Buffy The Vampire Slayer Fan Fiction ❯ Old Friends ❯ Getting to Know You ( Chapter 4 )

 

Yet another chapter of talking, exposition, and characters doing absolutely nothing. Expect a lot of this until Angel and Spike meet, which is very soon so don't worry.

 

 

Chapter # 4: Getting to Know You

 

Despite how Spike may have scoffed, Angel called Buffy two days later.

The two had talked and, discovering he had just started graduate school at UC Sunnydale, it was decided they would meet at the small college café' located near the center of campus for coffee the following evening.

It all seemed so sophisticated and mature to Buffy. Her usual dates were always more likely to take her dancing or to the backseat of their cars and she was liking this change of pace. She felt all nice and adult-ish.

And Angel himself was just amazing. Behind all that major hotness, he was also sophisticated and deep, intelligent and mature. An actual artist.

And, okay, he wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs, or the biggest of talkers, and definitely wasn't huge on the smiling, but he had his moments and he just seemed so incredibly sweet.

All in all, he was so wonderfully different than all her other guys and Buffy was really wanting this date to go well.

Seated at one of the patio tables of the campus café, the night warm and the chatter of the other café patrons mingling with the soft sounds of a radio in the background, Buffy looked up at her date. “So, you're a graduate, huh?”

Angel nodded, lifting his coffee mug to his lips. “Yep”

“What,” she said, smiling, “did you not get in anywhere else or something?”

“No.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “This was actually my first choice.”

“Really?” she asked, then quickly backpedaled as the amount of disbelief in her voice registered, “I mean, not that it's a bad thing, you wanting to come here and all, I just didn't think anyone but my mom would actually want to come to Sunnydale. This is the kind of place people just accidentally end up in and never escape.”

“I like it here.” Angel placed his coffee mug down, absently watching a pair of students walk idly past. “It's peaceful.”

“You mean boring,” Buffy corrected.

He turned back to her with a shrug, “Same thing really, my word just sounds nicer.”

“But still,” she reiterated, “Boring. What kind of person wants boring?”

He smiled. “Me, obviously.”

“But why?” Buffy trying to understand this man's obviously warped thinking, “You aren't one of those artists that spends hours in the fields painting daisies, are you?”

“No,” another soft chuckle, “my focus is more on the human figure. I just . . .” he trailed off, trying to put feeling into words, “I dunno. I guess I just like the calm that comes with a small town like this.”

“Really? `Cuz I actually grew up in LA and this small town stuff almost killed me when I first moved here.” She popped a piece of her muffin into her mouth and tilted her head. “Where'd you grow up?”

“Dublin mostly,” Angel said, and then, seeing she didn't recognize the name, he explained, “It's the capital of Ireland.”

“Ireland?” she asked, eying him skeptically, “You don't sound very Irish.”

“Well, I've been in the States for almost four years now. I've had some time to lose the accent.”

“Yeah right,” she scoffed, “I have this older friend who's been here for just as long and he sounds just as British as the day he got here. `Fess up,” she ordered, pointing a finger in his direction, “You're really from somewhere totally boring like Kansas or something and just don't want to admit it, aren't you?”

“Actually,” Angel looked slightly embarrassed. “Would you believe me if I told you I forced myself to lose the accent?”

“No,” Buffy said bluntly, “Why would anybody do something stupid like that?”

“Well . . . Americans,” he started hesitantly, so obviously reaching for every word, “The accent is so . . . so quirky, and . . . and level. Why wouldn't I want to sound like that?”

“You want to sound level?” Her confused expression clearly asking for either a clearer word or a more realistic explanation.

“Yes, level. As in, everything is said very evenly.” He nodded. “I was nothing but a bad stereotype with my Irish lilting and poor artist lifestyle. Since I couldn't do anything about my lack of funds, the accent just had to go.”

“Well, I don't know . . .” Buffy said, narrowing her eyes in consideration and trying not to smile in amusement, “I don't think I've ever heard of that stereotype.”

Angel looked down into his drink and muttered sullenly, “They thought I was British.”

“Whatever,” laughter in her voice as she finally smiled and popped another bit of muffin in her mouth.

“No, really,” he said, looking up earnestly, “It's true.”

 

 

Casually leaning against a pool table at the Bronze, Spike watched in disgust as Xander sunk a shot in the right corner pocket then jumped up with a rather loud shout of, “Oh yeah, take that you stupid ball!”

Noticing the odd looks being drawn from the surrounding crowd, Spike shook his head. “I'm not so sure I want t' be seen with you in public.”

Calming down somewhat, Xander smiled. “And if I hadn't heard that so many times I might be actually be hurt. What is it about me that makes people say that?”

“Dunno, mate.” Straightening from his leaning position, Spike tilted his head at the boy as though to examine him. “Might be th' shirt, but, then again,” he shrugged, “might just be `cos yer a bleedin' moron.”

