-Monday, June 3rd. 9:10am -
Buffy was late.
Like really, really late.
Like fall out of bed, skip the shower, stub her toe on the way out the door, nearly break the stiletto on her favorite boots running through the street, lose her brand new job on her first day late.
She skidded to a stop in front of the massive high rise building, the address emblazoned across the side matching the crumpled piece of paper in her hand, and shoved her way through a small crowd of people and in through the revolving glass door. She murmured various renditions of "Sorry!" and "Excuse me!" as she went, offering strained, polite smiles, and practicing whatever excuse it was she was going to come up with in her head. Traffic, she figured finally as she made it trough the revolving door, pushing a little too hard and sliding out onto the marble floor of the large lobby, her barely-in-tact heels clicking and clacking as she made a bee-line for the elevator bank. She took one last look at the paper in her hand, noting the correct floor number, then slipped it inside her purse and stuck her right hand out. She began frantically jabbing the little Up button, using her free hand to make sure the tail of her blouse was firmly tucked away into her skirt.
"Come on, come on, come on," she muttered in time with the movements of her hand, the sleak, leather bound notebook her mother had given her for Christmas that past year starting to slip out from where she'd tucked it securely under her arm.
She kind of couldn't believe this was happening. That this was happening, today of all days. This—
Ding.
The elevator doors opened just as her notebook fell to her feet, papers sliding out of it and fanning across the floor. For an extended second, Buffy just stared at them, blinking. And then she dropped to her knees to pick them up, scrambling to stuff them back in their little leather holster before shooting back to her feet and promptly bumping into the woman behind her, allowing just enough time to let out a strangled yelp as said woman's coffee spilled down the front of her blouse.
Her favorite cream blouse.
Buffy sputtered, stunned, both by the stain starting to spread across the silky material, and also, hot. Coffee, hot.
"Oh my God," the woman seethed, still clinging to the now empty coffee cup and giving Buffy the end all, be all of death glares. "Watch where you're going next time."
Buffy could only nod, dumbstruck, feeling the thin material of her blouse sinking in and sticking uncomfortably against her skin. And hot, still. The woman tossed her one last narrow eyed glare before turning and throwing her coffee cup into the trash can beside the elevator doors, then tossed her hair over her shoulder and stormed inside.
Buffy exhaled a long, slow breath through pursed lips, raising her free hand to pluck delicately at the sticking fabric before she shuffled into the elevator herself. Turning to press the button for 12, she realized that tall, blonde and bitchy had already beaten her to it.
So that. That was just great.
Tucking the leather notebook back into her arms as the doors closed, pressing it aainst her chest to cover what she could of the stain, she sighed, leaning her head back against the elevator and thinking that at this rate, there wouldn't be a next time to watch.
A busty brunette looked up as soon as Buffy set foot off the elevator, holding a stack of manila file folders in her arms and tapping her brown suede Minolo impatiently. Leaning one shoulder against the wall, she looked like she'd been standing there for way longer than just the ten minutes Buffy knew she probably had been.
"Oh, are you Elizabeth?" she asked hurriedly as soon as her eyes landed on Buffy, pushing herself up straight and stepping forward.
It took Buffy maybe a half second longer than it should have for her to answer, tucking her leather notebook more firmly against her chest with her left arm. "I…yeah," she said, shaking the brunette's hand and trying to keep the massive coffee stain on her blouse covered. "Yes. I'm...she."
Buffy winced. This was so not her morning.
The brunette smirked at her. "I'm Cordelia Chase," she said breezily, letting go of Buffy's hand and turning on her heel, starting to march back down the narrow hallway. "And you're late."
Oh, come on. Of course the first person she'd meet would be her boss. Impeccably styled, curvy, gorgeous, and young. Way younger than she'd expected.
Not to mention about a thousand gallons of intimidating.
But at least it wasn't elevator lady.
"I know," Buffy began, hurrying to fall in beside Cordelia, the words leaving her lips in a rush. "I'm so sorry. I honestly, okay," Buffy skirted around a tight corner, half watching where she was going and half keeping her eyes glued to her boss, "I'm not usually one to make with the big excuses or anything but this morning was...well, last night was...I don't normally do things like this. And I'm never late." Cordelia came to an abrupt stop at a small cubicle bank, three miniature cubicles all pointing in toward one another directly in front of a huge glass conference room. Buffy took a deep breath in, let it out. "Ever. I-"
"Elizabeth?" Cordelia asked, cutting her off and raising her eyebrows. The hint of a smile curved her lips.
Buffy swallowed. "Yeah?"
The brunette inclined her head forward, spoke very slowly. "Relax. Deep breath. In…" she waited for Buffy to follow her instructions before nodding and saying, "okay, now out. There." She turned and plopped her stack of papers down on one of the cubicle desks, folding her arms over her chest. "Better?"
"Totally," Buffy lied, hands shaking. She forced her brightest, big girl with a real job smile and gripped her notebook tighter against her chest hoping her new boss wouldn't notice.
No dice.
Cordelia's eyes flicked down to Buffy's hands, then slowly fanned back up to her face. Eyebrows still raised, she said, "We're a publishing house, not the KGB." She reached a manicured hand out and plucked the notebook from Buffy's grip, laying it down with a smack on top of the desk beside hers. "You're ten minutes late. No one's going to make you—" she turned back around and froze, lips forming a perfect "O" as she noticed Buffy's silky blouse and the coffee stain de jour that decorated it.
So, yeah.
"It hasn't exactly been my morning," she offered, reaching her right hand across to rub her left arm up and down sheepishly.
"I can see that," Cordelia offered in kind, the little "O" dropping to form a softer, more sympathetic expression as she turned her eyes back to Buffy's. "Do you want to go home and change?"
Buffy paused, taking a minute to glance down at her blouse. The material was already starting to dry and the coffee stain wasn't as horribly noticeable as it had been initially. She weighed it in her head, wondering if the hour long round trip would be worth it or not.
She plucked at the material and grimaced.
It was tempting. Super, super tempting.
But so was not missing over an hour's worth of work on her first day.
Making up her mind, Buffy shook her head and glanced back up, smiling. "No, it's fine." She reflexively folded her arms across her chest even as she spoke, noticing the brunette's eyes flutter back toward the stain. "But thank you, Ms. Chase, I appreciate you being so understanding."
Brown eyes whipped back to hers. "Oh, God," Cordelia breathed, splaying a hand flat against her chest, "please don't ever call me that again or I will fire you. Cordelia. Just…Cordelia." The brunette leaned forward and bent herself over the short cubicle wall, inclining her head down to whoever was seated at that desk. Buffy couldn't see them from where she stood. "Do I look like a Ms.?" She asked, voice horrified. "Am I officially haggard? It's this goddamn job."
There was a bright chuckle from behind the cubicle wall, and then a tallish, brunette man stood up, stretching his arms up languidly behind his head. "That's what I've been trying to tell you," he said laughingly, brown eyes shining as he twisted his upper body around and folded his arms across the top of the partition. "All work and no play…"
"Make's Cordy a spinstery hag," Cordelia finished for him, voice anguished as she fished in her purse and pulled out a makeup compact, reaching up to press tenderly at the skin under her eyes.
Mortified, Buffy rushed to explain herself. "No, no, I didn't mean...I was just trying to…" She gave up, reaching up to press her fingers against her temples. "Really, really not my morning," she muttered, kicking herself for letting her roommate convince her that today would be the Best. Fucking. Day. Ever.
