The ornate, antique mansion loomed above Buffy’s small form as she walked up the pathway to the large wooden door, a scrap of paper in her small hand with only the address of her location written upon it. The entire bus ride, the blonde had tried to control her nerves, but when her stop had approached, she nearly didn’t get off. Eventually, the thought of her empty refrigerator, coupled with a tinge of curiosity, compelled her to get up and descend the steps to yet another well-to-do neighborhood. And now, as she stood before the door of her destination, she felt terrified.
Inside, Spike was pacing nervously in full William-mode, a nearly sick tinge to his complexion as 12:30 rapidly approached. He’d tried to convince himself that the apprehension he was feeling was only a result of the conversation he’d had earlier with Dru, in which they discussed the matter of who-owned-what in their lavish home in England (his “dark princess” claiming ownership to the vast majority of all of it). The talk had brought out a sense of extreme annoyance, but there was something more, which the Spike inside dared not admit he felt.
Insecurity?
William quirked an eyebrow, a rather bold gesture considering his nature. Before he had met Drusilla, Spike had not yet existed, and William was nothing but the passionately romantic, stuttering, nervous young man, and not to mention a virgin. The dark-haired beauty had taken his heart and put it on a short leash after their first night together, and before long she created Spike, the physical embodiment of her desires. Why she couldn’t just have put her charms on a bloke that already was Spike, the spoken-of did not know, but he was certain that if that was the case, he most definitely would not be sitting here and waiting for the model of his first nude portrait to knock at his door.
Really, William realized, it wasn’t that unreasonable for him to be nervous. Having only been with one woman before, the prospect of looking upon a naked body not belonging to said-woman was a bit frightening. Although William was subdued by the loud personality of Spike, he still influenced the young man, albeit in limited ways; yet one of the aspects he’d never been able to repress was his passion. The passion that many artists at his career level no longer employed, having established an audience and contently creating to their wishes. But William… he put everything there was into his work, and had no way of knowing whether he would be able to detach himself from his passion when recreating the private, feminine curves of a stranger. The prospect terrified one, and excited the other half of himself.
Spike alone did not have what it took to create; William did not either. However, the two together made the entirety of the man he was—a currently nervous man, at that.
The artist gave an embarrassing jump as someone thrice knocked at the door, a look of foreboding on his face as he gulped down the remainder of his glass of bourbon and made his way to the front room.
Outside, Buffy was tapping her foot anxiously, gripping the handle of her purse so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Trying to get herself to relax, she took a few deep breaths, but when she heard the locks start to turn, her heart rate sped up even more. At the point that the knob began to rotate, both blondes were fighting the urge to bolt away from the door before facing the increasingly ill at ease situation, but the heavy wooden surface swung open before either had the chance.
The instant they locked eyes, all their fears and apprehensions melted away. Deep blue flowed into hazel green and an inexplicable shudder went through both frames.
It was only for a moment, though.
“Oh, god, I’m sorry, I must’ve gotten the wrong house—” Buffy stammered nervously, looking alternately between the gorgeous sex god standing before her, the piece of paper in her hand, and the numbers on the house. “I’m looking for William Pratt?”
“You’ve found him, love,” the young man said, giving her an amused smirk that did little to mask his own jumpiness. Inside, he was having a field day at the prospect of not only painting the beauty—goddess—standing before him, but at actually having her naked. The thought, again, thrilled Spike and terrified William, the curious mix of emotions circulating through his extremities in a strange sensation—although that may have just been the tightening of his jeans.
Buffy, unaware of Spike’s own shaken reaction, was blushing profusely and looking at the bleached blond before her with an unintentionally coy expression. “Oh,” she said lamely, slightly wincing and blushing even deeper. “I didn’t expect you to be so young!” she managed to explain, avoiding his eye. She’d never given so much thought to who she would actually be exposing herself to, and while her unexpressed expectation was a sort of sterile, neutral figure with a bit of a detached look on life (go figure), she was utterly unprepared for the sexiness that was William Pratt. No wonder he’s so popular in Europe, the blonde thought ruefully, before finally working up the courage to look into his eyes once more. Clearly, she’d not been expecting to see a mirror of her own dumbstruck thoughts, but the presence was comforting, and gave her the push she needed to get back on Working Buffy track. “I’m Buffy Summers. May I come in… Mr. Pratt?” The last words were added as an afterthought, when the artist didn’t seem to realize she’d spoken.
