Originally written for a prompt spotted on thebunnypen(dot)livejournal(dot)com: 'Spike, in the 70s'
Disclaimer: BtVS and its respective characters are property of Joss Whedon.
Life's a ball this side of Manhattan, where the neon strip signs gleam off the tinted windows of passing Cadillacs and glittery heels worn by the night's prey. The Apple had grown ripe with the influx of young women looking to further their careers, trying to get away from one-road towns and dreams in Iowa, Kentucky, Delaware. They work hard, party loud, sometimes the ride catches up with them and they get careless.
By the time Spike steps out of the synthetic buzz of the streetlights dotting Queens and climbs down into the hum of the nearest subway tunnel, his blood rings merry with a ballad from his long-past salad days. She must have been Scotch, from the beer coating her tongue to the last breath of 'Auld Lang Syne' slurred through her teeth before his had sunk into her tempting white neck. To her credit, she'd been a fun one, all batting eyelashes and lip wetting, hinting at cunninlingual prospects back at her flat two blocks away. He'd always had a soft spot for the wordy ones.
He is sated for the moment, though he doesn't count on it carrying him through his little sojourn. Dru had ventured further down to Brooklyn earlier, on the arm of a delighted young waiter from the hole-in-the-wall Italian they'd ordered cappuccinos from. She said she'd meet him later, maybe Ellis Island now that it's tourist season. Always the hospitable type, Dru was.
Down in the subway, Spike doesn't waste much time worrying about Druscilla. He's already scanning the almost deserted tube for signs: a suspicious gaze affixed his way, the bulge under a trench-coat where a sharpened stake lay ready. He and Dru had taken to the Empire State the night before, leafing through brochures and taking stabs at where the lucky girl could possibly be. They'd narrowed it to downtown; Chosen Ones never strayed too far from their enemy's hunting grounds. They'd been warned that New York girls were the scrappy type, always a can of mace stashed down a bra or waist-band.
So far, New York's finest have amounted to something of a joke. It helped that punk rock was picking up the pace on the local scene. Ladies loved a man in black and bleached blond with no visible roots.
No roots. He quirks a smile to himself at the notions those two words conjure, even when they verge on the poetic. He doesn't write as much as he used to and so far, he's steered clear of NY's famed underground beat scene. Close to a century's worth of broken bodies before his eyes have rubbed off the sheen words could once produce. Nowadays – nights – if he can't voice it, he'd do it, fucking hard and leave 'em with a mark deeper than a verse to remember him by.
He can hear the train rumbling closer, so he whips out the cash to pay for a pass. The puffy-faced black woman at the ticket-counter short-changes him by a dollar fifty, but he lets this one slide and wonders when was the last time she'd been done, the poor pathetic lump.
His reflection appears clear as light on the glass of the arriving train, bright-eyed and poised, maybe a bit befuddled if he settles his grin just right. Your typical American photo-still of an Englishman in New York.
The doors to the compartments open with a hiss and he saunters in with all the class of roguish tramp fresh from his latest conquest. As he watches the other lone passenger cross her legs with an answering smile, the tune in his blood rings louder. However, playing it cool's the way he's made it this far, over this many years and through many, many hurdles…
So he returns her smile politely, "Evenin'."
The corners of her mouth almost reach her lips. "You're English."
"Well observed. And you're lonely."
The lady – they're always ladies in New York – momentarily loosens her grip on her purse, just so she can flick some of her golden mane over her shoulder, then tuck it behind an ear. Her nails are painted red, like a Corvette on a flashy billboard, and she flexes them like talons. The skin on her palms looks soft and peachy from where he sits; he reckons she ventures rarely into this part of town, unless it's on her way to a cheap Asian nail parlor that offer customized acrylic zebra prints at ninety cents a finger. Insurance for dodgy fungi not covered, of course.
He'd considered himself done for tonight after the lassie at the bar, but there's something about her that begs to be touched.
Teased.
Torn apart.
Split wide open.
"It's a lovely night," he helps the conversation along, playing on the attention someone like would crave.
She gives him that token bemused look, lips pressed together and eyes honed straight at him. "Sure thing, if you've just stepped inta this place."
"I have just, actually. New York's lovely. Lovely people, food. Just lovely."
"Hm," she chuckles, though he can tell she likes the way the words slip off his tongue. "Well, keep those rose-colored glasses on, honey, and you might be in for a good time."
"Already am, m'dear." He threw in the wink for good measure, before extending his hand to her. "William."
"Wanda."
"William, Wanda, well. Now isn't that funny? Where are you heading for, Wanda?"
"Wards Island." she giggled. "Coincidence?"
"I'm a man of little faith, but let's call it that for now," Without a second to lose, he snakes an arm round her pudgy shoulders. "Shall we?"
She doesn't shiver.
"Looks like it's your lucky day, Will. I just kicked my Joe out for screwing the landlady on my kitchen table."
The train rolls along, leaving the tunnel for the smoky air and white lights of the city below the tracks. He presses his hand into the soft flesh of her arm, enjoying the sudden catch in her breath when he bares his teeth.
"It certainly is, sweetheart."