An Englishman in New York

A/N: Again, thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed.
Laura, thank you for such great feedback. I'm trying to keep writing, but I think my muse hates me right now.
Aisling, Shelly, and Alicia, thank you so much for your constant encouragement. It means a lot.
Spikeslilchit, you have an adorable username, and thank you. ^_^
Raven, I'm glad I got you watching Underworld again. ^_~ And yeah, my friends and I were strangely amused by the idea of someone so overtly sexual being a virgin. Muwahaha.


Something to Talk About

One word: Talk. Wesley had no idea how he was anticipated to proceed. Should he grovel shamelessly, beg forgiveness from a boy whose diapers he had once changed, or should he scold him? In the end, he settled for simplicity and truthfulness. “I’ve no idea what you expect me to say, William.”

“I expect you to bloody well explain why you took my father’s time, took his patience, took his guidance, and then gave him shit in return. You took your stuff to Rayne Publishing, you wanker!” Spike bellowed, momentarily forgetting that Buffy was waiting for him in the hallway and could hear every word.

“Yes, I did, but what I am most interested in at the moment is who told you all of this. I sincerely doubt it was your father. Ripper was never very forthcoming, and as for your mother. Ah, of course…” Wesley smiled faintly when he thought of Rupert’s mother, who had never liked him.

“Ripper?” Spike looked absolutely perplexed by the use of what he assumed was his father’s old nickname. Why Ripper?

“Oh, when he came across a particularly nasty cover letter, he would rip it to shreds and then have to dig the envelope out of the waste bin to know where to send a rejection notice,” said Wesley with a laugh. “He was a brutal man in those days.”

“I want you to tell me why you disappeared and didn’t speak to my father for almost twenty years.”

“Obviously, your sources are quite confused. I took my novel to Rayne Publishing because your father was leaving Council over a contract dispute!” Wesley began, determined to set the arrogant boy straight once and for all. “I left because I went into rehabilitation for an alcohol problem, and I didn’t speak to your father for years because he had your phone disconnected to save money.”

“Save money? We were always very…” Spike let the rest of that sentence trail off, for he suddenly remembered that his family hadn’t always been very well off. At one point, his father had been forced to work in a school library while his mother taught a computer course.

“Your father,” continued Wesley, “is a very proud man, as well you know. He had his phone disconnected in part to save money, and in part so I would be unable to reach him to offer him money. I sent letters, I visited him as often as possible at the library, but he would never accept aide. He never wanted charity.”

“So that’s it, then? The great mystery of my disappearing godfather all comes down to this? Where’s the soddin’ drama?” Spike cried in exasperation, which only made Wesley chuckle.

“Dear boy, I believe that I would get my facts straight from now on before you take anything your grandmother says at face value. She never approved of my work, you see. I was too edgy.”

“Fuckin’ Hell, if you’re too edgy, she must think I’m the anti-Christ.” Spike chortled. “Honestly, what could you write about? Tea, tea, almost got shagged, tea, tea, tea.”

“I don’t recall you winning a Pulitzer Prize, William. We’ll continue this discussion after our next meeting when I’ve read some of your work,” the author said.

“Yeah, fine.”

“William, your hair…”

“Yeah?” Spike questioned, running his fingers through his platinum curls.

“It’s so… it’s not you at all. I can’t reconcile the young man I see now with the man your father brags about so often,” Wesley said gently. He knew that he had to tread lightly or Spike would alienate him completely.

“My father brags about me?” He was utterly shocked. His. Father. Bragged. About. Him.

“Of course he does, and the last time I saw a photograph of you, your hair was much darker and longer. You looked like a normal seventeen year old boy, and now… Well, in all honesty, you look like a reject from a Billy Idol look-a-like contest.”

“That was the soddin’ problem! I was a normal seventeen year old boy, now I’m not. I’m twenty-one. People change,” he said firmly. Why he was even having this conversation was beyond him. Shouldn’t he be doing what he would normally do in these situations and just leave?

“Then what… oh. Oh.” Suddenly, he remembered Drusilla. Of course! How could he have been so bloody stupid?!

Spike, who understood the realization that dawned on the older man’s face, merely nodded.

“I v-very much look forward to reading some of your work,” Wesley stammered in attempt to change the subject gracefully. “And do tell Miss Summers that she will be expected to participate if she attends the meetings.”

“Sure thing, mate.” Spike was already on his way out the door, visibly unnerved by how easily Wesley understood him. Rather than assuming that the change in his physical appearance was born strictly out of a rebellious nature, he saw though it – saw the real cause: William had died with Drusilla, leaving Spike in his place. Only now William was coming back to life.

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A week had passed since Spike’s discussion with Wesley, and Monday morning found both him and Buffy in panic mode, Spike because he loathed his poem, Buffy because hers was only one line. “I’m not going,” the pair said in unison.