“Oh! Yes, yes, of course,” Spike answered, the uncomfortable-sounding title linked with his surname breaking him out of his reverie. Which had not been a detailed fantasy about the woman he’d barely met and who was standing uncomfortably at his doorway until he’d recovered his senses moments earlier. “So, Miss Summers—”
“—Buffy.”
“Buffy,” Spike amended, quirking a scarred eyebrow slightly (the action of which made her knees weak). “I hear you’re familiar with my work?”
“To say the least, Mr. Pratt—”
“—Spike.”
“…Spike?” Raising an eyebrow, Buffy followed the man through the foyer and into an impressive sitting room, choosing not to question the strange nickname any further—wise enough to know that indulging in those particular wonderments were not the best when trying to make a good impression on a rather influential mentor of your career. Still, a little voice in her head couldn’t help but whisper those nasty little thoughts that she’d been feeling more than thinking. Look at that butt, the voice said, as William led Buffy over to a couch and asked her if she wanted anything to drink. Nothing that you’ve got in that bar over there, her thoughts suggestively giggled as she declined; Spike brought himself a glass of an undistinguishable substance before settling himself down upon another sofa across a coffee table from her seat.
They were quiet for a moment, Spike gulping his drink down and Buffy wrestling with her mind, until the former spoke. “I thought that we’d just, erm, chat it up today, and I could sketch you a li’l—fully clothed,” he added, “then make a sort of schedule?” God, I sound like such a ponce, Spike thought, taking another long drink from his glass of bourbon.
God, he sounds so sexy—I didn’t even notice it before! Buffy’s inner-self was doing flips and cartwheels in her chest, the way her heart was pounding. British accent! How could I have missed it? When he’d addressed her as “Miss Summers,” his voice had a somewhat cultured and polite tone, but upon their commencement into the first-name basis, he seemed to have relaxed, his accent gaining a rougher and huskier tone. For the first time, the blonde began to feel all-out lust for the man sitting before her, the unmistakable feeling igniting within her body. What’s up with me and British accents lately, anyway?
“That sounds good,” she managed to squeak out after a moment. He smiled and nodded, relieved to have the formalities out of the way, and both felt a little bit better—before silence (and tension) set in once more.
“I’ll, uh, go get some paper,” Spike mused, getting up and moving across the room to a table stacked high with sketchbooks and blank canvasses; he grabbed one without looking and took a deep breath before he moved back into Buffy’s sight, trying to push out of his mind the fantasy of pressing the young blonde into the plush leather cushions and having his way with her.
“Right then,” Spike said as he settled himself back down on the couch and slouched down, putting his feet up on the ridiculously expensive-looking coffee table. After staring at her face with an intense gaze for an equally intense moment, he began to sketch lines on the paper, occasionally flicking his stare across her for seconds as she began to be recreated on the smooth white sheet. Art had always calmed him down, but every time he looked into her eyes, he felt his heart pounding unbelievably hard and his jeans tightening more and more. “So what do you do for a living, Buffy?”
“Oh, they didn’t tell you?” she asked, relieved to have something to distract her from her increasingly more detailed fantasies. “I kind of got grilled by Mr. Angelus for the interview,” she added sheepishly, directing her gaze downwards.
“Bloody ponce,” Spike muttered, straightening when he realized that the blonde had heard him and was shaking with laughter. “Um, would it be fair to ask for you not to mention it to the nancy boy?”
His voice is like liquid sex, Buffy thought, but she batted the inner vixen away. “I can keep a secret,” Buffy answered, unaware of the flirtatious tone she was taking on. The inner vixen was quite resilient. “And to answer your earlier question, I’m an art major at UCLA. Regrettably, the living part of my life is fueled by workage at a club nearby.”
“Is that so?” So the chit was an artist, herself? Ol’ Rupes hadn’t mentioned that one. Spike grinned as he sketched the curve of Buffy’s smiling lips. “What exactly inspired you to embark on the ever-so-exciting career of an artist?”
