An Englishman in New York
folder
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,103
Reviews:
76
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,103
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.
New York State of Mind
A/N: Thanks so much for reviewing, everyone!!
For Sarah, because Spike just isn't Spike without the poetry, which will come in the next chapter.
New York State of Mind
A week had passed since the blonde pair returned to their New York abode, and they had fallen into a habit of sleeping together each night, just sleeping. Spike had made a silent pact with himself that he wouldn’t touch her until she had ended things with Riley, and she not only understood, she seemed to respect him for it.
He eased off the bed silently so as not to wake Buffy, marveling again at how well they fit together on the small mattress. They had decided last night that they would push the two beds together and sleep across the beds so neither would end up rolling into the crack. Gathering a fresh change of clothes, he hurried off to shower and returned with coffee for them only to find Buffy still asleep. He watched her for what could have been as little as a few seconds or as long as an hour and, as predicted, she stirred when she realized that he was watching her.
“Mm, nicer way to wake up than an alarm clock.” She rubbed her eyes and rolled out of bed, taking the offered cup of coffee. She wasn’t fully human in the morning without her coffee, and she found herself incapable of speaking in full sentences until she’d finished it. “Thanks.”
“No more Cave-Buffy?” he quipped.
“Fire bad, tree pretty,” she replied with a teasing smile, running her fingers through her hair to make certain it had completely dried overnight.
With a coy smile, she sauntered over to her closet and grabbed an emerald sweater that set off the color of her eyes. Keeping her back to him, she drew her tank top over her head and slipped her bra on, stretching languidly before pulling on the sweater. She could almost hear Spike’s jaw dropping at her little show.
“You’re evil.”
Giggling, Buffy pushed the cotton sleep pants down her hips and wriggled into a pair of black leather pants. “I am,” she confirmed as she stepped into her boots and grabbed her shoulder bag. “Come on, we’re going.”
“Slayer, I already told you I’m not takin’ part in any creative writing class. We don’t even get any bleedin’ credit for it!” he protested. He was not, absolutely not going… unless she did that little pout like she was doing now. “Sod it, I’ll go.”
Grinning triumphantly, she grabbed his hand and fairly dragged him from the dorm room. She had overheard him tell her mother that he dabbled in poetry, and when, upon their return to campus, Willow had informed her that there would be a writer’s group forming in a week, she knew she had to talk him into it – even if it meant doing a little striptease and pouting.
Spike grumbled and grouched the entire way there. “Why does it have to be at eight in the bloody morning? The Wicca group meets at night, but they think writers should have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn?”
“It’s not the ass-crack of dawn, Spike, and they know that most of you poet-y types haven’t even gone to sleep yet,” she countered.
“Poet-y types? If this is gonna be a group of ponces sittin’ around brooding, count me the fuck out, and I did sleep, for your information.”
“I know. I was there. We didn’t get to sleep until after three, remember?” She gave him a slight shove into the lecture hall, a brow arching in surprise when she saw the small group gathered there. They didn’t look like ponces to her.
“Take your seats and give your names, please,” said a bespeckled man without looking up from his papers; his voice was cultured and very British, yet oddly not as comforting as Giles’ voice had been.
“If we’re not getting credit for this, why do we need a bleedin’ instructor?” Spike demanded quietly as he took a seat next to a dark-skinned, well-dressed boy.
Buffy rolled her eyes and sat beside him. “I’m Buffy Summers, and this is William Calendar-Giles.”
Glancing up from the desk, he studied Spike appraisingly before nodding. “Calendar-Giles, you say? Rupert and Jenny’s boy, yes. You don’t remember me; I’m Wesley Wyndham-Pryce…” he prompted, hoping it would jar his memory.
“Oh, bloody Hell…”
“Wesley? Isn’t that your middle name?”
“Buffy, meet my godfather,” he said disdainfully. “I was named after the bugger. Haven’t seen him since I was two or three.”
Wesley puffed up as though a proud peacock when Spike introduced him as his godfather. “You see, Rupert worked for a publishing company years ago when I first started writing. He knew much more about it than I, and I suppose one could say that he was my mentor –”
“He taught you everything you know, you became a bestselling author and conveniently forgot about the people who helped you,” Spike finished coldly.
“Spike!”
“Spike, yes. You earned that nickname playing football, did you not? You father told me all about that little incident. I may not have been around, but I always kept in touch with your family, and I always asked after you. You would do well to get all the facts before judging others, William,” Wesley replied, his voice soft and even in spite of his obvious anger.
“Yeah, well…”
“Never mind. The rest of you, your names, please.”
“You are so explaining that to me later,” Buffy whispered, glancing around at the small group as they stated their names: Faith, Lindsay, Fred, Charles, and Doyle.
“Right, then. Now that I know each of you, let me tell you something about myself.” With that segue, he launched into a recount of his ‘humble’ beginnings – the Wyndham-Pryce’s, Spike told Buffy, were one of the wealthiest families in all of England – and his passion for writing.
Buffy nearly fell asleep several times, and when she glanced at the clock, she sighed with relief. The hour-long meeting was almost over.
“We’re short on time,” Wesley said apologetically. “I expect each of you to have something for me the next time we meet. The topic will be beliefs.”
“Now the blighter wants to tell us what to write?” Spike whispered in disbelief.
“William, if you would be so kind as to stay a few moments.”
“I’ll wait in the hall,” said Buffy with a sympathetic smile.
Spike watched the others file out of the lecture hall and groaned inwardly. When they were alone, he shoved to his feet and approached his godfather, his hands folded over his chest defiantly. “Talk.”