Or whatever it was the other girl had written on the hastily scribbled note she'd left her that morning.
Buffy opened her eyes again and re-focused on her boss, the smiling brown eyed man. "Would it be okay if I sat down?"
"Oh, sure," Cordelia answered, snapping her compact shut and tossing it into her purse. She gestured toward the desk to the left of where she'd tossed her manila folders. "That's your desk. Just put your stuff wherever and feel free to ignore Chuckles the Clown over there."
The brunette man tossed Buffy's new boss a narrow eyed glare before turning his attention to Buffy herself. Smiling brightly, he reached over the partition to extend his hand to her. "Chuckles," he said by way of introduction as Buffy slipped her hand into his. "But most people just call me Xander. And you are…?"
"Elizabeth Summers," Buffy introduced herself, feeling a little more like a fraud than she would have liked to admit in using her full name. "Nice to meet you."
Xander grinned at her, still gripping her hand in his. "Well, Elizabeth Summers," he said, putting a little emphasis on her name and giving her another warm, disarming smile. "Welcome to Pratt Publishing."
"Thanks," Buffy said, giving him the first honest-to-God smile of the morning as he dropped her hand. "Are you in editorial, too?"
He shook his head. "I'm in production, actually." Then he laughed. "Which never fails to get me deadpan looks like that from all the editorial interns."
Buffy checked her expression, realizing she was looking at Xander with a frown and one raised eyebrow. "Sorry," she said, laughing along with him now. "I guess I didn't know 'production' was a thing."
"Oh, it is," he said, nodding. "Very much a thing. Basically I'm on the opposite end of the spectrum from you people and your fancy words." He reached a hand out toward both Buffy and Cordelia, wiggling his fingers for emphasis.
"Yep. Xander's part of Pratt's production department. We also have Publicity and Marketing departments and they are…over there." She pointed across the large office space to another arrangement of cubicles. She spotted elevator lady chatting animatedly with another leggy, dirty blonde in a power suit. At another arrnagment of desks, She could see two men were seated and talking with a lost-looking girl that Buffy guessed was another intern.
"Does each department get interns?" She asked, turning her attention back to Xander and Cordelia.
Cordelia shook her head, dropping fluidly down into her desk and crossing her legs. "The program switches off, every six months every other department gets them. This round is editorial— that's you, and marketing." She jutted her chin, inclining it toward the girl across the room. "Which would be her. And I'm sure there are more editorial around here somewhere, but I only take responsibility for you."
"That one looks almost as nervous as you do," Xander joked, still looking at the fidgety girl standing across the room. He turned to grin at Buffy.
"I'm that obvious, huh?" she asked, slowly warming to her environment and the people she'd be spending the next six months working with.
"Everybody's a little nervous the first day." Cordelia shrugged, and Xander nodded. "You'll get over it. But we should probably get started," she said, turning herself into her desk and pulling some of the manila folders out, rifling through them, lifting a massive stack of text covered paper out and setting it over on Buffy's desk. "We have a lot of work to get you up to speed on before you go in to meet Mr. Pratt, so—"
Buffy froze, her throat going instantly, painfully dry.
Meet? Did she say meet?
"Meet?" Buffy asked aloud, reaching newly shaking hands out toward the pages in front of her, blinking wide eyes at her boss. "As in...meet. Face to face meet. With the him and me in the same room?"
Cordelia glanced at her, her brow furrowed. "Well, yeah, that was the idea. He meets all the editorial interns on their first day."
Above her head, Xander chuckled and she turned her gaze back toward his. "Likes to get a look at all the fresh meat."
Buffy couldn't tell if he was trying to make her more nervous or less, but the knots in her stomach tightened anyway.
Meet. Meeting Mr. Pratt. Meeting. Face to face.
She swallowed and glanced back to Cordelia. "I'm…" she trailed off, clearing her throat and clamping her hands down around the files in front of her. "William Pratt?"
"Your eye is twitching," Xander told her matter-of-factly.
Buffy blinked. Oh, God, was it?
"Oh my God, it totally is." Cordelia straightened and leaned toward her, brown eyes scanning Buffy's face. "Are you okay?"
Okay. Sure.Totally okay. If being totally okay entitled feeling a little like she was going to vomit all over her brand new desk and all the pages and the pretty, pretty words she was clutching to.
Buffy nodded, swallowed for the millionth time, hated the fact that her nerves always presented in chronic dry mouth and forced a smile. "I'm great," she lied, forcing her fingers to relax. "I just...I don't think I thought I'd actually meet him. And not, ya know, on my first day. All coffee covered and…" she paused, turning her eyes up toward Xander's again. "Do I smell as much like a chocolate dipped espresso bean as I think I do?"
He shrugged off handedly. "More, probably. It's delicious."
"Awesome," she groaned, letting the I'm just hunky dory smile fall and wondering if it was too late to take Cordelia up on that offer to run home and change.
William Pratt, or what she knew about him anyway, had landed him squarely in her potential mentor list as soon as she'd read her first Pratt Publishing novel. He'd been the reason she'd applied for the internship in the first place. The chance to work under him, to possibly learn from him, was…well it was too good to pass up. The man was a genius, with an eye for words and spotting talent that most other publishing houses wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. He'd somehow managed to get five previously rejected manuscripts past Pratt's publishing board in just his first few years as an associate editor. Consecutively. He'd been responsible for getting her all time favorite book published just a few years back. Two of most prolific and successful authors of the last ten years, successful and prolific authors who'd been spurned and turned away from the likes of Random House and Little, Brown before their first books had been purchased by Pratt. Oh, and all five of those previously rejected manuscripts? Had landed somewhere in the vicinity of the New York Times best sellers list. So, she knew he was brilliant. He had to be. Brilliant and with a knack for spotting less-than-obvious talent, which was, admittedly, the other, deep, dark, secret, hidden reason she'd applied there.
Buffy wanted to be in publishing, yeah. She'd been the editor two years running on her university's literary magazine, which had won a few awards while she was on staff. But Buffy herself had also won a few not-so-exciting awards for a couple short stories she'd written and submitted under a pseudonym, and while the editorial side interested her more than the becoming a published author side, it had weighed in her ultimate decision to move across the country.
Pratt Publishing was small but mighty, and quickly becoming a household name. According to everything Buffy knew about the company, it had been founded in the early 80s by Henry Pratt. Not much more than a super minor player in the game for the first fifteen or so years, mostly publishing scholastic works and textbooks, and then suddenly boom. It just…took off. Publishing two international best sellers in a row and mining new, undiscovered writing talent left and right. From what she understood, it was all very hush hush, the unofficial takeover of the publishing house. Henry was still the head of the company, still the publisher in word if not deed, had the corner office to prove it and everything. But everyone knew it was William, his son, who was more than likely behind the sudden growth. Worked his way up from being an associate editor to editorial director in the ten years. Hence, yeah. Genius.
Possibly evil genius.
Her mother had encouraged her to apply for the editorial internship when she'd come across it on the website a little over a year ago, toting as the perfect opportunity to "get in on the ground floor", and after a lot of hemming and hawing around it, Buffy had finally decided to go for it, sending in her application to be an editorial intern in December, six months prior to graduation.
She'd figured it was the longest of long shots, but that just applying couldn't hurt.
