased. Dropping the spider – pencil and all – into the waste basket, she wiped her hands off furiously on her pants. “Ick, yuck, nasty!”
Chuckling suddenly, Spike clapped and dipped into a dramatic bow. “I now present to you, Buffy, the spider slayer.”
“Does that make me your hero?” she asked lightly, flopping down on the edge of his bed again. She found it surprisingly endearing that the same man who had survived two knife fights was afraid of spiders.
“Don’t push it, slayer,” he retorted, zipping up his duffle bag. “And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll –”
“You’ll what, yell ‘bleeding, fucking Hell’ and then stand as still as a statue?”
“I’m warnin’ you…”
“Oooh… Come on, then, tough guy.” Buffy slid off the bed and took a fighting stance, surprised when Spike made no move against her. He didn’t even try to tickle her. Instead, he studied her with something akin to awe, and she was immediately met with conflicting emotions: curiosity and bitterness mingled with a hint of something like desire. No, bad Buffy. Bad soon-to-be-ex-roommate Buffy.
“You studied martial arts.” It wasn’t a question. He could see it written in her movements, which were as obvious as if she’d worn a black belt.
“Yeah, well… Living in LA, you know, my mom wanted me to be able to protect myself.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” he asked randomly. The last thing he wanted was to start an in-depth conversation about fights and the like; it was eventually lead to talk of Drusilla. He sat down on the edge of his bed and patted the spot beside him as he lit a cigarette.
“Dawn, but we sometimes call her Dawnie.” She sat down beside him, sticking her tongue out when he lit his cigarette. “That stuff will kill you one day.”
“We all have to die someday, don’t we?”
“Yeah, we all have to die someday.”
Yes, it's a cryptic note to end the chapter on, but I'm in a strange mood. Bear with me.
Hero
Buffy and Spike made the journey back to their dorm room in relative silence, occasionally commenting on a ‘randy’ couple they caught ‘snogging’ on one of the benches. She couldn’t help but laugh at the slang Spike used, just as he laughed when she used phrases like ‘of the bad’ and ‘the major wiggins,’ but neither took offense to the teasing.
“Have you seen my tarantula?” a bespeckled boy with bright red hair and a face full of freckles asked in greeting.
“Um, no…” Buffy answered, glancing at Spike with an amused smile. “If we see it, we’ll let you know.”
“D-did you say tarantula?” Spike asked nervously, scowling when Buffy snickered at his obvious dislike of the eight-legged freak.
“Yeah, he’s my pet, Winchester,” the boy replied. “I’m in room 28 if you find him. Winchester!” Wandering down the corridor, the redhead continued calling out the spider’s name as though it would come to him like a trained dog.
“That’s just… Well, it’s just sick and bloody wrong is what it is!” Spike declared as he pushed into their room, holding the door open for Buffy.
“I’ll see your sick and bloody wrong,” she mimicked his accent poorly, “and I’ll raise you a geeeeeeeaaaaaah!”
Chuckling, Spike set his guitar case in the corner and grabbed his scuffed duffle bag from under the bed. He opened the drawers of his dresser and began throwing the clothes in haphazardly.
“What… What are you doing?” Buffy asked a split second before she remembered the transfer. Oh. He really was tired of rooming with her if he was packing so quickly. “Never mind.”
“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow, pet,” he said with a smile that was almost bitter. “That scar on your leg, can… gah, bloody awful use of English and I’m English… may I see it?” Since it would be their last night together in the same room, he didn’t see the harm in asking. It was the first time either of them had mentioned anything written in the notes.
Nodding, Buffy sat down on the edge of his bed – oh, shit, I’m on Spike’s bed – and cuffed the leg of her pants. She indicated a faded scar that ran from the back of her ankle to the bottom of her calf. It was little more than a tiny white indentation, barely visible unless one knew what to look for.
“Wicked,” he exclaimed, gently tracing the scar before he realized what he’d done. To cover the hidden meaning behind his actions, that he wanted to touch any part of her he was allowed to touch, he immediately returned to packing.
“How’d you get yours?” she questioned, a trace of a smile on her lips. She shouldn’t have enjoyed something as simple as having her scar touched, yet she had.
“Knife fights.” Turning, he gestured to his eyebrow. “China.” Lifting the hem of his shirt to display the small map of scars lining his torso, he added, “Prague.”
“Knife fights? I guess the bad boy image is more reality than just a front,” she mused.
“Whatever you say, Summers. Whatever you say… BLEEDING, FUCKING HELL!”
“What?!” She fairly leapt off the bed at his sudden shout, but then she saw the reason he’d panicked. Skittering along the dresser mere inches from his left hand was the largest tarantula she had ever seen. When Spike remained frozen, she grabbed a pencil from his bag and impaled the spider on it, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the horrid squishing sound.
“I-I could have done that!” Spike stammered, more horrified that he’d been too panicked by the sight of the spider than he was by the squelching noise.
“Sure you could,” Buffy teased. Dropping the spider – pencil and all – into the waste basket, she wiped her hands off furiously on her pants. “Ick, yuck, nasty!”
Chuckling suddenly, Spike clapped and dipped into a dramatic bow. “I now present to you, Buffy, the spider slayer.”
“Does that make me your hero?” she asked lightly, flopping down on the edge of his bed again. She found it surprisingly endearing that the same man who had survived two knife fights was afraid of spiders.
“Don’t push it, slayer,” he retorted, zipping up his duffle bag. “And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll –”
“You’ll what, yell ‘bleeding, fucking Hell’ and then stand as still as a statue?”
“I’m warnin’ you…”
“Oooh… Come on, then, tough guy.” Buffy slid off the bed and took a fighting stance, surprised when Spike made no move against her. He didn’t even try to tickle her. Instead, he studied her with something akin to awe, and she was immediately met with conflicting emotions: curiosity and bitterness mingled with a hint of something like desire. No, bad Buffy. Bad soon-to-be-ex-roommate Buffy.
“You studied martial arts.” It wasn’t a question. He could see it written in her movements, which were as obvious as if she’d worn a black belt.
“Yeah, well… Living in LA, you know, my mom wanted me to be able to protect myself.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” he asked randomly. The last thing he wanted was to start an in-depth conversation about fights and the like; it was eventually lead to talk of Drusilla. He sat down on the edge of his bed and patted the spot beside him as he lit a cigarette.
“Dawn, but we sometimes call her Dawnie.” She sat down beside him, sticking her tongue out when he lit his cigarette. “That stuff will kill you one day.”
“We all have to die someday, don’t we?”
“Yeah, we all have to die someday.”