An Englishman in New York

A/N: I hope this answers a lot of questions, guys. I'm going to try my hand at smut in the next chapter, wish me luck!


Delicate


The party had stretched out for hours, and only after the majority of the birthday cake had been devoured, champagne had been consumed, and the dishes washed did the Giles’ consent to return to their hotel. Joyce had tried to persuade them to stay, but the pair insisted that it would be an inconvenience, and Spike was secretly grateful.

He loved his parents; that was true enough, but on this of all days, there was only so much social interaction he could handle without wanting to yank himself bald and indulge in primal scream therapy. Standing on the front porch, he waved farewell to his mother and father, and then he retreated into the sanctuary of the Summers house.

Dawn, who had been permitted to have a glass of champagne to celebrate Spike’s birthday and now knew that she and alcohol were very non-mixy things, hugged him sleepily before padding up the stairs without speaking a word.

Joyce, who suspected that he had personal issues in regards to his birthday, embraced him next. “There’s only so much champagne I can handle at my age,” she yawned unconvincingly.

“Thanks for everything,” Spike said obligingly as he returned her hug.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything. Thank you for being so good for Buffy.”

As he watched Joyce climb the stairs elegantly, he couldn’t help but wonder if he really was good for Buffy. He was pondering that thought in silence when the girl in question settled a hand on his arm to gain his attention.

“There’s a little bit of cake left if you want to help me finish it off,” she said softly so as not to disturb her sister and mother.

“Cor, pet, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who eats as much as you do,” he responded, retreating into the kitchen so they could speak at normal volume without worry.

“Um, you?”

“Right, forgot about that.” With a small grin, Spike lifted the glass lid of the cake plate and sliced two pieces, setting the slices on paper plates so as not to dirty anymore of Joyce’s dishes. Rummaging through several drawers, he finally located plastic forks and passed one to Buffy along with a plate.

“How are you holding up?” she asked gently in between bites of cake.

“I’m holding.” He hopped up on the counter and lit a cigarette, barely touching his cake. It had been a truly remarkable feat on his part that he had gotten through the entire day without weeping, and now he felt the day catching up with him all at once.

Sensing his dilemma, Buffy took his plate and fork and tossed them in the waste basket along with her own. She silently took one of his hands, pulling him in the direction of the basement stairs, and she was glad when he followed her without protest. Flipping the light on, she led him down the stairs to the makeshift bedroom and urged him to sit down.

Spike was perplexed as he watched her fumble through several boxes and draw out a rumbled piece of paper. He sat down on his cot and crossed his legs, setting the ashtray and his cigarettes down beside his thigh to make room for Buffy. When she took a seat in front of him, he took the offered photo and studied it. It was a small photo which had obviously been clipped from a newspaper. Angel stared back at him, only he was dressed in a perfectly starched and ironed police uniform. His scarred eyebrow lifted in silent question.

“Detective Liam Angelus,” Buffy said, indicating the caption beneath the picture. “I was sixteen; he was twenty-eight.” When Spike gave her a bemused expression, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Let me finish.”

“I didn’t say a word.” He drew a bottle of Jack Daniels from under his bed and uncapped it, taking a drink before offering it to Buffy.

“You were thinking it. It wasn’t like that.” Though she normally didn’t touch hard alcohol, she took a small sip, wrinkling her nose at the acidic burn that coated her throat. “We didn’t really have a physical relationship, not at first. He never knew how old – or rather how young I was. I told him that I was eighteen.”

“You lied to him?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t completely honest with me, either. He was always at the Bronze – that’s this club downtown – when my friends and I were there, and since it was so dark there, I didn’t realize he was that old, and he thought I was older, so… Anyway, we got to talking one night and just… clicked, I guess. He was my opposite; he was soft-spoken, gentle, and the most intelligent man I’d ever met. We would just sit and talk for hours, and sometimes he walked me home.” As she spoke, her eyes became distant, and she took another drink for courage.

“Go on,” Spike prompted, listening intently. This was important, he knew. Somehow, this would explain away some of her mystery, and thus make him feel closer to her. Above all, he wanted to feel closer to her now.