What was the worst that could happen?
When the phone call came on a Monday afternoon, she'd been shocked. You start in two weeks. You'll be working under William Pratt's editorial assistant. Dress code is business casual. Don't be late. She'd barely had enough time to stammer out a weak sounding "Sounds good" before the man who'd called had hung up, leaving her standing in the middle of her mother's empty kitchen in her oversized sleep shirt and a pair of ugly striped socks, eyes as wide as saucers.
She hadn't counted on actually getting the internship. Honestly, until the phone call came, she'd almost forgotten she'd even sent in an application.
It had been that kind of six months.
So she hadn't counted on getting it. Hadn't counted on moving cross country to Boston. Hadn't counted on landing a roommate she was 90% sure might be clinically insane.
And she definitely hadn't counted on ever actually meeting William Pratt himself. She'd sort of figured he was a more a behind the scenes kind of guy, running things from behind the curtain. Elusive, like an editorial version of the Great and Powerful Oz. Not that she didn't have reason to assume that. All the Pratt books she'd read, all the articles she'd been through about the man himself, not one of them had featured a photo. Not one.
She figured at most she might take a phone call from him. Get an e-mail. Something more…behind the curtainy.
But no. She was going to meet William Pratt, and she was going to do it looking like this. Buffy shut her eyes briefly, dimly wondering if her resume and her writing samples would be strong enough to outweigh her disheveled appearance.
"Don't worry," Cordelia was saying breezily, turning her attention back to the stack of papers on her desk and drawing Buffy out of her thoughts, the tangles in her tummy tightening more and more by the second. "There's nothing to be nervous about. I mean, yeah," she said, lowering her voice and leaning in toward Buffy conspiratorially, "he's an ass, but he's no more of an ass than any of the other editors here."
Buffy wasn't entirely sure what she'd been expecting the brunette to say, but that wasn't it. So she just nodded numbly and murmured "Great."
"So, you good?" She gestured at the stack of files in front of her. "Can we get started?"
Buffy nodded again, thoughts still reeling, reaching her hand up to absently pluck at her stained blouse again.
"Fab," Cordelia said, smiling, plucking a red pen out of her black pencil holder and placing it on Buffy's desk. "Let's start here."
-Monday, June 3rd. 10:52am -
Almost an hour and a half into her work, knee deep in some angsty teenage hormone bomb of an unsolicited manuscript about a pair of star-crossed high school lovers, one of whom may or may not have been something of the more para than normal variety, Buffy was firmly in the land of feeling like her brain was about to explode and her eyeballs were going to melt in their sockets.
On the plus side, those nasty, anxious knots? All but forgotten.
"You do this every day?" she asked wryly, glancing over toward Cordelia, her head cradled in her hands.
Cordelia's response was a dry chuckle, an eye roll and a nod. "That's not even the worst I've seen," she said, gesturing with her head toward the stack of paper in Buffy's hands. "But reading his cast-offs beats typing up and sending his rejection letters, or begging media outlets to 'please please, pretty please' review our books."
"You send a lot of rejection letters?" she asked, glancing back down to the page she'd just finished and grimacing.
"Oh, yeah." Cordelia dropped her pen onto her papers and leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms up over her head. "Mr. Pratt's uncanny ability to push no-talent losers past committee and onto the best sellers list has us dealing with a lot of wannabes looking to be his next charity case."
Buffy's brow furrowed. "And he has you read these manuscripts instead of him?"
"No," Cordelia shook her head, thinking it over. "Actually, he always reads at least a little of them first. But, I mean, yeah. He knows pretty quick whether its a yay or a nay, and into the slush pile they go."
From the other side of the cubicle, over the partition that separated Buffy's desk from Xander's, she heard a loud yawn. Then, "Speaking of slush, is anyone else thinking about lunch?" He popped his head over the wall a second later. "I'm famished."
This earned him an eye roll from Cordelia, keeping her eyes on Buffy as she said "It's not even 11:00am, Xander."
Xander glanced down at her. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
Buffy smiled, leaning back in her own chair and listening to the two brunettes squabble light-heartedly back and forth for a few minutes. But the light hearted banter came to a crashing halt a few minutes later when Cordelia's phone rang. A high pitched, bracingly loud trill that cut through the relaxed atmosphere, made both Xander and Cordelia jump as three pairs of eyes dropped to the black phone. One little red light was blinking rapidly. One little red light beside the name William H. Pratt.
Those knots in Buffy's stomach? Back. Way back.
Cordelia cleared her throat and grabbed for the receiver, yanking it out of its cradle and pinning it up to her ear between her neck and shoulder. She snatched up her pen as though ready at a moment's notice to take notes and said smoothly, in a voice Buffy had yet to hear her use, "What can I do for you, Mr. Pratt?"
The call lasted all of ten extremely long seconds, and though Buffy couldn't hear the voice on the other end of the line, she had a pretty good feeling what it was he'd called about when Cordelia's eyes shifted over to her and she nodded once. "Yes, sir. Be right there."
Not even a minute later and Cordelia was leading Buffy to the other side of the office for her dreaded face-to-face with William Pratt.
"He has meetings for the rest of the day so he has to fit you in now," she explained quickly, after already having filled Buffy's head up with a million other "do's and don'ts" for her meeting, leading her down what seemed like an impossibly long hallway for a building she'd been fairly certain wasn't all that wide. They rounded another corner and came up on a long row of office doors, each with a separate bronze name plate and at least six or seven feet between each. The pair came to a stop in front of a door about halfway down the hall. Buffy glanced toward the bronze name plate, still half expecting to see a different name emblazoned on it, looking back at her.
Nope.
"I'm just gonna run in first and make sure he's ready for you," Cordelia said absently, turning and raising her fist like she was about to knock, then pausing, glancing back toward Buffy with raised, perfectly sculpted brows. "Do I need to remind you to breathe again?"
In spite of herself, in spite of the stain on her blouse and knots in her gut and the inevitability of just how train wrecky she thought this whole thing was going to go, Buffy had to laugh. "I think I've got the hang of it now."
Her boss nodded and smiled, straightening her own jacket before raising a hand to knock. There was a muffled sounding acknowledgment from the other side of the heavy wooden door, and she turned the knob, holding a finger up toward Buffy and mouthing the words "One sec" before disappearing into the office.
And then Buffy was alone. But not for long. A half second later and the office door was swinging wide open, Cordelia gesturing emphatically for Buffy to enter, a strained look on her face. Buffy hurried past her and into the office, listening for the door to shut behind her as she took a chance to glance around the room.
In some ways, it was exactly what she'd expected. In others, nothing at all. Large wooden book shelves lined both walls of the narrow room, but none of them were the best sellers he'd helped get published. They were all much older, almost dusty looking, all the bindings brightly colored in reds, blues, greens and mustardy yellows. There was no art anywhere, no pictures, no framed photos on what was left of the wall space. Just books. Rows upon rows of books that managed to make the room seem even more narrow than it was, made everything feel just the insiest bit claustrophobic. The entire office would have been dark, too, Buffy was sure, if it hadn't been for the massive floor to ceiling window that sat behind the sturdy looking desk at the center of the room. The curtains were flung wide open, sunlight bright, streaming into the office and casting a glare into the space Buffy stood in front of the desk, making it momentarily difficult for her to see the man seated behind it. In the wing back chair, hunched all the way over whatever paper it was he was frantically scribbling on.
