An Englishman in New York

After picking up Tara from the airport and locating a coffee shop near the school, Buffy sank down into a chair beside Willow, a soft groan escaping her. “I hate Spike,” she muttered.

“Spike’s your… roommate?” Tara questioned, glancing at Willow for confirmation. At the redhead’s affirmative nod, she offered a sympathetic smile and patted Buffy’s arm. “I’m-I’m sure you’ll g-get along.”

“I’m not,” Xander said, putting his proverbial two cents in. “I mean, you didn’t see this guy, Tara. He’s like… I don’t know, the return of Billy Idol, only meaner, uglier, and scarier.”

“Scarier?” asked an amused-looking Oz as he passed around mochas and munchies. “Didn’t frighten me at all.”

“And he’s not ugly,” Willow added, taking Oz’s hand when she said it. While she had no problem acknowledging the fact that Spike was the opposite of ugly, she only had eyes for her boyfriend.

Buffy, who had remained silent while her friends – save Xander – tried to reassure her, finally spoke again. “He walked in while I was changing and didn’t even say anything until I was done. That’s just… wrong.”

“He did what?! I’ll kick his ass!”

“Xander!”

“Sorry, Will.”

“Guys, th-this really isn’t helping Buffy, is it? We all know she can take care of herself if Spike tries anything, but I just don’t think he will.” Tara, known for her uncanny intuition, smiled at Buffy, and that was perhaps the most reassuring thing of all.

“I miss Mom,” said the petite blonde suddenly. “I miss LA.”

“Yeah,” the group simultaneously agreed. “Us, too.”

“I still can’t believe that all of you came with me,” she continued. After the disaster now known only as the Angel Incident, Buffy made it a point to express her gratitude as often as possible. She knew how fortunate she was to have such good friends.

“No biggie,” Willow said sheepishly. “I’ve always wanted to come here, and – and Tara’s from here, and Oz can really get a good start with his music here, and Xander…”

“And Xander can be the no-college guy in Oz’s band,” the good-natured young man quipped, elbowing Oz in the ribs.

“Hey, man, Dingoes is our gig, not just mine,” Oz corrected. Though he was a man of few words, his fierce loyalty bade him to protect his friends, even if it was only from their own self-deprecation.

“Speaking of, did you guys get your fliers printed up?” Buffy asked.

“Fliers?” Tara looked oblivious, or dreamy, as Willow often said.

“We need a singer,” Xander explained.

“And a drummer, and maybe a keyboardist, too. We’ve been here for a few days, been passing them around. Auditions are tomorrow, and if we don’t find anyone, the next day, too.”

“Give me a few fliers and I’ll pass some more around,” Buffy offered.

Oz nodded to Willow, who drew a stack of multi-colored fliers from her bag and passed a stack to each one of them, keeping the biggest stack for herself.

“Hey, there, Missy,” Xander teased, “Why should you get to pass around the most fliers?”

“My boyfriend is with the band,” she replied happily. “And it saves you leg-work, you lazy bum.”

The group dissolved into laughter at the contrast between Willow’s light tone and her stern ‘Principal Snyder face.’ Remembering the good old days in school when Snyder had made their lives a living Hell, they spent the rest of the night laughing, joking, and on a rare occasion, one of them became serious.

It was after midnight when the café cleared out, and Buffy groaned at the thought of having to return to her roommate. He was rude, vulgar, irritating, and… devilishly handsome. Shaking her head as though that would rid her of that sudden realization, she started back toward her dorm room.

Tara and Willow shared a dorm room, while Oz and Xander shared a small apartment nearby, and she often wondered what she had done to deserve their loyalty. No, scratch that. She knew what she had done, but she also knew that they had planned to follow her anywhere she chose to attend college. That was how wonderful her friends were.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she reached the room faster than she had expected. With an inward curse, she opened the door, preparing herself for another confrontation with Spike. What she found was more disturbing.

Still fully dressed, he was sound asleep on top of the blanket, an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the bedside table and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. Thankfully, he had opened the window to air out the room, but she could still smell the smoke. Wrinkling her nose, she closed the door silently and, rather than undertaking her nightly ritual, she set down her stack of fliers, kicked off her shoes, and crawled into bed.

As she silently thanked whatever God that existed that Spike didn’t snore, she drifted into an exhausted sleep, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil of her roommate, oblivious to the all-too-clichéd fact that her life would soon change forever.