“Spike, come on,” Buffy entreated. “Just let me read the poem, I’m sure it’s great.”

“I was never much of a poet,” Spike muttered in between drags of his cigarette. “In fact, I’m bloody awful.”

“Well, how do you know that if you won’t let anyone read your work?”

“Let’s just say that, when I was fifteen and convinced I was in love with some chit named Cecily, I wrote a poem for her that used the words ‘bulge’ and ‘effulgent’.”

“Eff-whata?”

“It means… gleaming,” he explained. “Glistening, glowing, all of that. Point is, she laughed at me and I never let anyone read anything I’ve written after that.”

“Spike, you were fifteen,” she said reasonably. “I’m sure you’ve gotten much better. Besides, don’t you at least want to hear what Faith comes up with?”

He snorted laughter at the thought of Faith’s idea of poetry. No matter how horrid his was, hers would be a million times worse.

“Plus, if you don’t go, Wesley will think you’re some sort of ‘fraidy cat.”

“I am not a soddin’ ‘fraidy cat, whatever the bloody Hell that is! But if I’m going, then you are, too,” he insisted.

At Buffy’s nod and sigh of resignation, Spike settled a hand between her shoulder blades to usher her from their dorm room, marveling at how completely… normal it felt to have his hand there. The problem was that she had yet to break up with White Bread. She claimed that she hadn’t been able to catch him between classes and that they had been playing phone-tag, but he understood why she hadn’t been able to go through with it yet. He would wait for her – forever if he had to.

By the time the reached the lecture hall, Buffy was ready to run away screaming, even if that meant that she was a big ‘fraidy cat. She had only written one line! Shuddering inwardly, she followed Spike inside and quickly found their seats. To her surprise (and great relief) Wesley was merely collecting the poems as the students filed into the room.

Dear God, don’t let him read them out loud, she thought as she handed over her pathetic piece. And if he has to read them aloud, don’t let him read the author’s names!

Spike’s thoughts were much the same as Buffy’s, and as he took his seat next to the blonde, he glanced at his godfather apprehensively.

A short discussion later, Wesley returned the poems to their owners, and only three people volunteered to read their own work: Faith, who was so eager for attention that she would do anything to have a moment in the spotlight, Spike, because Buffy pleaded with him, and Buffy, because Spike tricked her into raising her hand.

“All right, Faith,” Wesley prompted, sitting on the edge of his desk casually. “If you please…”

“Wicked cool,” the raven-haired girl said. “I believe in sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, speed, weed, and birth control. Life’s a bitch and then you die, fuck this shit, let’s all get high.”

The small group dissolved into a fit of laughter, and Faith grinned proudly when she caught Buffy’s eye. The blonde returned her smile, finding her odd little poem amusing, yet saddening at the same time.

“Well, that was very… honest,” said Wesley with a small laugh.

“Five by five,” Faith agreed, shooting a smile in Buffy’s direction.

“Spike?”

Surprised by the use of his nickname, Spike inclined his head to his godfather and shoved to his feet. “It’s… it’s not really that good,” he said almost sheepishly, glancing at Buffy for reassurance. At her nod, he recited the poem from memory:

I believe in false pretenses, and cheating the system.
I believe in traveling alone, not heeding warnings, invincibility, and victimization;
I believe that sometimes one life must be lost to save another.
I believe that we never have a choice even when we believe we do.
I believe in going too fast when you don't know where you're going.
I believe that music is universal, and so is death;
I believe in the power of words and the strength of friends.
I believe in the bottom of the fifth glass and the last tear you can afford to shed.
I believe that everyone has a voice, but not everyone uses it.
I believe that refractions caught in the light make the sky blue.
I believe that some of the best masks aren't masks at all.
I believe that some of the best faces aren't faces either.
I believe that we’re all looking for something, and will find us in time.

When Wesley sat for a moment in total silence, and Spike vainly wished that he could sink into a conveniently placed black hole in the floor, but Buffy’s warm smile lent him courage. He met his godfather’s eyes with a look of confidence he didn’t feel.

“He’s real good,” said Faith, looking utterly bewildered.

“You believe that some of the best faces aren’t faces?” Doyle questioned.

“It was more of a –”

“You have a great deal of potential,” said Wesley in a careful tone so as to avoid outwardly showing favoritism to his godson. “A style all your own… Now, Buffy.”

The petite blonde never looked up from her notebook as she murmured, “I believe in taking chances.”

Spike returned to his seat, reading more into that single sentence than the rest of the group understood. She believed in taking chances… Did that mean she would finally take a chance with him?

“Next week, I expect the rest of you to read something you’ve written, on any topic you like,” Wesley instructed. “I want each of you to write a letter to someone important in your life, which you will not be expected to read unless you wish to.”

As the group meandered out of the lecture hall, Spike’s mind wrapped around one thought and one thought alone.

Buffy believed in taking chances.