An Englishman in New York
folder
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,085
Reviews:
76
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
6,085
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.
Call Me, Call Me
A/N: The communication through notes is a hat's off to my old roommate Holly. We fought like cats and dogs and finally reached the point where we had to leave notes for each other. We're friends now, so...
Call Me, Call Me
Buffy slipped into the dorm room she shared with Spike a little after seven in the morning. He was unconscious on his bed again; this time he was not only fully dressed and on top of the blanket, but he had passed out face down with his head at the foot of the bed and his booted feet on his pillow.
This time, she felt a twinge of pity for him. She knew from experience that most people who drank heavily did so to numb themselves from internal pain, and she wondered what troubled him so deeply.
Stretching languidly, she set her backpack down near her desk and kicked off her boots as she moved to the dresser. When she bent to open the drawer, she saw her umbrella on the floor. She knew for certain that she had left it in its rightful place, and she knew that her friends would never go through her things. That left only one person: Spike.
She snatched the umbrella off the floor, stormed over to his bed, hauled one of her little fists back, and punched him square in the nose to wake him. “You son of a bitch!”
“Owww! Bloody Hell, lay off my nose!” Spike slurred, cupping his nose gingerly. She hadn’t broken it, but it was going to hurt like a bugger, he knew. “What’ve you got your knickers in a twist about?”
“This!” She held the umbrella in front of his face. “You were going through my things!”
“I… Well, yeah,” he admitted, easing into a seated position. That was a bad idea, as it turned out, for it only earned him another punch from Buffy, this time to the shoulder.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?! Why were you going through my things?!” she demanded. “You know what? I don’t care. Just get out.”
“I live here, too, Summers,” he snapped.
“GET OUT!”
“Fine!”
“Good!”
Grabbing his backpack and guitar case, Spike shoved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket before striding to the door. As he opened it, he glanced back at Buffy. “What’s a class protector?”
“NOW!” she bellowed, pointing to the open door.
Without another word, Spike left.
The door had barely closed before Buffy sank down onto her bed and dissolved into tears. Things had been going so well; they had been getting along, and now this.
She shouldn’t have slept with Parker so quickly, she knew that now, but he had been so vulnerable and she hadn’t been able to deny him when he’d gazed up at her with his big, sad eyes. He had been in so much pain, and she’d done all she could to comfort him. Unfortunately, his comfort did not seem to entail her orgasm in spite of how many times she’d tried. It had been nice, of course, but the dull ache between her thighs wasn’t going away. But, Parker had said he would call her later after class, and since she didn’t have classes that day, she would wait.
Not at all pathetic, are you, Buffy?
Her hand still curled around the handle of her umbrella, she settled down on the bed and closed her eyes, drifting into a light sleep. If the phone rang, it would wake her. She was used to waiting for phone calls.
When she woke again, a glance at the clock told her that she had been asleep for a little over five hours. Spike had come and gone; his backpack was now on the floor, but his guitar case was absent. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and stretched her muscles, a blonde brow lifting when she noticed a folded sheet of notebook paper on the nightstand; it had her name on it, written in a spidery scrawl.
Unfolding it, she found only two words written there: I’m sorry. Beneath the notebook paper was a small photograph, and she picked it up to examine it. A pair of haunting black eyes looked back at her from an ivory face framed by ebony hair. The woman was dressed in crimson and black, a perfect gothic beauty. He must have seen the pictures of me with Angel, she realized.
When she found nothing written on the back of the photograph, she set it down on his bed gently. Something told her that he would be crushed if it was lost. But why had he shown it to her in the first place? The woman was obviously important to him. It was a peace offering – perhaps he thought that in revealing something about himself that she would forgive him. Confused, Buffy ran her fingers through her hair.
Then an idea occurred to her.
Opening her nightstand drawer, she rummaged through it until she found a picture of her mother and sister. Setting it on his nightstand, she grabbed a piece of her own notebook paper and wrote two simple words: Thank you.
