An Englishman in New York

A/N: A tiny little chapter dedicated to the late, great Jim Morrison. I grew up listening to the Doors, so you'll have to forgive my obsession.


Strange Days


Spike never intended for Buffy to feel left out, but as the conversation progressed from talk of school, their rants and raves on teachers, lectures, homework, and classmates, to the Dingoes and more importantly song lyrics, he noticed her growing more and more silent. Somehow, Joyce and he got on subject of poetry, and from that moment on, Buffy seemed utterly lost.

Rather than being annoyed by her lack of knowledge on the topic, Buffy listened raptly while Spike and her mother discussed poetry – mainly the validity of it. It was fascinating to her that someone who seemed almost cold could be so well-versed in one of the most romantic areas in the world.

“So you’re saying that all American poets should be taken out and shot?” Joyce questioned amusedly.

“No, no,” Spike countered, lighting another cigarette. “It’s just that when people start callin’ Jewel a great American poet it makes me want to take myself out and swallow a bullet. Now Jim Morrison, that bloke was a poet.”

“You like The Doors?” There was something akin to awe in her eyes as she glanced between Spike and her daughter.

Finally, Buffy felt that she could be part of the conversation again, and she exclaimed, “You have to hear him do The Crystal Ship, Mom.”

“It’s a little late for that, pet. Don’t want to wake Dawn up.”

“We’ll go outside.” Joyce offered no room for refusal; she even went so far as to retrieve her own acoustic guitar from the basement. “I haven’t played in years, and I was never very good.”

Amused by the woman’s eagerness and encouraged by Buffy’s broad smile, he followed the Summers women onto the porch and sat down on the steps and tuned the guitar expertly. It had been years since he’d played an acoustic, and the weight and feel of the instrument felt strange to him, but it was like the proverbial riding of a bicycle: once learned, it was never truly forgotten.

Buffy stood beside her mother, one arm around her waist as Joyce curled an arm around Buffy’s shoulders; both women looked at him expectantly, and so he had no choice – not that he wasn’t thrilled by Joyce’s interest in hearing him play.

“It’d be better with the guys here,” he offered in apology. Clearing his throat, he began the song, paying careful attention to Buffy’s reaction. She was his most influential critic, and she had persuaded the Dingoes to add or drop songs from the line-up on more than one occasion.


Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss

The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We'll meet again, we'll meet again

Oh, tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You'd rather cry, I'd rather fly

The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I'll drop a line


Joyce was momentarily shocked speechless by how easily Spike adopted the inflections and depth of Morrison’s voice, all the while maintaining something of his own style, and for her part, Buffy was every bit as thrilled as she had been the first time she’d heard him sing it.

“The sound of silence,” Spike quipped nervously, glancing between the two blonde women. It was then that he noticed Buffy’s enormous smile and her mother’s reverent gaze.

“Amazing…You never told me he sounded like Jim Morrison,” scolded Joyce.

“I didn’t think about it; his voice changes. He can sound like just about anyone, at least when he sings.”

“Hey! I’ll master the American accent one of these days,” he protested.

“Do another one,” the eldest Summers said almost pleadingly.

And so the trio spent the next several hours outside while Spike played.