For Sarah, because Spike just isn't Spike without the poetry, which will come in the next chapter.
New York State of Mind
A week had passed since the blonde pair returned to their New York abode, and they had fallen into a habit of sleeping together each night, just sleeping. Spike had made a silent pact with himself that he wouldn’t touch her until she had ended things with Riley, and she not only understood, she seemed to respect him for it.
He eased off the bed silently so as not to wake Buffy, marveling again at how well they fit together on the small mattress. They had decided last night that they would push the two beds together and sleep across the beds so neither would end up rolling into the crack. Gathering a fresh change of clothes, he hurried off to shower and returned with coffee for them only to find Buffy still asleep. He watched her for what could have been as little as a few seconds or as long as an hour and, as predicted, she stirred when she realized that he was watching her.
“Mm, nicer way to wake up than an alarm clock.” She rubbed her eyes and rolled out of bed, taking the offered cup of coffee. She wasn’t fully human in the morning without her coffee, and she found herself incapable of speaking in full sentences until she’d finished it. “Thanks.”
“No more Cave-Buffy?” he quipped.
“Fire bad, tree pretty,” she replied with a teasing smile, running her fingers through her hair to make certain it had completely dried overnight.
With a coy smile, she sauntered over to her closet and grabbed an emerald sweater that set off the color of her eyes. Keeping her back to him, she drew her tank top over her head and slipped her bra on, stretching languidly before pulling on the sweater. She could almost hear Spike’s jaw dropping at her little show.
“You’re evil.”
Giggling, Buffy pushed the cotton sleep pants down her hips and wriggled into a pair of black leather pants. “I am,” she confirmed as she stepped into her boots and grabbed her shoulder bag. “Come on, we’re going.”
“Slayer, I already told you I’m not takin’ part in any creative writing class. We don’t even get any bleedin’ credit for it!” he protested. He was not, absolutely not going… unless she did that little pout like she was doing now. “Sod it, I’ll go.”
Grinning triumphantly, she grabbed his hand and fairly dragged him from the dorm room. She had overheard him tell her mother that he dabbled in poetry, and when, upon their return to campus, Willow had informed her that there would be a writer’s group forming in a week, she knew she had to talk him into it – even if it meant doing a little striptease and pouting.
Spike grumbled and grouched the entire way there. “Why does it have to be at eight in the bloody morning? The Wicca group meets at night, but they think writers should have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn?”
“It’s not the ass-crack of dawn, Spike, and they know that most of you poet-y types haven’t even gone to sleep yet,” she countered.
“Poet-y types? If this is gonna be a group of ponces sittin’ around brooding, count me the fuck out, and I did sleep, for your information.”
“I know. I was there. We didn’t get to sleep until after three, remember?” She gave him a slight shove into the lecture hall, a brow arching in surprise when she saw the small group gathered there. They didn’t look like ponces to her.
“Take your seats and give your names, please,” said a bespeckled man without looking up from his papers; his voice was cultured and very British, yet oddly not as comforting as Giles’ voice had been.
“If we’re not getting credit for this, why do we need a bleedin’ instructor?” Spike demanded quietly as he took a seat next to a dark-skinned, well-dressed boy.
Buffy rolled her eyes and sat beside him. “I’m Buffy Summers, and this is William Calendar-Giles.”
Glancing up from the desk, he studied Spike appraisingly before nodding. “Calendar-Giles, you say? Rupert and Jenny’s boy, yes. You don’t remember me; I’m Wesley Wyndham-Pryce…” he prompted, hoping it would jar his memory.
“Oh, bloody Hell…”
“Wesley? Isn’t that your middle name?”
“Buffy, meet my godfather,” he said disdainfully. “I was named after the bugger. Haven’t seen him since I was two or three.”
Wesley puffed up as though a proud peacock when Spike introduced him as his godfather. “You see, Rupert worked for a publishing company years ago when I first started writing. He knew much more about it than I, and I suppose one could say that he was my mentor –”
“He taught you everything you know, you became a bestselling author and conveniently forgot about the people who helped you,” Spike finished coldly.
“Spike!”
“Spike, yes. You earned that nickname playing football, did you not? You father told me all about that little incident. I may not have been around, but I always kept in touch with your family, and I always asked after you. You would do well to get all the facts before judging others, William,” Wesley replied, his voice soft and even in spite of his obvious anger.
“Yeah, well…”
“Never mind. The rest of you, your names, please.”
“You are so explaining that to me later,” Buffy whispered, glancing around at the small group as they stated their names: Faith, Lindsay, Fred, Charles, and Doyle.
“Right, then. Now that I know each of you, let me tell you something about myself.” With that segue, he launched into a recount of his ‘humble’ beginnings – the Wyndham-Pryce’s, Spike told Buffy, were one of the wealthiest families in all of England – and his passion for writing.
Buffy nearly fell asleep several times, and when she glanced at the clock, she sighed with relief. The hour-long meeting was almost over.
“We’re short on time,” Wesley said apologetically. “I expect each of you to have something for me the next time we meet. The topic will be beliefs.”
“Now the blighter wants to tell us what to write?” Spike whispered in disbelief.
“William, if you would be so kind as to stay a few moments.”
“I’ll wait in the hall,” said Buffy with a sympathetic smile.
Spike watched the others file out of the lecture hall and groaned inwardly. When they were alone, he shoved to his feet and approached his godfather, his hands folded over his chest defiantly. “Talk.”