And then her eyes started to adjust to the sunlight, and she immediately wished they hadn't.
"Mr. Pratt," Cordelia began, standing just behind Buffy as though presenting her to the court. "I'd like you to meet Elizabeth Summers, our new intern."
He didn't stop has frantic scrawling as he looked up at her, furrowed his brow, blinked several times as though to focus his eyes.
And then he froze.
-Sunday, June 2nd. 10:30pm-
He was handsome, she'd give him that. Handsome and slightly just this side of annoyingly persistent as he sat beside her at the bar, elbow on the bar top, chin propped up on the knuckles of his right hand. His eyes did this dancey, sparkling thing when he narrowed them.
He was narrowing them on her now.
"You aren't even goin' to tell me your name?"
Buffy gave him a small half smile and shook her head, reaching for the glass in front of her and raising it to her lips. "I'm just a girl in a bar."
This brought an answering smirk to the stranger's face, and he lowered his hand away from his chin, sitting up straight. "Right," he murmured, voice low and lilting. "That make me just a guy in a bar, then?"
She took another slow sip, let the alcohol burn its way down her throat and into her belly. "It does."
"So, what's that mean?" he asked, voice still low and smooth as he reached a hand out and wrapped it around the glass tumbler in front of him. Swirled the amber liquid around thoughtfully, eyes never leaving hers.
He'd sat down two stools away from her about ten minutes ago, and she'd been waiting for someone else. He'd called over the bar tender and ordered himself some type of fancy schmancy whiskey something-or-other that Buffy had never heard of, then promptly turned to her and asked what she'd be having. She'd told him nothing, but thanks. That she was waiting for her roommate and didn't want to start without her.
He'd turned back to the bar tender and ordered her a double vodka, rocks.
"It means we're just a guy and a girl, in a bar." She lifted her glass to him in salute. "Having a drink."
"And talking?" the stranger pressed.
Buffy's lips twitched. "Mostly drinking."
The man shook his head, brought his tumbler to his lips with his right hand and feathered his left through his artfully disarrayed platinum curls. "I bought you that sodding drink," he reminded her stubbornly, lifting his glass into the air as she had and gesturing with it. "Least you can do is give me somethin' to go on."
There was a pause as she considered him, titling her head to the side, the little alcohol she'd already consumed swirling and burning and buzzing in her head until finally she nodded, dropping her eyes back down to the bar top.
"Fine," she said, tapping her glass with her nail. "I'll give you something. But nothing personal."
Smug, he sat back on his stool, taking another sip of his drink before setting it down again. "Nothing personal."
Buffy kept her eyes down as she thought of what to say next. She could feel the stranger's eyes on her, intent, probably doing that twinkly thing, crinkling slightly at the corners.
She shifted her gaze over to him, saying, "I hate carrots."
His eyes widened. So, not probably what he'd been expecting to hear.
Buffy just nodded, fighting the urge to start giggling uncontrollably. Vodka always made her giggly. "I think they're an ugly color and they take, like, way too much effort to eat."
Beside her, the man's surprise seemed to fade a little as his eyes raked over her face, the corners of his lips curved up in a tight-lipped smirk. "Also a chokin' hazard," he ventured after a moment, casually sipping from his tumbler again.
And Buffy realized she kind of liked the eye thing. "Exactly."
- Sunday, June 2nd. 11:37pm -
Almost an hour later, and Buffy's newish roommate still hadn't showed.
Not that she minded all that much at the moment.
She was grinning at him as he shook his head, slamming his glass back down on the bar after downing his tequila shot, swallowing the liquor and turning to point an accusing finger at her. "That's bollocks and you bloody well know it."
Buffy raised a brow at him, trailing a finger into the little plate of salt between them and licking it off absently. "Is that even a real word?"
Unfazed, the man shook his head, turning back toward the bar tender and making a gesture for another round as he said, "Everybody likes The Beatles." Then back to Buffy, lowering his voice in disbelief. "Everybody."
Feeling a little smug herself, she just shrugged. "Not me."
And it was true. The Beatles had been her dad's favorite band, so she'd grown up listening to them. Maybe it had been some sort of sensory overload thing, having heard their music just way too much, way too often, as a kid that had made her pretty much despise the iconic band as an adult. Her psychologist would probably have something to say about it. If she'd ever actually bothered to go to him, that was.
"Lemme guess," the stranger said. "Not a fan of the Stones either?" He gave an appreciative nod to the man behind the bar as he set down the second round of tequila in the space on the bartop between them. "Or any other brilliant Brit bands, I'm guessin'."
"There are more?" she asked, frowning as she reached for a fresh wedge of lime and sprinkled it with salt. He'd scolded her the first time around, telling her that isn't the way a "proper" tequila shot is taken. But of the two of them, she hadn't been the one to make with the grimacey face, so she figured she'd stick with her "improper" way.
"Bloody...Christ, woman, of course there're more." He began ticking them off on his fingers as he named them. "The Clash, the Sex Pistols, The-"
"Do all British bands start with 'The'?" she cut him off, brow furrowed as the first round of tequila started to take effect, wrinkling her nose up as she reached for the fresh shot glass.
His hand fell back down to the bar top with a smack and he blinked at her, looking momentarily confused. "Only the good ones."
Buffy sputtered a little this time, the tequila getting stuck on her tongue just a second too long before she could swallow it. She slammed the glass down and made funny yeeaagh sound, closing her eyes and shaking her head, grabbing for her lime wedge and biting down into it.
When she opened her eyes again, the man was looking at her with a raised eyebrow, long, dark lashes fluttering as if to say I told you so.
She frowned at him, reached up to wipe her lips and said, "So just the four you mentioned?"
This wiped the smug expression right off his pretty face. Cheeks hollowed, jaw ticking, he cocked his head to the side. "Right. And I'm sure you know all the greats." He grabbed up his own shot and downed it, and Buffy watched, a little impressed when he neither made a blegh face nor reached for his lime. "NSYNC and the sodding Backstreet Buggers."
"I'm more of a Zeppelin fan myself," she lied breezily, reaching for and going with the only classic rock band she could manage to remember at the moment. Not looking at him, she kept her eyes down on her own drink and waited for his reaction.
A long moment later. "You little liar."
Buffy burst out laughing.
- Monday, June 3rd. 12:24am -
"Still haven't told me what brings you to Boston," he said, fingering the neck of his beer absently as he watched her, eyes glued to the side of her face.
Instantly, her alcohol muddled senses went on high alert.
"Still?" she asked, glancing toward him and raising both brows. "I thought we agreed—nothing personal." She shifted on her bar stool, angling herself toward him and quickly deflecting. "Besides, I should be asking you that, Brit Boy."
For a moment, Buffy thought he wasn't going to say anything to that. But then he relaxed, his shoulders sagging as he swiveled around on his stool and leaned back onto the bar, elbows propping him up and his eyes on her. "Moved here when I was just shy of twenty-five," he began to explain, two long fingers still wrapped around the neck of his bottle, "Took a job workin' for my father."
This earned a furrowed brow frown from Buffy. "Here?"
The man chuckled, and she thought she might kind of like the sound. Or maybe tequila thought she might kind of like the sound. Something in her liked it. She stared at him, watching as he nodded.
"Yep. Dear old dad's a yank."