“Hey.” Xander pointed a finger in Spike's direction. “This moron is about to kick your British ass all up and down this pool table,” he said, letting his hand drop and moving around to take his next shot. “Don't disrespect.”

Moving out of the boy's way, Spike took a quick glance at the table to make sure the game hadn't somehow transformed in the last thirty seconds. “An' jus' wot fantasy land are you livin' in, mate? We've been playin' fer over an `our, an' that was yer third score all game.”

“Yeah,” Xander said, closely examining the table arrangement as he carefully lined up his next shot, “but now I'm getting into the pool-playing-groove.”

Spike snorted. “Well, yer groove came a bit too late now, didn' it? I've jus' got these two `ere,” throwing a hand in the direction of the 8-ball and his one remaining solid, “an' yer buyin' me drinks fer th' rest o' th' night.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Xander muttered, finally taking his shot. Watching as the white ball hit its intended target with a soft clack, and as the intended target defied the laws of physics as Xander so loosely knew them and veered a sharp left, going absolutely nowhere near the intended pocket. Scowling, he stood back up with a frustrated, “Dammit.”

Chuckling, Spike took up his own pool cue and moved to easily finish the game. “Easiest money I've ever won.”

“I knew it,” putting aside his cue, Xander sullenly dug his wallet out of his pocket. “You're a total hustler, aren't you?” Not waiting for an answer, Xander shoved a twenty in the other's hands, “Bring me back a Rootbeer, would ya?”

Spike raised a brow and waved the bill in the air. “Not goin' t' take advantage o' th' chance fer underage drinkin'?”

“Oh yeah . . .” Xander's eyes widened, this thought obviously having never completely registered in his mind. “I can do that?” he asked, looking at Spike in a new light, “You'd really buy some for me?”

“Course. It's yer money, innit?” Slipping the twenty into a coat pocket, Spike shrugged easily, “Plus corruptin' minors is a favorite hobby o' mine.”

“Al-right,” Xander smiled, rubbing his hands together in glee, “Oh, I am so definitely keeping you.”

Spike raised a brow at this. “Keeping me?”

“Yes. Keeping,” Xander nodded decisively, declaring, “You are now named Fluffy and sleep at the foot of my bed.”

“Really?” Somewhat amused by the picture and getting an idea, Spike lowered his voice and smirked, moving slightly closer, “Well, I don' quite see myself a Fluffy,” letting his eyes take their time running down Xander's body, “but I can definitely see sleepin' in yer bed. That is,” and up to his eyes, “if collars are involved.”

Xander looked shocked, his eyes opening impossibly wide. “D-Did you just—?”

Egged on by this reaction, Spike masterfully kept his face serious and sensual as he moved even closer. “Could even find a leash t' chain me up if y'd like.”

“No!” Xander threw out a desperate hand as he stumbled back a step and into the pool table, “I . . . I don't . . .”

“Y' don' want me t' be yer pet?” Spike pouted, stopping just inside Xander's personal space. “But I can be a very,” leaning in to speak in a husky whisper and filling his voice with innuendo, “very, good kitty.”

“Oh my god!” Xander freaked, shoving Spike away and scrambling off to the side. “What the hell are you doing?”

And Spike burst out laughing.

“Oh.” Staring at the man bowed over in laughter, Xander fought to regain his wits as he realized that he'd just been played. “Oh, I hate you so much right now.”

 

 

“So you used to live in LA?” Angel asked, both to move the conversation away from the topic of his questionable origins and genuinely curious, “Why did you move to Sunnydale?”

“It was my Mom's thing, really” Buffy shrugged, allowing him the obvious change, “She and Dad had just gotten divorced and she'd wanted a whole new start in a completely different environment.”

“Ah, divorce,” Angel nodded sympathetically, “You still see your dad though, right?”

“Not really.” Attempting casual, Buffy avoided his eyes by tracing idle shapes on the tabletop. “It's a bit of a drive here from LA and he gets busy a lot, you know?” quick glance in his direction.

“Oh, sorry,” Angel seemed to shrink back in his seat slightly in guilt, “I didn't mean to . . . you know . . .”

“Bring up a sensitive topic?” She gave up on her shapes to smile at him.

“Yeah,” Angel said, a bit sheepishly.

“Don't worry. I don't mind.” Turning her full attention back on him, she leaned forward against the table, resting her head in a hand, “What about you? Still keep up with the folks?”

“No.” Shaking his head, Angel lowered his eyes, “My parents actually died when I was really young.”

“Oh my god,” Buffy's eyes widened and she sat up straight, bringing a hand up to her mouth, “I am so sorry. I didn't mean to—I mean, if I'd known, I wouldn't of—

“Buffy, don't worry,” he cut in, looking back up again, “It was a long time ago.”

“But still . . .” Somewhat comforted by his obviously non-offended state, Buffy still hesitated, biting her lip. “I mean . . .”

