Buffy the Vampire Slayer Preferences + imagines/one shots

Spike - Poetry

1879, London

I know I ought to be grateful for the family I was born into. A disciplinary mother, a wealthy father, honourable brothers and sisters who I should look up to. But still, I can't help wondering what it would be like to be a maid. Like the one who tied my corset yesterday (they come and go so quickly, but I remember her pretty round face and forest-green eyes). As a maid, my quietness would be praised, my solitude encouraged. 

"I'll only be gone for a minute. Try and talk to someone, will you?" 

Here, today, the fantasy stays a fantasy as I lean against the window in this stuffy room, restraining myself from jumping into the pond outside. I watch my brother saunter away, and before he can even reach the woman he wishes to speak to, two others latch onto him like leeches. 

This room is just like all the others. Lace curtains, shiny hardwood furniture, framed pictures of hills or dogs or children or horses. All the people are the same too. Except... There's a man sitting in the corner. He's the only young bachelor who doesn't have a gaggle of girls giggling around him, trying desperately to win his praise. Although it should probably blare as a warning, it intrigues me. Again, unlike the others in the room, he has a pen instead of a drink in his hand. 

"Hor d'oeuvre?" 

I blink up at the young woman offering me a platter of salty-smelling tarts and meats. I smile at her, and load about seven onto my plate. She gives me a peculiar look before forcing a smile and disappearing into the crowd. 

I stuff three into my mouth and chew them down nervously. 

The man across the room looks up, catches my eye, stares for a second, and gets back to writing. 

I take that as my sign to go over. 

I weave my way through the bodies, sweat pricking on my skin at the mere thought of talking to someone new. As I get closer, I can see bright blue eyes behind those rounded glasses and he subtlety shakes his head to get his mousy curls out of his eyes as he continues to write. 

I take a deep breath, "Hor d'oeuvre?" I ask, holding out my plate, deciding that I definitely took too many. 

"My answer hasn't changed since you asked me a minute ago, Kathleen." his voice is cheerful, youthful, kind. "I'll reward myself with salmon when I've finished this verse." he licks the nib of his pen before scribbling out the last line he wrote. He's so focused, he hasn't even looked up. "This would be so much easier if I had a muse, I dare say. How can one write a sonnet when there is no soul that..." 

He shuts up spectacularly quickly when he looks up and doesn't see Kathleen the waitress in front of him. 

"Good heavens, my apologies. I thought you were..." he coughs violently, his face turning red. After a second of nervous hesitation, I sit next to him and pat him on the back. He composes himself after a few more coughs but the colour doesn't fade from his face. 

"I'm sorry for startling you... I'm Y/N. I only wondered if you'd like one of my hor d'oeuvres as I took too many."

He smiles and I feel tingly, all up my arms. "I'd love one, Y/N." 

He takes one and carefully puts it in his mouth, taking his time with it. I presume it's to avoid another coughing fit. When he's done, he introduces himself, "I'm William. William Pratt. My mother owns the estate opposite the -"

"Oh, I know the one." I interrupt, before flushing. I know it's rude to interrupt - especially a man of William's status, but he only smiles and nods at me, all charming white teeth and sincerity I don't see often in upper-class men. Still, I feel embarrassed as I mumble, "It's a beautiful house."