Buffy went silent, thinking this over for a little while. They'd agreed, nothing personal. She'd made him agree to that. Not for any real good reason other than that's what Faith had told her she should do. "Boston guys can be pushy," she'd explained when they'd made plans to meet up for celebratory drinks tonight. "Most of 'em won't take no for an answer, so keep your cards to yourself. Don't get too personal. Keep it breezy."
Honestly, Buffy hadn't really been sure what she'd been trying to say. If her new roommate thought she was the type of girl to…get "personal" with a random stranger at a bar, she still had a lot left to learn about her. Still, for whatever reason, she'd found herself halfway following the other girl's weird advice. But since when had Faith been the shining paragon of good decisions? Buffy'd known her, been living with her, for all of a week and so far she hadn't done a whole lot to inspire confidence in that particular arena.
Buffy drummed her hand on the bar top, a staccato rhythm as she bit down on her bottom lip and considered what all could possibly go wrong if she just got a little personal.
Sighing, releasing her lip, she shifted her gaze to the bleached blonde's. "I moved here for a job."
His eyebrow arched, cocking his head to the side. "You too, eh?"
She nodded, nibbling lightly on her lip again. "I just graduated, from college? A couple weeks ago, actually." He raised his bottle to her in a congratulatory gesture and she shrugged, giving him a small smile. "Packed up and came here pretty much right after."
He cocked his head to the side, appraising her from the short distance between them. "You move here all on your lonesome then?"
Buffy looked at him, then nodded, feeling weird, awkwardly exposed now to the stranger sitting beside her. "That obvious?"
"When do you start this job of yours?" he asked her in lieu of a responding to her question, shifting his eyes away and tilting his bottle back to his mouth.
Buffy sighed and hoped the noise didn't give too much away. "Tomorrow, actually."
He pulled his bottle away from his lips at that, swallowing and nodding his head and looking like he wanted to laugh as he gave her a closed-lip grin. "So naturally you're out at a pub at midnight, tossin' back shots and chattin' up dashing strangers?" He gave her a real smile then, and she noticed he had dimples.
"Naturally," she replied, wondering if he could tell just how completely, totally, other side of the world far from natural any of this was for her.
If he did notice, he didn't say. Just returned to running his thumb and forefinger along the neck of his beer in a gesture Buffy felt sure was unintentionally seductive, his eyes trained on hers. "Can I ask which of this city's many fine establishments you'll be startin' at?"
She opened her mouth immediately to respond, thought better of it and clamped her lips shut again. Off his furrowed brow, she gestured between the two of them with her right hand. "Personal?"
His widened slightly and then he nodded, chastened, and turned to look away from her. "Right."
An awkward beat passed between them and she looked down at the bar, wrapping her hand around the half empty glass in front of her that she'd actually stopped drinking half an hour ago.
"Although," she said after a minute, thinking that maybe, maybe, she wouldn't mind seeing a flash of his dimples again. She shifted her eyes to his and eyed him through her lashes. "If we are going to do the personal thing...I'm kind of dying to know what exactly is going on here." She reached a hand up and gestured toward the gelled platinum curls, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to wrap the errant one beside his ear around her index finger.
He chuckled warmly, dimples showing and eyes twinkling as the tension between them vanished and she dropped her hand back down. "That is a long story, luv," he told her simply, his voice low, and took another swig from his bottle.
Buffy looked at him, her expression falsely sympathetic and wrinkled her nose. "You lose a bet?"
"Actually, yes." And at the stricken look on her face, he burst into loud, unrestrained laughter. Several people on the other side of the bar stopped what they were doing to glance their way, and Buffy felt herself shrinking down a little on her stool.
The blonde man, however, didn't seem to notice. Or if he noticed, he certainly didn't care.
"It was twelve years ago," he told her, still laughing a little and angling himself more fully toward her. "Just after I moved state-side."
Buffy couldn't help herself. Curiosity piqued, she leaned toward him and asked, "What was the bet over?"
"Ah, ah, ah," he scolded her lightly on a rumbling purr, wagging one of the fingers he'd had wrapped around the neck of his bottle and leaning in toward her. "Personal, yeah?"
She narrowed her eyes at him but nodded anyway, feeling caught in her own stupid game. Or, Faith's stupid game. Whatever.
"Anyway," he continued, dropping his eyes down to the bottle in his hand, a slow smirk curling his lips as he thought it over. Reliving the memory right there in front of her, it seemed. And then he shrugged. "Ended up likin' the look so bloody much I kept it."
His lashes fanned back up and his eyes met Buffy's again.
She let herself look at him now. Really look at him. Takin him in, the space of one lone bar stool still separating them. She could see it now, the "look" he was referring to. Simple black v-neck, faded blue jeans, a pair of well-loved motorcycle boots. Chunky silver chain around his neck, a matching one around his wrist, and both hands adorned with silver rings. The eyes, the cheeks, the hair. It was a definite look. Not a look she would have picked out if she hadn't been staring right at it, seeing how much it could work, but a definite look just the same.
She focused in on his eyes again and raised her half-empty glass to her smiling lips. "It suits you."
Because it did.
"Yeah?" Another mischievous eye twinkle, a smirk. "Tell that to my father."
- Monday, June 3rd. 1:17am -
In the end, she decided it was the alcohol she'd consumed that made her do it. Say it. The alcohol and the fact that he'd gotten progressively closer to her as the night wore on. Starting out with two seats in between them. Then only one. Until now, they sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, both their final round of drinks nearly finished and sitting half-forgotten on the bar top in front of them as she threw her head back and laughed, loudly, at a story he'd just told about his "university" days.
She dropped her head, still chuckling, and watched his profile as he took a sip from the water glass the bar tender had placed in front of him.
Yeah, it was the alcohol. And the fact that he smelled like mint and cigarettes and the whiskey he'd been drinking and possibly some kind of aftershave, too, because his face was so, so smooth and before she knew it she was saying it, her voice a low murmur as she looked up at his profile.
"Buffy."
He set the glass down and said, not looking at her, "Bless you."
"No," she laughed again, twisting herself on her stool, her knees bumping against his, denim on denim. "Buffy. It's my name."
"Oh," he said, eyes widening in realization, eyebrows arched high. A second later, the smirk was back. "Right then." He stuck his right hand out across his body toward her. "Name's Spike."
She took his hand in hers and let him shake it. His grip was firm, hand chilled at the fingertips from the cold glass he'd been holding. "Spike?" she asked, quirking a brow and letting her fingers slip away from his.
"Buffy?" he countered, his voice matching hers.
She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.
"So, Buffy," Spike began, lashes fluttering as he leaned his elbow back down onto the bar top and propped his chin back on his knuckles, the way he'd done when he'd first noticed her sitting there. "How'd a girl like you get saddled with a name like that?"
She snorted, shifting back on her stool so she could see his face better. "You're one to talk." She poked him square in the shoulder. "Are you gonna tell me where the name Spike came from?"
He reached up, lightning quick and covered her hand with his, squeezing it against his shoulder as his eyes met and held hers.
The moment that passed between them lasted much too long for Buffy's comfort. Eyes glued to one another, his hand warm and strong around hers, the alcohol still buzzing just numbingly enough through her veins to make her head light.