“My mom,” she answered simply. “She owned a gallery and painted when she was younger, and when she died right after I graduated, I kind of tried to… emulate her?”
“Had you thought about it before then?”
“Not really,” Buffy admitted. “I mean, I took art in school and could always draw what I wanted, but it’s more than that, you know?”
“That I do, pet.” Spike said, winking at the blushing girl before him and shading in the depths of her eyes.
“What about you?” Buffy asked suddenly, emboldened by the encouraging smile William wore on his face. “What made you want to be an artist?”
A pensive look set in on Spike’s face as the question left her lips, and Buffy couldn’t help but stare in wonderment at just how expressive his face could be. “I guess my Uncle Rupert had something to do with it—Giles,” he clarified.
“Giles is your uncle? I had no idea!”
“Yeah, he took care of me when I was young, and we always used to draw together.” There was a fond tone in his voice as he added, “I reckon he’d’ve been wearing tweed suits and working in a library years ago if it wasn’t for helping me with my career.”
The thought of Giles wearing tweed was just too easy to imagine, and Buffy couldn’t help but laugh. It was becoming more comfortable to be around him, now; emboldened, the blonde began to look around the classy room she was seated in. The walls were a light blue color, a Victorian feeling created by the wooden panels accenting them. The floor was also a deeply-colored wood, with antique-yet-comfortable furniture about the space. An easel was positioned nearby a huge window, which overlooked a slope of chaparral leading down to the Pacific Ocean. “Your house is beautiful,” Buffy honestly commented, studying a painting on the wall. With a teasing twinkle in her eyes, she said, “I take it your pieces sell well?”
“Well, in Europe, yeah,” Spike answered, rubbing a finger absentmindedly along a line on the page. “How well I’ll do here is up to you and me, love.”
“Not really,” Buffy modestly replied. “I mean, the me part. But I wouldn’t worry about a thing if I were you, Spike. What I’ve seen of your work is great.”
“Yeah?”
“Totally!” She was enthusiastic now, realizing that at this moment, she was having a conversation with William freaking Pratt. “Last semester, I wrote my term paper about you, you know.”
Spike looked up from the paper with an laughing expression on his face. “What were your marks?” he asked ruefully, a teasing look in his eyes.
“I’ll have you know that I set the curve.”
“Really, now?” Impressed, Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth in a gesture that brought a tinge of red to Buffy’s cheeks. “I’ve got to say, quite an honor, pet.”
Oh god, tongue thing, tongue thing! “Oh, sure.” Buffy rolled her eyes and laughed, hoping the bleached blond hadn’t noticed her moment of very bad thinking. “Mr. I’ve-Met-The-Queen is honored that a college student wrote a paper about him?”
“She’s really rather nice,” Spike laughingly replied. “And you did quite a thorough job on that homework, pet—knowing about my encounter with royalty and all.”
“Pssh, like I put that in the report—that was just a fun fact. I know all sorts of things about you, so you better watch yourself, mister.”
Spike shook his head good naturedly and turned back to his work, feeling Buffy’s hazel eyes on him as he put a few finishing touches on the sketch. God, how had they settled into the playful banter so quickly? Moments earlier, they’d been quaking in their boots and now they were quaking with laughter. There was something about this beautiful, lively young woman that gave Spike’s body a feeling akin to lying in the sun, the joyful, pleasant sentiment of being completely sated and comfortable.
“Would you like to take a look, pet?” he asked her, looking up finally from his finished sketch and holding the sheaf of papers out for her to take. “Quick work, but I needed a bit of practice working with someone as beautiful as yourself.” His words were punctuated with a flirtatious wink, and Buffy felt the red rise to her face once more.
Turning the paper around in her hand, the blonde let out a gasp as she saw her own face staring back at her, a blushing look in her eyes and a joyful smile playing on her lips. It was as if he had captured the very look of how she felt inside, and with an astonished stare, she met Spike’s eyes. “You’re amazing.”
The words coated William’s heart until the ache he’d felt for days finally began to subside. All from her eyes—the intense hazel orbs captivated him, a feeling of utter contentment washing over him and putting him at true ease for the first time in a long while.