An Englishman in New York
folder
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,084
Reviews:
76
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,084
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.
Alabama Song
A/N: Sorry for the shortness of this chapter, folks. I was writing on my laptop in the car while waiting for my sister to get done with soccer practice. ^_^
Alabama Song
Buffy was not in the door room when he came home that night. When he’d first returned from his night class at a little after ten, Spike was surprised to find the room empty. Shrugging it off, he assumed that Buffy was out with her friends, but then Willow called looking for her. He was immediately concerned for the diminutive blonde, but the redheaded Wicca assured him that Buffy knew how to take care of herself.
It was only after he had spoken with Tara that he resigned himself to waiting. The soothing woman had sworn to him that she was certain that Buffy was fine, and he firmly believed that she would know if something had happened. Somehow, she would know, just as he had known that something had happened to…
No, I don’t want to go there right now.
Finding his bottle of Jack Daniels, he uncapped it and took a long drink as he lit a cigarette. “Show me the way to the next whiskey bar…” he sang under his breath. Suddenly an idea struck him, an idea he knew was wrong. An irresistible idea. Crossing the invisible threshold into Buffy’s domain, he began rummaging.
He came across a small stuffed pig that looked almost as old as he and Buffy were and carefully set it back down on her bed. Humming softly, he took another swig of whiskey and opened the drawer to her nightstand.
There, he found several tubes of lip balm, tanning lotion, elastic bands for hair, and a few pictures of Buffy with her arms wrapped around the waist of a tall, brooding man with the strangest forehead he had ever seen in his life. Shrugging, he flipped the picture over and saw a girlish scrawl declaring that the man was Angel, and that the picture had been taken in 2004 in Los Angeles.
He dropped the photo back in the drawer, surprised when he felt a twinge of jealousy. He was definitely not her type, not if she always went for tall, dark, and wonky looking. All right, so he was a good-looking bloke, but there was something about him that grated on Spike’s nerves. Perhaps it was his poncy name. What kind of a name was Angel, anyway? It was a stupid name, a stupid name for a stupid wanker.
Oh, and *Spike* is so much better, his inner William scolded.
Closing the drawer, he opened the closet and glanced inside. Finding nothing but shoes, clothes, and purses, he slid the door closed and moved to the small dresser.
Plundering through the drawers, he sang, “Oh, moon of Alabama, we now must say goodbye. We’ve lost our dear old mama, and must have whiskey, oh, you know why…”
Then he came across the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life. Nestled within the drawer was an umbrella with a small plaque attacked to it.
Buffy Summers: Class Protector.
A scarred eyebrow kicking up, he studied the thing curiously. Class Protector? What the bloody Hell does that mean?
He drained half the bottle in a single gulp and pulled through the drawer in search of anything interesting. You’re looking for a diary, you git, he chided himself. So what if he was? It was his right, wasn’t it? After all, he didn’t want to share a room with some psychopath.
An hour passed while he searched for a diary of some sort, and by the time he gave up, he had finished the rest of the bottle. He staggered drunkenly to his bed and collapsed onto it.
Maybe the booze’ll keep the dreams away this time, he thought groggily as he drifted into sleep.
He was oblivious to the fact that he had left the umbrella on the floor beside Buffy’s dresser.
Alabama Song
Buffy was not in the door room when he came home that night. When he’d first returned from his night class at a little after ten, Spike was surprised to find the room empty. Shrugging it off, he assumed that Buffy was out with her friends, but then Willow called looking for her. He was immediately concerned for the diminutive blonde, but the redheaded Wicca assured him that Buffy knew how to take care of herself.
It was only after he had spoken with Tara that he resigned himself to waiting. The soothing woman had sworn to him that she was certain that Buffy was fine, and he firmly believed that she would know if something had happened. Somehow, she would know, just as he had known that something had happened to…
No, I don’t want to go there right now.
Finding his bottle of Jack Daniels, he uncapped it and took a long drink as he lit a cigarette. “Show me the way to the next whiskey bar…” he sang under his breath. Suddenly an idea struck him, an idea he knew was wrong. An irresistible idea. Crossing the invisible threshold into Buffy’s domain, he began rummaging.
He came across a small stuffed pig that looked almost as old as he and Buffy were and carefully set it back down on her bed. Humming softly, he took another swig of whiskey and opened the drawer to her nightstand.
There, he found several tubes of lip balm, tanning lotion, elastic bands for hair, and a few pictures of Buffy with her arms wrapped around the waist of a tall, brooding man with the strangest forehead he had ever seen in his life. Shrugging, he flipped the picture over and saw a girlish scrawl declaring that the man was Angel, and that the picture had been taken in 2004 in Los Angeles.
He dropped the photo back in the drawer, surprised when he felt a twinge of jealousy. He was definitely not her type, not if she always went for tall, dark, and wonky looking. All right, so he was a good-looking bloke, but there was something about him that grated on Spike’s nerves. Perhaps it was his poncy name. What kind of a name was Angel, anyway? It was a stupid name, a stupid name for a stupid wanker.
Oh, and *Spike* is so much better, his inner William scolded.
Closing the drawer, he opened the closet and glanced inside. Finding nothing but shoes, clothes, and purses, he slid the door closed and moved to the small dresser.
Plundering through the drawers, he sang, “Oh, moon of Alabama, we now must say goodbye. We’ve lost our dear old mama, and must have whiskey, oh, you know why…”
Then he came across the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life. Nestled within the drawer was an umbrella with a small plaque attacked to it.
Buffy Summers: Class Protector.
A scarred eyebrow kicking up, he studied the thing curiously. Class Protector? What the bloody Hell does that mean?
He drained half the bottle in a single gulp and pulled through the drawer in search of anything interesting. You’re looking for a diary, you git, he chided himself. So what if he was? It was his right, wasn’t it? After all, he didn’t want to share a room with some psychopath.
An hour passed while he searched for a diary of some sort, and by the time he gave up, he had finished the rest of the bottle. He staggered drunkenly to his bed and collapsed onto it.
Maybe the booze’ll keep the dreams away this time, he thought groggily as he drifted into sleep.
He was oblivious to the fact that he had left the umbrella on the floor beside Buffy’s dresser.