An Englishman in New York

Author's Notes: This is my first fan-fic, so please be gentle with me. Flames will be force-fed to Riley so that he may suffer terrible pain. You like me already, don't you? ^_~

All right, yes, I know that there is no Sunnydale Hall at NYU. I have no idea if they let guys and gals room together, so for all intents and purposes, the entire WORLD is AU. Feedback is nice, especially if anyone's interested in the next chapter.

Also, none of these characters are mine. I know that, but we can dream, can't we?

Spike's absurdly long name is a hat's off to my sweet and wonderful friend Wes.

Ch 1: An Englishman in New York

The warm August sun shone down on the emerald grass and gleaming concrete which made up the campus of NYU; students of all shapes, sizes, nationalities, and creeds made their way across the lawn, wandering souls pursuing knowledge, betterment, and all the other things that college advertisements were made of. It was beginning to make Spike nauseous.

He was annoyed to discover that, contrary to popular belief, the students of NYU didn’t garb themselves from head to toe in black as he did. What annoyed him was not that his appearance would make him stand out – he delighted in that – but that he had been misled by the American public.

With a final contemptuous shudder, he stepped into Sunnydale Hall and meandered down the corridor glancing at the names taped to each door – he had forgotten the room number already. Math was useless, he often thought, and he knew his own bloody name well enough.

He muttered a few colorful British euphemisms, glowered at a slight red-haired boy with unnervingly intelligent eyes, and nearly plowed into a second redhead, a reed-thin girl with a sweet smile. Finally, there it was, room 42, and on a blindingly white sheet of paper taped to the door were two names: his own, William Wesley Calendar-Giles, and another name typed neatly beneath his, Elizabeth Anne Summers.

Oh, bloody Hell, he thought.

He accepted the fact that his given name was no more exciting than Elizabeth Anne, but for a reason unknown to him, the simple, feminine name irritated him beyond belief. Would be better if they kept blokes with blokes and chits with chits, he mused.

Elizabeth Anne. The innocuous name conjured up images of a prudish, dowdy girl who may or may not have an unhealthy obsession with – God, please no – Celine Dion.

Seeing that the door was ajar, Spike nudged it open with the toe of his boot, pushing into the room as though he owned the place. Slinging his scuffed up black leather duffle on the bed opposite the closet, he carefully settled his guitar case in the corner and glanced at the young girl he would be sharing his room with.

Unaware of his presence, her back was turned to him as she finished drawing a slip of cloth over her form, and soon her finely muscled body was encased entirely in a fitted… whatever it was. It was too short to be considered a dress, but not quite short enough to be called a shirt. Her long golden hair fell in soft waves to her shoulder blades, and her tanned skin practically begged to be touched. She’s probably got a face like Camilla, Duchess of Hideousness, he thought. Better get this over with now.

“Ahem.”

The girl turned, and Spike found himself gazing into the most luminous green eyes he had ever seen. Her lips were full, and she had the most adorable nose in the...

Get a hold of yourself, you wanker!

“You’re Summers?” he asked in his usual cocky tone, a scarred brow lifting in question. Please, let this be her… He watched as the confusion of being caught while changing her clothes faded from her eyes and was replaced by a mixture of anger and curiosity.

“Buffy,” she corrected him, folding her arms over her chest. “You must be William Giles.”

With an unintentional grimace at the use of his given name, he shook his head. “Spike.”

“What the Hell kind of a name is Spike?” she snapped.

Testy bint. “What the Hell kind of a name is Buffy?” he retorted.

“My mother gave me that name. It was my grandmother’s nickname and – why am I even telling you this?” she grumbled with exasperation. “Now, what’s with Spike?” When she said his name, it sounded almost like a curse.

“Played football back in England. I ‘accidentally’ kicked a bloke in the face to keep him from a score,” he said, the faintest hint of a smile gracing his lips at the memory. It had gotten him booted, of course, but not before his team had taken home the trophy.

“Huh?” She looked utterly confused.

Oh, bloody Hell! “Football,” he said slowly, as though speaking to a very dim-witted child. “Soccer, you bint! Cleats.”

“You’re a pig, Spike,” she spat heatedly, turning away from him as she pretended to tidy up her closet. It was already packed, and Spike noted with a mixture of amusement and disdain that some of her clothes occupied part of his closet as well.

“No need for you to bite my bloody head off, either.”

“You were the one who walked in on me getting undressed, so don’t you even –”

“Hi, Buffy!” said a cheerful voice from the doorway.

Groaning inwardly, Spike turned to see not one, but both of the redheads he had nearly slammed into in the hallway. With them was a tall, goofy looking bloke with wavy black hair and an easy smile. Until his saw Spike, at least.

“Um, Buffster, why are you rooming with Billy Idol, Jr.?” the young man asked.

“Hey, Will,” Buffy addressed the red-haired girl first, moving to embrace her in a sisterly hug. “Oh, the stupid school assigned roommates at random so they couldn’t be accused of racial profiling or whatever, and they’ve got a new system of rooming guys and girls. It’s really stupid. Hey, Oz,” she nodded to the redheaded boy last, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, Buffy,” the oddly named boy answered.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, pet?” Spike asked in amusement, laughing inwardly at the death stare the unnamed whelp shot him.

“I am not your pet,” she snapped. “Guys, Spike. Spike, this is Willow, Xander, and Oz, not that it’s any of your concern. I’m going to put in a request for a new roommate.”

“Um, Buffy,” Willow started, obviously nervous. “You kind of can’t request a new roommate until the two-week trial period is up, and I thought you wanted a boy roommate --”

“Trial period?” Xander scoffed. “Yeah, a trial period, like trying out a new drug, one that will make you puke bleach and…” He fell silent at the menacing glare he received from Spike.

Wanker. A trial period, eh? Well, it would make for a very interesting two weeks, he knew that much. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for awhile, pet.”

“Guys,” Oz interrupted. “Tara.”

“Oh no!” Willow exclaimed as she glanced at her watch. “I almost forgot! Buffy, we have to pick up Tara in ten minutes!”

“Don’t touch anything,” Buffy said firmly, her warm green eyes blazing with anger when she glanced at Spike.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Glowering at him a final time, she grabbed a small blue purse from her bed and stormed out of the room gracefully, the mismatched bunch she called friends filing after their unofficial leader. To drive her point home, Buffy slammed the door behind her.

Shaking his head, Spike began to unpack his bag. The next two weeks would definitely be fun, he decided. He would taunt her and drive her mad, tease her until she was ready to throttle him, and she would either kick him out or be so fascinated with him that she would beg him to stay. Either way, it would be a blast for him. So much for mousy Elizabeth Anne…