She didn't know why she'd come here tonight, really. True, Faith had suggested it, had decided they needed to celebrate Buffy's new job and their new roommate status in style before she started work and got too busy. But Buffy figured now, especially now, she'd kind of known Faith wouldn't show up. So why she'd still come, why she'd stayed, was a little bit of a mystery to her. Whether it was to drink and be alone, or to drink and be with others. To spend some time thinking about where exactly her life was headed or what she actually wanted to get out of the internship she'd blindly accepted. Maybe just for a break from reality. She needed a break from that about now. Everything since graduation had been such a whirlwind, and now she was here in a city she was a stranger to, starting a job she wasn't sure she wanted and living with a crazy person. Missing home. Missing her life. Missing her Mom.
That was it, probably. In the end it when he finally let go of her hand and tore his eyes from hers, she'd all but forgotten whatever question it was she'd asked him. He hadn't forgotten though, because he was in the middle of responding.
"I'd love to, kitten," he said silkily, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket and digging the appropriate amount of cash out, Buffy noticed, to pay for both their drinks, and laying it flat on the bar top. His eyes shifted to hers once more, the right side of his mouth curving up. "But you aren't ready to know."
Buffy gaped at him, blinking rapidly, alcohol infused indignation fueling her as she leveled a stern look at him and said, "I'm ready."
But Spike just shook his head and swiveled around on his stool, planting his feet on the floor and standing up. "Don't think so, pet."
Annoyed, cheeks flushing hot. After all the talking and the hours and the, the flirting he'd done with her he was just going to get up and leave?
"What?" she asked, frowning at him, swiveling around on her own stool to watch him go. "Why not?"
He came to a stop in front of her, turning and hooking one thumb through his belt loop. "Well, just look at you." And he did then. God, did he ever. Slowly, deliberately, the expression on his face somewhere between cool amusement and undisguised hunger. She watched him, confused, her mouth going dry as he let his eyes travel over her body. Starting at her hairline and rainy down to tips of her toes, slowly back up. His lips twitched. "All fresh faced and doe-eyed and innocent."
Checking herself, realizing her lips had parted slightly as she'd watched him watching her, she shook her head to clear it, scoffing and willing the light-headedness from the alcohol to go away. "And what," she demanded, folding her arms over her chest, "telling me how you got the name Spike is going to 'corrupt' me?"
This had his smirk widening. "Ah, that's the rub, innit." He flicked his tongue out over his lip, then smiled, tucking it up behind his top teeth before leaning in and whispering, "Can't tell you, luv. Have to show you."
Things were tense between them for a moment as he pulled back from her, his eyes dropping down and settling on her mouth.
And then Buffy laughed. Long, loud, effectively wiping the smug smirk right off her handsome not-so-much-a-stranger's face.
"Oh, please," she breathed, digging into her own purse for a wad of cash to leave behind her as a tip, more than ready at this point to just go home. "Does that line ever actually work?"
Spike just cocked his head to the side and let his eyes do their unfair little twinkly thing. "Like a bloody charm."
Buffy shook her head, slapping a ten dollar bill down with more force than necessary onto the bar top before zipping her purse and hopping down off her stool. "Wouldn't work on me."
Something was funny. Either what she said or the slight little wobble in her knees as her feet had landed on the bar's floor, she wasn't sure, but something she'd done amused him, because he gave her a rumbly chuckle, squinted his eyes and said, "That right?"
Buffy just nodded, feeling smug herself, hauling the strap of her purse up onto her shoulder and folding her arms across her chest again. "Yep."
Another pause as they eyed each other, neither of them moving. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Buffy recognized the time. How late it was. That coming out tonight in the first place hadn't been a good idea, and that she needed to get home. But she was a little stuck. Frozen to the spot by a heady combination of the flashing neon lights behind the bar, the smoky air, the very distant anxiety she'd come in with tonight that she couldn't seem to remember at the moment and whatever was left of the alcohol in her system.
"Funny," Spike finally breathed, stepping directly into her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep her eyes on his. His lashes fanned down, fluttered, swept back up. "Coulda sworn it already was."
Her knees wobbled again, and she knew she needed to get back home. Now.
Right now.
"Not as well as you'd think," she told him simply, not sure how much of it was a lie and how much was denial, tearing her gaze away from his and unfolding her arms, side-stepping around him.
He didn't come after her. Didn't call her name. Not that she'd wanted him to, because she most certainly did not.
She didn't think.
No, no, she most definitely did not. It was better this way, anyway, she reminded herself as she weaved her way to the front of the bar. It hadn't even been a good idea to come out in the first place.
And this was probably a thing he did. Like, a shtick or whatever. Sit next to the lonely little girl at the bar, buy her drink, play her game. End up disarming her with funny stories and bad taste in music and the silky accent a-and the twinkly eye dimple thing.
Yeah, so definitely. Better this way.
Still, she couldn't resist one last look. Pausing with her hands on the door, she turned and glanced back over her shoulder.
Spike was already gone.
-Monday, June 3rd. 11:25am -
Buffy was frozen to the spot, the exact same way she'd been frozen the night before. Of course last night those blue eyes had been pinning her with an entirely different sort of intensity than they were now, but still.
Still.
Oh, God, this wasn't happening.
But it was. It was, and her hands were already flying automatically to cover the stain on the front of her blouse. Spike just stared at her, dark brows knit together, blinking in what she could only guess was utter disbelief. She didn't think either of them planned on every seeing each other again.
Not after…everything.
"Miss Summers," he finally managed, checking his shocked expression, trading it in for something a little more verging-on-irritated as he sat up straight and lay the ballpoint pen down over his papers. "Welcome to Pratt Publishing."
She couldn't think of anything to say. Literally, nothing. Nothing that wouldn't sound strained or panicked or be just too big with the massively embarrassing. Her head was spinning, spinning, spinning, struggling to put two and two together. She stared blankly at the man she'd spent hours with the night before and tried, vainly, to reconcile the man she'd met last night with what she knew of the man William Pratt was supposed to be.
Surprise. Surprise, shock, confusion. No, she couldn't think of anything to say, so she just cleared her throat and said, "Thank you, Mr. Pratt."
She watched his eyes change as she said his name, flashing, darkening. He sat back in his chair then, placing his elbows on his armrests and steepling his hands together. And there it was, the slightest hint of the smirk she'd seen so many times the night before. If the carefully slicked back platinum hair hadn't been the dead giveaway she needed to confirm that he was, in fact, the same man from night before then the smirk. The smirk would have been.
She swallowed.
Then, blithely, his tone taking on an almost bored quality he said, "Have you finished with the manuscript Cordelia gave you this morning?"
Buffy's eyes widened as he leaned forward and picked up his pen, resumed scribbling whatever it was he'd been scribbling when he'd walked in.
Feeling even more confused now, she started to answer, not having even the slightest clue what the right answer here was. "I, uh…" she glanced over her shoulder toward Cordelia, who was shaking her head and looking just as confused as Buffy felt. She turned back forward. "I mean, if byfinished you mean—"
"It's a simple question, Miss Summers." Spike didn't bother looking up at her, just shuffled the stack of papers in front of him and promptly began scrawling on that as well.
And it bothered her. A lot.
There were a lot of things Buffy was great at dealing with. Nervousness, not among them. But the one thing she handled even worse than a bad case of the butterflies? Being confused. His behavior was confusing her and it bugged, his casual, cold demeanor burrowing under her skin and making it feel like it was stretched too tight.
