Chapter 3 - Introductions

Buffy was upstairs in her room when she heard the doorbell ring. She inwardly grimaced, but curiosity got the best of her, and she found herself hovering near the top of the stairs in order to get a first look. The idea of not coming out of her room had occurred to her (the idea of not going outside again period had occurred to her), but the last thing she wanted was a stranger witnessing a childish fit. Especially a stranger that she would have to deal with sooner or later.

The doorbell rang a second time, and she saw her father walk across from the dining room, muttering, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Opening the door, Hank wasn’t sure what he was expecting—beyond a vague impression of a secret service person who was always standing next to the President in movies—but what was on his doorstep wasn’t it. With black leather, bleached hair, and yes, a motorcycle parked in the driveway, this guy looked more bad boy than bodyguard. “Eh,” Hank stammered.

“Spike.”

“Yes, ah, Spike, I spoke about you earlier to Mr….?” he said, purposely letting the name slide.

“Wyndam-Pryce.”

“And how do I know you’re actually acquainted with Mr. Pryce?”

“Cause if I wasn’t, she’d already be dead,” Spike said, sick of the testing game and ready to slip one of his own in. “Look mate, I’m easy. I’m not comin’ in unless you say so, and I’m fine with gettin’ back on my bike and headin’ out. Up to you. Of course, I’ll be keepin’ my advance either way.”

The man looked less indecisive at the mention of losing money, and after a few seconds he said, “C’mon in.” He opened the door wider and moved aside for Spike, not noticing that he was wearing a pleased smirk as he crossed the threshold.

Spike set his small duffel bag down. “You got a little extra room in your garage for my bike?”

“It won’t get stolen.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No, but assumin’ someone is watchin’ the house, let’s not advertise. Not that they won’t figure it out sooner or later.”

“Er, right. I’ll open it up.”

Buffy watched as her father went in the direction of the garage and Spike went back outside. And Spike? Was sort of name was that?

She sluggishly made her way down the stairs. The gaudy entryway chandelier had mostly blocked her view, so Buffy figured she might as well suck it up and head down unprepared.

After a moment, she heard them both coming back through the garage, and she paused a few steps from the bottom of the stairway. Her mother came out from the kitchen.

“Well, here he is,” Hank said enthusiastically. “Spike, this is my wife Joyce, and daughter Buffy.”

“Mr. Spike,” Joyce said, holding out her hand.

“Just Spike,” he said, brushing her fingers lightly.

“Oh. Of course. Well, here’s Buffy.” Joyce gestured to the stairs.

Spike turned his gaze to her, and Buffy froze for a split second. He was gorgeous. A definite eleven in the good looks department, once you got past the bleached hair and all the black. Though on second glance, it kind of worked. No, make that really worked. And men were not supposed to have cheekbones like that. It wasn’t fair.

“So this is the girl all the mystery men are after,” he said. And how did she not notice the accent before?

“Yeah, that’s me,” Buffy said dryly. Gorgeous or not, this was the guy who was going to follow her around for what she was sure would be the rest of her natural life. “So you’re gonna protect me?” she asked, crossing her arms. “You’re barely taller than I am.”

“Buffy!” her father snapped. “He’s highly recommended.”

“What, I can’t have doubts? A second ago you wouldn’t even let him in the door.”

“I’ll just put your things in the guest room upstairs, Spike,” her mother said. “Buffy, why don’t you show him the house?”

Buffy would much rather not, but said, “Sure, whatever.”

Spike followed the unenthusiastic girl throughout the luxurious house, sure he was being given the standard tour that middle and upper class America seemed to thrive on. On the ground floor there was the living room, den, office, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, utility room and garage. The second floor had the master bed and bath, her bedroom and bathroom, several guest rooms, an entertainment room, and an exercise room.

She obviously wasn’t pleased with any recent events. Not that he supposed she would be. He’d caught a glimpse of her when he had first come in, a vague girl-shape obscured by the light fixture as she’d stood on the landing. Then she’d sulked on the stairway, with defensive posture and aggressive words. Not that he particularly cared.

“And this,” she said dully, as they ended up downstairs once again, “is the linen closet. I’m sure you need to see it, for you know, security purposes.”

“Not too happy about this, are you?”

“Gee, how can you tell?” She looked down, and then said more softly, “Is it possible to be completely pissed off and beyond terrified at the same time? Because that’s me right now.”

“Cause of this afternoon?”

She nodded and briefly related what had happened. “I thought I was gone, you know?” she finished. “That that was it, even as I was kicking and screaming. But suddenly he just flung me away and they drove off. Maybe he didn’t want to be seen; there were people coming.”

Buffy shrugged, realizing she’d just spoken more than she had since he’d arrived. But she supposed she could be cordial and make the best of the situation. She couldn’t go around in a huff for a week.

“You’re lucky they did sloppy work,” he said.

“Because of the whole broad daylight thing?”

“Partly. But you can nab someone in daylight, if you know what you’re about. Never take anything for granted. They took for granted that you’d be easy, that you wouldn’t fight back. In the one second you did, it threw ’em and they lost their game.”

Buffy raised an eyebrow. “You seem to know a lot about this.”

Spike gave her a good-natured smirk and leaned in conspiratorially. “If it’d been me, I’d have gotten you.”

“Well, thanks for that thought. But they’re not going to make that mistake again, huh?”

“’Fraid not. No worries, though.”

“Why? Because you’re here?”

“So how are we getting on?” Joyce’s voice interrupted them, as she hovered in the hallway. “Did Buffy show you your room?”

“That she did.”

“Are you hungry? We already ate, but I could fix you something. Or something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Well, feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen as long as you’re here.”

Her mother went back down the hall, and Spike turned his attention back to Buffy.

“What now, pet?”

Buffy blinked. The ‘pet’ sort of threw her. “I guess I’ll show you a map of campus, point out where my classes are and stuff. I suppose I’m going to go tomorrow. Not that staying home forever doesn’t sound appealing.” She looked at him for a moment.

“What?”

“Okay, so maybe you’re not a three hundred pound hulking guy—sorry, bodyguard stereotype—but can you maybe look a little less conspicuous?”

“Meanin’?”

“Meaning, it’s gonna be obvious that you’re with me if anyone’s paying attention, but does it have to be obvious obvious why you’re there? Can you lose some of the black? At least wear a coat that’s not floor length. And it’s almost eighty degrees, how can you stand to wear that anyway?”

“No promises on the wardrobe.”

“Not very stealthy, Mr. Bodyguard. C’mon, I’ll print you out a map.”

Buffy sighed to herself. This would still be weird, but maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she’d imagined.