Buffy ran, head down, through the hallways of Sunnydale High. She was pissed off. Not only had she seen her ex – not to mention the only guy she’d ever loved – making out with his old girlfriend, Darla, Angel hadn’t even noticed her. No, not only that, but the British guy her mom had apparently hired arrived later that day, her dad refused to come visit that weekend, her sister was mad at her for yelling at her that morning, and she had forgotten her English homework in her locker AGAIN.
Really, she couldn’t be blamed for yelling when a guy ran into her, knocking her down and scattering her stuff – including the notebook that held her recently procured English homework – all over the nearly empty hallway.
Okay, so maybe she could be blamed for kicking him in the shin after he’d gathered up her stuff and handed it to her, before storming away to class without a word, but she didn’t care. Buffy was ANGRY.
***
Spike was annoyed. He had just finished his coach flight from England to the US and so was suffering severe jet-lag, on top of being interrogated by the principal about ‘past misdemeanors’ for an hour. Now he had just escaped into the hallways of Sunnydale High, ready for English, the one subject he enjoyed – and what happened?
He ran into a girl and knocked her over, pissing her off, apparently. Spike had uncharacteristically apologized straight away, bending down and gathering up all the assorted papers, pens, and other school supplies he had knocked out of her arms and handing them back to her. He had been about to introduce himself – hell, maybe even flirt a little; from what he saw, she was hot, even if she did look like some cheer-queen – when she had screamed at him, calling him “another despicable guy that got his kicks out of making her life miserable” and warning him to “fuck off or wake up to find his nuts the property of a squirrel somewhere”.
He decided he liked her. Hot, spirited, unafraid, and capable of coming up with relatively inventive insults. Maybe he’d ask her out later. Getting up from where he’d fallen to the floor, he rubbed his aching shin – oh yeah, and the chit can fight, always a plus – and was about to leave when he caught sight of a purple notebook. Picking it up, he looked at the name in cursive on the front. Buffy Summers, English.
Odd name. Not that Spike could complain… He picked it up and consulted his map, walking off to find his class.
***
Buffy, who had calmed down a little by the time she rushed into class a few minutes late, was horrified to see the guy she’d yelled at – and kicked, remember? – walk into her classroom.
Her face turned bright red. He leaned in the doorway, talking to the teacher. “This the advanced English class then?”
Accent! Sexy voice with a British accent!
The teacher nodded. “Yes, and who might you be?”
The guy grinned, revealing perfect white teeth. “Spike Rayne. New student?”
Buffy’s brain, had it been working, would have connected those words, his accent, and the British student that her mom had hired on recommendation, but sadly, her brain had stopped working the moment Spike began to speak. Drooling female hormones took over as she stared at his clearly defined six-pack easily visible through the tight black t-shirt he wore. Over it, he wore a leather duster that rested easily on him, like a second skin. To add to the black-on-black look, he wore tight black jeans and black Doc Martins.
Contrasting with his clothes was his obviously bleached and spiked platinum blond hair. His left eyebrow had a split scar running through it, and he had an earring in one ear. He wore a chain with a closed lock around his neck, and various silver rings covered his fingers. He also wore bracelets on each wrist; one on the left and two on the right. As he shifted slightly, she noticed that his fingernails were painted black, though the nail-polish was chipped.
Overall: he was hot. And he was obviously not the kind of guy that Buffy Summers, Prom Queen, should like. So – she looked away, turning to talk to her best friend Cordelia. Unfortunately, Cordy was gaping at the punk hottie up in front of the class. Glancing around quickly, Buffy noticed that most of the girls in class were gazing at the so-called ‘Spike Rayne’ with expressions of lust, though some were at least subtle about it.
Sighing, she looked back up towards the front of the class, only to let her own subtly lustful look cross her eyes. He was quirking his eyebrow at Mr. Benson, waiting for permission to sit down. When he gave it, Spike sauntered down the aisles, ignoring the looks cast his way, and sat in a chair at the back of the room, leaning back and putting his boots up on the chair in front of him. Pulling a notebook from his pocket, he began to scribble on it. Buffy doubted that he was taking notes, but what was he doing instead?
She dismissed it as unimportant. He was probably just doodling naked girls or something.
***
Spike sat in the back of the class, ignoring the curious gazes of his classmates, and pulled out a drawing pad, flipping to a blank page. Using a black pen, he began to sketch out the classroom in front of him, roughly shading the people in so that the room looked much harsher and darker than it actually was.