"No," she said finally, forcing her voice out flat and steady even as her cheeks flushed hot. "Not yet."
Spike nodded, still not looking up. "Cordelia? Will you give us a minute." He set his pen down once more and reached over toward a stack of file folders, thumbing through the first few before plucking one out and setting it down in front of him. "I have a few questions for our newest intern." He opened it up, and Buffy could see from where she was standing that he was fiddling with her cover letter, could see his thumb brushing under her hand written signature. Then he flipped the page, eyes pouring over what she recognized as being her resume. It was her file. Her stomach churned just as he brought his gaze level with hers. "Want to see if she's as sharp in person as she appears on paper."
Buffy sucked in a deep breath and waited for Cordelia's response. She'd told her before going into his office that he never spent time with the interns, that he met them as a courtesy, that he hardly ever even remembered their names and only ever dealt with them if they'd managed to make some kind of apocalyptic mistake. And even then, it was only to fire them. "He sort of hates the internship program," Cordelia'd explained dismissively, waving her hand. "Thinks it's a waste of time and resources, blah, blah, blah."
So this, right now, wasn't normal. Buffy knew it, and if she knew it, Cordelia certainly did too. So she waited for her to say something.
She didn't.
The only answer Buffy's ears were met with was shuffling of fabric followed by the soft clicking sound as her boss shut the heavy office door, and then silence.
A beat passed.
"You told me your name was Buffy." His voice wasn't bored anymore, but she couldn't exactly place the new emotion in it either.
"I…it is."
"Not accordin' to your resume," he said, picking up the file he'd been thumbing through and waving it at her meaningfully, "Elizabeth."
Oh. That's what she was hearing in his voice.
Anger.
And here Buffy thought she'd be getting fired the first day for being late. If only life could ever be that straight forward. Hers had a nasty way of always becoming twisty.
"Buffy is…" she struggled for the right words, her hands still clasped awkwardly together over the coffee stain. "It's a nickname. My family and friends call me that. I just didn't think it was exactly…work appropriate, or something." She paused to catch her breath, noticed the hard set of his features, the thin line his lips were forming and remembered all at once that he wasn't the only one who had a right to be angry here.
Forgetting how much higher on corporate ladder he was than she, she took an impulsive step forward, lowering her hand to jab an accusing finger his direction. "And what about you, huh? You told me your name was Spike."
Unflinchingly, not moving a muscle or barely batting an eye, he told her, "It is."
Buffy exhaled a short burst of hot air through her nose, rocking back on her heels and crossing her arms. "Not according to your nameplate."
Because the nameplate sitting at the front of his desk most definitely still read William H. Pratt, and nothing anywhere near, not even in the vicinity of Spike.
Which only reminded her that she kind of felt sick.
Sick, and still mad and confused and where the hell did he get off looking at her like that, anyway? Like she was the only one who hadn't been completely honest. Because, obviously, exhibit A sitting behind the big wooden desk, not the case. And exhibit A was currently leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed on her. "Spike's a nickname." He raised his brows and lowered his voice. "Remember?"
His words had her freezing again, cheeks flushed, chest tight. She remembered. She very much remembered, which was sort of the problem at the moment.
"I can't tell you," he'd said. "I have to show you."
-Monday, June 3rd. 1:35am-
He must have gone out the back door, she figured. There wasn't any other way he could have beaten her to the curb.
He was waiting for her when she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Had already hailed a taxi, and was standing beside it, one hand in his jeans pocket. He was holding the door open and giving her that little smirk.
"Quite the gentleman," she murmured, pulling her purse further up onto her shoulder, failing to keep the small smile off her lips.
"Feel right guilty, leavin' you to get home by yourself." He shrugged casually as she stepped up beside him. "New city and all."
She smiled again at him, nodded, skirted around him to slide into the back of the cab. Then she leaned out of the door, looking up into his face. "You want to share?" she asked, wondering if it was a mistake even as he words left her lips.
Spike gazed down at her, tilting his head to the side. "I dunno, pet. Sharing a cab." He clucked his tongue at her. "Sounds awfully personal."
"It's a big seat," she teased him. "Plenty of room to be as non-personal as possible." And she grinned up at him before sliding along the back seat, shifting until she was on the opposite end and providing him with enough space to slide in beside her.
He did.
And as soon as the taxi door slammed shut, he was on her. Hands tangling in her hair, holding her to him as he kissed her. The tips of their tongues touched, his, oaky and astringent with whiskey and another heady hint of cigarette smoke. Buffy moaned into his mouth, and it was all over.
-Monday, June 3rd. 11:35am-
"Now that that's out of the way," Spike began slowly, leaning forward and pressing his palms flat onto his desk, pushing himself to his feet. Buffy watched him from where she stood as he ducked his head, moving around the edge of his desk until he reached the front, standing directly in front of her. "What is it you want, then?" he asked her, keeping his tone light, clipped. Casual. He crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk, hooking one ankle over the other as he gazed at her, eyes narrowed. "Money?"
He might as well have slapped her. It would have been less shocking.
Buffy took an impulsive step back, blinking at him, lips slightly parted as she tried to understand what he was saying. "E-excuse me?"
Her response must have been one of legitimate shock, because he nodded like he believed her. "Not money then. Okay." He uncrossed his arms and braced his hands on the edge of his desk, long fingers curled around the wood ledge on either side of his hips. "A manuscript? You have a novel you want me to publish, make you right bloody famous?"
Oh, yeah. He was angry, alright. And getting angrier by the second if the rising pitch of his voice was any indication.
Buffy was only getting more confused.
"I don't…Sp—" She caught herself, clearing her throat and straightening her pencil skirt. More for something to do than anything else.Not Spike. Your boss. Your boss's boss. William Pratt. "Mr. Pratt," she amended, feeling like an absolute idiot, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Because she really, really didn't.
"Right," Spike said, his voice low, chuckling. Not the warm rumbly chuckle from the night before, but darker. Not at all like he actually thought anything was funny. "Sure you don't."
It was way too wiggy for her, seeing him like this. The faded jeans had been replaced by a pair of well-tailored grey slacks, the black t-shirt done away with in favor of a pressed black button down and a red silk tie. His platinum curls tamed, slicked back where before they'd been artfully disarrayed. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to just below his elbows, an expensive looking watch having replaced the chunky silver bracelet around his right wrist. The several silver rings he'd been wearing, too, were missing now.
And Buffy froze again, for what felt like the hundredth time, as she zeroed in on his fingers.
Yep, the costume jewelry-ish rings were all gone, and in their place was just one. One very specific one, on his left hand.
Oh.
Buffy's hand flew to her mouth, pressing against her lips even as her stomach flipped, rolled over, all the alcohol she'd drunk the night before threatening to come back up all over the gorgeous oriental rug she was standing on.
"You're married?" she breathed from behind her hand, taking a step back on slightly wobbly legs.
Spike's expression remained cold. "Like you didn't already know that," he told her flatly, his eyes scanning her face. Buffy shook her head, her eyes wide, hand pressing more firmly against her mouth. And she saw it when it happened. When the man standing in front of her realized he was wrong. His eyes widened, eyebrows arching up and he pushed himself back to his feet. "You didn't already know that."
No. God, of course not. How could she have known that? She didn't even know who he was last night! I mean, sure, she knew William Pratt was married. She knew she knew that. She'd read about it, hadn't she? Her head spun as she tried to nail down the facts, what she remembered reading. Yes, yes she did know William Pratt was married.