“I mean it. I really don't mind.” He smiled slightly in reassurance, trying to calm her down.“I barely even remember them.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Well okay then . . .” Embarrassed at her complete social faux pas, Buffy looked down to study the remains of her muffin closely, turned it around in a few circles, fidgeting in the ensuing uncomfortable atmosphere, “I am sorry though.”

“I know.”

There was another uncomfortable moment before Buffy could look up from her muffin to try again. “And you probably got some really nice foster parents or legal guardians, right?”

“No,” Angel shook his head again, “The orphanage I went to wasn't exactly in the best part of town so no one really had the time or the money to deal with any additional mouths to feed. And the people that did have the money just couldn't be bothered with us slum kids,” his voice turning bitter, “Not enough publicity to it, I guess.”

Buffy sat for a moment to fully take this in.

“You know, I think I'll just shut up now before I say anything worse.”

 

 

“Tha' was fuckin' beautiful, mate” Spike said, snickering, “Yer face . . .”

“I hate you,” Xander repeated, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling self-conscious, all too aware of the people now curiously looking their way.

“An' y' practically screamin' bloody murder . . .” Spike shook his head with a grin, “Too priceless.”

“No it wasn't,” Xander complained. “It wasn't funny at all.”

Hearing this, Spike raised his head to catch the sight of Xander pouting, his arms crossed and face still red, and couldn't help another bout of mocking laughter.

“No really,” Xander insisted, dropping out of his indignant stance, “It really wasn't funny, man. I mean,” ducking his head, he ran a hand wildly through his hair, “you just don't do shit like that.”

“I don't?” Spike looked up in mock-surprise, casually leaning back against the pool table “Are y' sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” Xander said, turning back to him in frustration, “It's right there in the whole guy-rulebook. Page one, Rule #3: Guys don't offer other guys kinky bondage fun in public places.”

“Ah,” Spike sighed, looking almost dreamily up at the ceiling, “Wot a world it would be if they did though, eh?”

“And I so hope you're still joking.”

“Oh wot?” Spike turned back to Xander, “I'm not threatenin' yer precious masculinity am I, Harris?”

“What?” Xander drew back, “No. I'm just saying—

“Yer jus' sayin' that y' can't take a joke worth crap,” Spike finished, pushing away from the table and sticking out a hand. “Fuck, jus' gimme th' money fer th' bloody drinks, will y' mate?”

“I already gave you the money,” Xander said, barely refraining from crossing his arms again to pout, “And I can too take a joke.”

Spike ignored the last part of that statement completely. “Well, I'm goin' t' need a few more bottles after puttin' up with all this soddin' discrimination now, aren't I?”

“Oh please,” Xander rolled his eyes, finally moving away to clear the table of their last game and set up another, “You're not even gay.”

Spike raised a brow as he watched Xander move. “An' y' know this fer a fact do you?”

“What,” pausing in his work, Xander looked up and over at where Spike stood, “you saying you're gay now?”

“Gay, straight,” Spike shrugged indifferently, “it's all the same in the end, really.”

“Well,” Xander tilted his head to consider this, “sure, philosophically, I guess.”

“I meant physically, dumbass.”

“Oh wow, um,” Xander licked his lips and stood up straight, wondering how he should explain this, “No offense or anything Spike, but I think you have things a bit confused. See, girls and guys?” Looking over at the other man to make sure he got the point, Xander continued as though to a small child, “They're different.”

Spike was unimpressed, drawling, “No really? I didn't know.”

“Uh-huh,” Xander nodded helpfully, “Different equipment and everything. See,” still talking to that small child, “guys have this thing I like to call a pee-pee. Girls, on the other hand—

“Harris,” Spike sounding even less impressed then before.

“—they don't have a pee-pee,” Xander continued patiently, “They have something called a—”

“Jesus Christ, Harris, will y' jus' shut th' fuck up?” Spike interrupted in frustration, “I think I should bloody well know th' fuckin' difference between birds and blokes by now, yeah?” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing for the patience to keep from doing something he'd only regret once the sense of satisfaction cleared.

But Xander had already gotten distracted. “Hey,” he said, pointing the finger of discovery, “you do the same thing Giles does.”

“Wot?” Spike looked up at the non-sequitor.

“That thing he does,” Xander repeated, “You know, when he pinches his nose and prays to the gods of patience?” He demonstrated the habit, pinching his own nose.

Spike just looked at him. “An' this is important?”

“Well . . . no,” Xander fidgeted, suddenly feeling kind of dorky. “I just thought it was kinda cool. I mean, `cuz of th' family resemblance and stuff.”

“Right,” Spike looking at him as though he were an idiot and Xander fidgeted even more, an uncomfortable moment passing before Xander finally just took out his wallet again and shoved another twenty in Spike's direction.

An answering smirk of satisfaction, “Ta, mate,” and the money was quickly pocketed.