He zoned out for a while, concentrating on his sketch – he was supposed to have something new ready for that lady at the art gallery later – and only began to pay attention to the class when people around the room shuffled with papers and were called up to the front of class, one by one.
He noticed the girl who had yelled at him furiously sorting through her things and making excuses, and a memory jiggled in his brain. Reaching into one of his duster’s many pockets, Spike pulled out a purple notebook and flipped through it. Sure enough, near the middle was an essay written in the same neat cursive as the name and subject on the cover.
He waited until they were all gone and the teacher was gathering up his things before taking him the essay and explaining how he’d come by it. He was thanked and sent away.
***
Spike grinned, striding into biology cockily. He was quickly assigned a lab partner; the guy was taller than he, with dark hair and eyes, and a nervous, goofy manner. After a moment of looking the boy up and down pointedly, Spike snorted, an action that caused a vapid-looking brunette to giggle.
Spike rounded on her, eyes dangerous. “You got somethin’ to say, Cheerleader?” the girl stopped laughing, surprised, and the teacher yelled at them all to sit in their seats.
Spike ignored his lab partner, striding to the last lab table in the room, leaving his new partner to follow. As soon as the teacher began to drone on about frogs, which they would apparently be dissecting soon, the dark next to him spoke to Spike quietly.
“Um, thanks with that whole, getting Cordy to back off a little thing. I’ll give you free membership to the “We Hate Cordelia Chase” club, if you want?” he joked.
Spike, who had been gazing longingly out the window, finally turned back to his lab partner, who was grinning at him foolishly. He frowned. “Name?”
“Huh?”
Spike rolled his eyes, chipping at his fingernail-polish. “Your name. What is it?”
The boy finally understood him and nodded eagerly. “Oh, I’m Xander Harris.”
“Right. Listen Whelp, I’m gonna spend the rest of this period sleeping. You know, jet-lag? You’ll be watching out for me, and if you let the prof know what’s going on, or leave me here after class or some shit, I’ll remove your spleen using those dissecting knives. Goodnight.”
And with that, Spike leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes. For a moment, he remained awake, but then he quickly slipped into sleep…
***
“Spike!” Xander hissed under his breath, tentatively poking the scary guy next to him. There was no response, and he reached out to poke again, but the next moment his finger was in a death-grip, bending painfully back against his hand.
Spike opened his eyes and blinked, taking in his surroundings. He groaned and let go of his new buddy’s hand. “Fuck.”
Straightening, he stuck his hands in his pockets and stood, glancing around the emptying room. “Thanks mate.”
Xander smiled forcedly and left, followed by Spike. The punk Brit headed out of the school straight towards a large black Desoto, but didn’t get in. Instead he paused, cocking his head as he listened to the conversation of two people at the next car.
“…scary!”
“Oh, calm down Xander. Aren’t you supposed to be the big macho brave guy or something? It sounds like he was just cranky.”
Spike chuckled, shaking his head. Cranky? He’d like this chit. Walking around his car, he winked at the two people at their own car. “Yes. That’s me. Cranky. How did you guess?” he said dryly.
The redhead wearing an impossibly fuzzy pink sweater smiled shyly at him. “Oh, because you were sleeping, from jet-lag, right? And when people are tired they get really cranky and they yell at people or are just mean and things like that and since you’re new as well, I’d bet you were also nervous about coming here so that made you act meaner,” she paused to take a breath and Spike finally spoke, lighting up a cigarette.
“She do this often?” he asked Xander, who just nodded warily as Willow went on.
“Oh, you shouldn’t smoke. It’s a really bad habit and it can give you cancer, which I’m sure you already know but I had to say it anyway, you know me… Only you don’t, so hi! I’m Willow Rosenburg.” She smiled and held out a hand, which Spike eyed warily.
“Er… no thanks, Red. Just remembered this; give it back to Barbie, alright?” he held out the purple notebook and Willow took it, before he turned and escaped to his car, blasting out the Sex Pistols in an effort to drown out the echoes of Red’s babbling.
He pulled out of the parking lot and drove away with one hand on the wheel, one holding his cigarette, swerving dangerously around students.
Willow sighed. “Did I make him run away?”
Xander nodded. “You were babbling again. Hey, I wonder who Barbie is?”
Willow looked down at the notebook in her hands and blinked in surprise. “Buffy Summers, English? Why does he have Buffy’s English notebook?”