She just hadn't known Spike was William Pratt.
If she had she never would have…things never would have…
On his feet now, he took a cautious step toward her. "You're tellin' me you had no idea who I was when you started chattin' me up last night?"
Buffy couldn't form words, didn't trust herself to form words, so she just shook her head no.
"So…this." He raised a hand and gestured between the two of them with his pointer finger. "With you, being an editorial intern, this…is a complete and total coincidence?"
Twisty. Twisty, twisty, twisty life. Buffy blinked, long and slow, and nodded. "Yeah."
Spike frowned, planting his hands on his hips. "You aren't blackmailing me."
It wasn't a question, but Buffy felt compelled to shake her head no again anyway. Her eyes had snapped back to his left hand, the ring on his finger. The ring she knew for a fact hadn't been there last night.
Her stomach heaved again.
And her thoughts flew to her family. To her mother, to her little sister Dawn. It was Dawn's words that echoed in her ears now, as the seconds dragged on, the little clock on the book shelf to her right ticking them off like a metronome in the silence surrounding them.You have to take the internship if you get it, Buffy. It's what Mom would have wanted for you.
And then, when she'd gotten it.She would have been so proud.
Yeah, Buffy thought now, blinking her eyes closed.I'm sure this would have made her realproud.
"Why don't you sit down?" Spike asked her suddenly, making her eyes flutter open, lashes sticking together slightly as they did. His voice was completely different now. Softer, gentle. He was standing beside the chair in front of his desk, gesturing toward it.
And all Buffy could think about was how she had to get out of here. Now. Right now.
She shook her head, pulling her hand down from her mouth. "I should…"
Spike stepped toward her. "Buffy."
"...go," she finished, stepping backward, wondering if she turned and high tailed it out if this would all just go away. Or maybe she could quit. Just up and quit before he could fire her. That might work, too. "I should go. I have work to do. For you." A high-pitched, half hysterical giggle tore from her throat, her eyes starting to burn. "Work for you…so I should go do that work. For you. Now."
Right now.
"Buffy, sit down."
She turned her back on him and started for the door. "I have those manuscripts to go through, so I'll just-"
His voice caught her, halting her in mid-step, her hand on the door knob. "Sit down, Miss Summers." She glanced at him over her shoulder, and he inclined his head toward her. "Don't make me ask again."
Or, ya know, he could just fire her right here and now. That was also an option.
Swallowing hard, Buffy turned back around to face him, walking slowly back toward him and the chair in front of his desk. Sinking down into it, she kept her eyes glued to a loose thread coming out of the rug and safely away from his eyes.
When he spoke again, it wasn't even close to what she'd been expecting to hear him say. "I'm sorry."
Instantly, her eyes shot up to find his.
"For assuming you…" he trailed off, sighing, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. "Just wouldn't be the first time someone's tried, is all."
The rolling in her stomach, which up to this point had been pretty much constant, came to a wild, screeching halt as she registered this new information. Wouldn't be the first time…
Oh, God.
And now Buffy felt slightly sick for an entirely different reason. She stared at him, her voice coming out sounding hard, more bitter than she meant for it to. "This happen a lot with your interns, Mr. Pratt?"
His hand dropped, the almost sheepish expression melting away at the tone in her voice. "Truthfully, I rarely take any interest at all in the interns, Miss Summers." He thought it over, then shrugged. "'Less it's to tell one of 'em what a bloody screw up they are." His gaze narrowed just slightly, his voice lowering, tinged with a harder edge. "And if you're askin' me if I make it a regular habit to cheat on my wife, the answer is also no, I don't." He cocked his head to the side, appraising her openly. Buffy attempted to pull her skirt down further over her knees. "Doesn't mean I haven't had a doe-eyed little aspiring writer try and tempt me into it once or twice."
Buffy frowned more deeply at him, brow furrowing. "I wasn't-."
"Didn't know you were an intern then anyway, did I?" He kept on, cutting her off like she hadn't even spoken and moving back around to the other side of his desk. He didn't sit though. Just hovered, leaning his knuckles onto the wood and meeting her gaze with wide eyes. "Someone's barmy rule 'bout not sharin' anythin' personal."
She gaped at him, a scoffing sound passing her lips before she could think to try and stop it. Hell, she was more than likely all with the fired anyway. Might as well go down swinging. "So this is my fault now?" She demanded hotly, glaring at him, her hands finding the arm rests of her chair as though she might actually launch herself out of it and over his desk if he thought he was going to blame this whole stupid thing on her.
He pushed off his desk, gesturing with a sweep of his arm toward her. "You're the one who insisted—"
Her nails dug into the chair, lowering her voice as her jaw clenched and she cut him off. "And you're the one that kissed me first."
A long pause as they stared at each other, her cheeks hot, his expression annoyingly impassive. Then his lips twitched, his eyes sparked, and he murmured a low sounding "Got me there."
Quickly growing far more irritated than disgusted, Buffy kept staring at him, her eyes narrowed so far on him that they were almost itty bitty slits, impatient now, wanting to cut to the chase. Mentally preparing to do a walk-of-shame, of sorts, back to her desk and grab her little leather bound notebook, go back to her apartment, explain to Faith what happened and book a flight back home to California, she sighed. "So, what now?"
"What now…what?" he asked, his voice back to being casual as he dropped into his chair and turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
Buffy stared at him blankly. When he didn't look back up at her, but instead picked up his pen and began shuffling through his files, she leaned forward and blurted out, "Am I fired?"
Spike looked up then, looking at her askance, his expression genuinely confused. He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "Why the bloody hell would I fire you for? I didn't know who you were, and if you're tellin' the truth, you didn't know who I was. It was a mistake. Mistakes happen." He raised a scarred eyebrow at her. "And if you're smart, mistakes only happen once." He dropped his eyes back to his desk, leaning forward, his left hand moving furiously over a page full of text. "If you're half as talented in person as you are on your resume, pet, least I can do is keep you on until you do somethin' worthy of bein' sacked, yeah?"
And helping you cheat on your wife, that doesn't fall squarely in the fireable offense column? "O-kay."
He flicked his eyes back up to hers, eyeing her from under long, dark lashes. "Gonna be able to get back to work now?"
Blinking at him, her lips forming an angry little "O" as her lashes fluttered, Buffy bit down on the inside of her cheek, on all the words she wanted so desperately to say, and forced herself instead to think of her Mom. Of Dawn. Her favorite professor back at school. And then she nodded, figuring, truthfully, this might be the last actual face-to-face she'd have to do with Spike…William…ugh, whoever he was, at least while she was an intern. Six months. Yeah, one night could totally blow over in six months.
She could do this. It would be fine.
It was a mistake.
Buffy stood up and smoothed her skirt down, turning on her heel and making a quick bee-line for the office door. She'd almost made it, her fingers just closing around the knob for the second time when his voice stopped her once more.
"Oh, and Miss Summers?"
Buffy stopped, hand gripping the knob and turning her eyes up to the ceiling before glancing, for the third and hopefully final time, over her shoulder at the man she'd imagined would be her mentor and imagining that particular dream fluttering on little butterfly wings out the window.
He glanced up, just the hint of a smirk on his lips. "I expect that finished manuscript on my desk by 2:00pm."