“Willow took a picture of us and I kept it in my bag. One day, the seam split and my father found the picture. He was livid, and I had a feeling then that things wouldn’t work out, but I ignored it. I thought we would spend our lives together… One night at the Bronze, someone had a knife, and he arrested them on the spot, but not before he got cut. That was how I found out he was a cop. He was working undercover watching for drug transactions, see. We spent the rest of the night in the ER while he got stitched up and gave his statement to another officer…”

“You don’t have to –”

“Yes, I do,” she interjected. “That night was the night of my seventeenth birthday, he gave me a ring, not that that’s important, but… yeah. Anyway, we were both so shaken up that we just… needed to feel alive. We went back to his apartment and made love. When I woke up, he was gone.” She paused then, her hand trembling as she offered the bottle to Spike. “The next time I saw him, he was so cold. He told me that I had a lot to learn about men and just… he just pushed me aside.”

“Hey,” Spike said gently, leaning forward to brush the blonde curtain of hair out of Buffy’s eyes. “He was a git.”

“He was right. I was a vi-virgin, I'd never had sex before. I didn’t know anything about men.”

“That still didn’t give him the right to act like a daft ponce!” he said fiercely, his grip on the bottle tightening until he feared he might shatter it in his hand.

Sighing, Buffy climbed off the cot and drew a small album out of a box. She handed it to Spike wordlessly and returned to her seat, snatching the bottle from him as he opened the book.

Spike sucked in a breath when he took in the contents of the album. “High School Senior Buffy Summers Saves Classmates at Prom,” read one headline, “Seventeen-Year-Old Summers Miraculously Prevents Massacre,” boasted another. He quickly scanned the articles, learning that two boys from a local gang had taken the attendants of the senior prom hostage and were stopped only after Buffy had knocked them out cold using martial arts techniques.

“Those two assholes saw me with Angel and found out who I was – God knows why Angel never did a background check on me, maybe he didn’t want to know – but anyway, they planned on holding us hostage until he got there and then killing me in front of him.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”

“Charming, huh? They shot Cordelia; she was Xander’s ex-girlfriend and I just… I guess I snapped. I kicked the Adam in the face, and as luck would have it, he landed on Ben. It gave me time to knock them out, then the football players tied them up and took their guns. That’s where I got the umbrella from, the class protector thing. They gave it to me for graduation,” she released a pent-up breath and combed her fingers through her hair.

“What you did, Buffy, that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Spike whispered reverently. His respect and adoration for the tiny girl before him tripled. She truly was a goddess.

“Thank you,” she replied quietly.

Knowing that there was more to the story, he crushed out his cigarette and opened his arms to her as she had done for him earlier that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago since he had poured his heart out to her.

Crawling into his arms, Buffy settled her head on his shoulder. “Maybe I was brave,” she began, “or maybe I was just stupid, but… when Angel found out why they’d targeted the school, he explained things to me. He said that he’d been worried that something like that would happen, and that’s why he pushed me away. He said that it was too dangerous for us to be together.”

“That wasn’t just his decision to make,” Spike muttered ruefully. “Dru, she did the same thing to me. She stopped taking the meds the doctors gave her and said that there was no reason to take anything. She didn’t use an inhaler or oxygen toward the end, nothing.”

“Was she in the hospital?” she asked softly.

“Yeah. Hate hospitals.”

“Me too.”

“Thanks for tellin’ me what happened,” he murmured, placing a kiss on the crown of her head.

“Thank you, too,” said Buffy sincerely, and it was then that she realized that Spike had told her only the basic details of what had happened with Drusilla. “If it’s… too painful, then you don’t have to talk about it, but… I’m not squeamish.”

He knew what she was referring to, and he nodded once. “She was always thin, but toward the end, she was nothin’ but skin, bones, and hair. The day she died, she was gaspin’ and sort of flailin’ around on the bed like fish outta water. She kept makin’ this little rattle in her throat…”

At his words, Buffy kissed his throat as though that alone would somehow ease his pain.

“But right before, she got still, and that’s when she said that she waited until my birthday so she could see me. Then she scooted over a little so I could hold her, and then she died. It was peaceful, I think. She didn’t look like she was feelin’ any pain. And that’s… that’s why I hate my birthday,” he finished.

“I know,” she murmured, “and I can’t even begin to imagine how horrible that was, a-and I’m not comparing my situation with yours –”

“‘S’all right, Slayer.” He gave her a comforting squeeze and tucked her head beneath his chin. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to hold her like that, and he silently chided himself for the doing of it.

“One day you’ll find the sunshine,” Buffy whispered sleepily, having consumed too much alcohol for her slight body to handle and remain awake. She was asleep the instant the words left her mouth.

“I already have, pet,” he said to her sleepy form. “I already have.”