For some reason, it felt rather naughty to communicate with him through notes and photographs, even if said photographs were over her mother and Dawn. It was reminiscent of passing notes in class, and she hoped that this time, getting caught wouldn’t mean detention.
Call Me, Call Me
Buffy slipped into the dorm room she shared with Spike a little after seven in the morning. He was unconscious on his bed again; this time he was not only fully dressed and on top of the blanket, but he had passed out face down with his head at the foot of the bed and his booted feet on his pillow.
This time, she felt a twinge of pity for him. She knew from experience that most people who drank heavily did so to numb themselves from internal pain, and she wondered what troubled him so deeply.
Stretching languidly, she set her backpack down near her desk and kicked off her boots as she moved to the dresser. When she bent to open the drawer, she saw her umbrella on the floor. She knew for certain that she had left it in its rightful place, and she knew that her friends would never go through her things. That left only one person: Spike.
She snatched the umbrella off the floor, stormed over to his bed, hauled one of her little fists back, and punched him square in the nose to wake him. “You son of a bitch!”
“Owww! Bloody Hell, lay off my nose!” Spike slurred, cupping his nose gingerly. She hadn’t broken it, but it was going to hurt like a bugger, he knew. “What’ve you got your knickers in a twist about?”
“This!” She held the umbrella in front of his face. “You were going through my things!”
“I… Well, yeah,” he admitted, easing into a seated position. That was a bad idea, as it turned out, for it only earned him another punch from Buffy, this time to the shoulder.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?! Why were you going through my things?!” she demanded. “You know what? I don’t care. Just get out.”
“I live here, too, Summers,” he snapped.
“GET OUT!”
“Fine!”
“Good!”
Grabbing his backpack and guitar case, Spike shoved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket before striding to the door. As he opened it, he glanced back at Buffy. “What’s a class protector?”
“NOW!” she bellowed, pointing to the open door.
Without another word, Spike left.
The door had barely closed before Buffy sank down onto her bed and dissolved into tears. Things had been going so well; they had been getting along, and now this.
She shouldn’t have slept with Parker so quickly, she knew that now, but he had been so vulnerable and she hadn’t been able to deny him when he’d gazed up at her with his big, sad eyes. He had been in so much pain, and she’d done all she could to comfort him. Unfortunately, his comfort did not seem to entail her orgasm in spite of how many times she’d tried. It had been nice, of course, but the dull ache between her thighs wasn’t going away. But, Parker had said he would call her later after class, and since she didn’t have classes that day, she would wait.
Not at all pathetic, are you, Buffy?
Her hand still curled around the handle of her umbrella, she settled down on the bed and closed her eyes, drifting into a light sleep. If the phone rang, it would wake her. She was used to waiting for phone calls.
When she woke again, a glance at the clock told her that she had been asleep for a little over five hours. Spike had come and gone; his backpack was now on the floor, but his guitar case was absent. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and stretched her muscles, a blonde brow lifting when she noticed a folded sheet of notebook paper on the nightstand; it had her name on it, written in a spidery scrawl.
Unfolding it, she found only two words written there: I’m sorry. Beneath the notebook paper was a small photograph, and she picked it up to examine it. A pair of haunting black eyes looked back at her from an ivory face framed by ebony hair. The woman was dressed in crimson and black, a perfect gothic beauty. He must have seen the pictures of me with Angel, she realized.
When she found nothing written on the back of the photograph, she set it down on his bed gently. Something told her that he would be crushed if it was lost. But why had he shown it to her in the first place? The woman was obviously important to him. It was a peace offering – perhaps he thought that in revealing something about himself that she would forgive him. Confused, Buffy ran her fingers through her hair.
Then an idea occurred to her.
Opening her nightstand drawer, she rummaged through it until she found a picture of her mother and sister. Setting it on his nightstand, she grabbed a piece of her own notebook paper and wrote two simple words: Thank you.
For some reason, it felt rather naughty to communicate with him through notes and photographs, even if said photographs were over her mother and Dawn. It was reminiscent of passing notes in class, and she hoped that this time, getting caught wouldn’t mean detention.