Xander was too busy laughing to answer. “Barbie! That’s perfect, why didn’t we think of it before?” He doubled over and Willow swatted him with the notebook.
“Come on, let’s go already. And stop laughing, it’s mean.”
***
Spike screeched to a halt, having nearly collided with the white Jeep in front of him.
Opening his window and turning down the music, he yelled, “You okay?”
Much to his surprise, it was the girl whose notebook he’d had whose head popped out of the other car’s window. “Yes, I’m fine, now can you get your stupid fucking big car out of my way and stop driving into people!”
Spike was annoyed with her, and so didn’t answer, just closed his window and pulled away, noticing with amusement that the girl in the other car had driven over the curb as she attempted to get moving again.
Shaking his head, he tried to read his map again. Where is that stupid gallery?
***
Buffy sighed, walking into her mom’s art gallery slowly after her driving adventure. Hope Mom doesn’t notice those scratches on the car... “Mom? Where are you?” she yelled.
Her mother strode out from the back room, dusting off her hands. “Oh hello Buffy. Could you do me a favor and start unpacking those boxes in the back? Just set the pieces on the table, okay?”
Buffy heaved another sigh, but agreed and headed off to the back room. Only five minutes later, a large and slightly beaten-up black Desoto pulled up outside. Joyce Summers looked at her appointment book.
Sometime after 3 – Mr. Giles’ nephew, a British teenage artist, should come by.
Smiling, Joyce looked up at the door, hoping it was the artist. She frowned when she saw who was at the door.
Spike was vaguely hesitant about what he was about to do, but it was his uncle’s condition for living here, so he had to do it. And he’d always wanted to sell his art sometime…
Working up his courage, he flicked aside his cigarette stub and stepped in the door, looking around at the tasteful art. Nice.
His eyes finally found the desk across the room, and he strode over, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. Swallowing, he spoke to the pretty middle-aged woman on the other side of it, “You Mrs. Summers?”
The lady looked at him skeptically and nodded. Great, this’ll be fun. Spike sighed. “’M Spike Rayne. From England…”
The lady spoke when he trailed off. “Spike? I was under the impression your name was William?”
Spike winced. “Well, yeah, technically… Fine, go ahead and call me William if it suits you.”
Mrs. Summers smiled, “And you can call me Joyce. Mrs. Summers makes me feel old. Now, you are an artist, correct?”
Spike nodded dutifully. “Yeah. I do sketches, paint, charcoal, watercolors… all of that. Most of my stuff’s on its way over, but I’ve got a few sketches with me if you need them. And I was supposed to work here too.”
Joyce nodded. “Do you mind if I see those sketches?” Spike pulled the sketchbook from his pocket and handed it to her silently.
Joyce Summers leafed through the sketchbook silently, her face betraying none of her excitement as she flipped through a series of amazing sketches, some only half-complete, but still wonderful works of art.
She stopped at the last sketch, done in black pen. It was dark and angry looking, showing a very different picture of a classroom than she was used to. Somehow, William had made the teacher up at the front seem inconsequential and strict at the same time. Studious children were hunched over their desks, only their backs and hair visible. Some guys fooled around, their motions seeming somehow unfulfilled and empty. Popular girls laughed, faces shaded so that they seemed harsh and cruel, rather than just enjoying life. Joyce’s face twisted slightly as she saw her daughter in that group of stylish girls.
Spike noticed the change of expressions and began to fidget. However, when Joyce looked up, she smiled at him. “These are very good William. I would love to see your other work."
He relaxed slightly, but still felt awkward, which Joyce noticed. “Right, on to your employment. I’ll want you to help me with the boxes and setting up of various pieces, as well as sales, etcetera.”
She began to lead him towards a back door, explaining the requirements of his jobs as they went.
***
Buffy huffed, dusting off her hands as she looked at the last box. It wouldn’t open, no matter how hard she pulled with the crowbar. She’d have to go ask her mom for help. Then maybe she could get out of this hellhole and go shopping!
She spun around, heading for the door, only to knock into somebody and almost fall over backwards. Yanking herself away, she gaped at the sight of Spike Rayne standing with her mother, smirking at her. “Hello, cutie,” he said with a grin.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
WARNING: Once I finish posting all the chapters I've written up until now, updates will be few and far between. Simply because this is the only story I've written with a really involved plot and it takes me a while to write; plus I've been writing pretty long chapters (for me, at least), so each one takes a while. That said, hope you enjoy!