'Twenty-Two to Tango' by Quinara (PG)
Inspired by bogwitch's Barbie Buffy and Spike, I bring you ~800 words of PG, AO3-warning-free S7 fluff. Why doesn't Spike have any food, I ask? Why does he look so glum and Buffy so manic? Why the silver streamer? Not to give away all our modly secrets, but I must thank bogwitch for being my beta as well my inspiration.
There are good reasons why no one talks about Buffy’s twenty-second birthday. For a start, no one can quite agree on what actually happened.
Twenty-Two to Tango.
“Come on, Spike,” Buffy encouraged, far too winningly. “You know you want to…”
“All right, that’s it,” he snapped, plucking the half-drunk glass of punch from her hand. The stuff looked suspicious - and that tone of voice was enough. “I’m cutting you off.”
The somewhat dangerous, definitely drunk grin Buffy was sporting all too quickly turned into a scowl. It rather set off the tuft of silver streamer in her hair. “Cutting me off?” she exclaimed, the party music taken as more than an excuse for her to shout, even though they were in the kitchen and it wasn’t nearly so loud out this way. “You can’t cut me off!” And now her eyes were narrowing; brilliant. Her empty hand became a pointing finger, stabbing him in the chest, just about clear of his wounds. “You’re not even meant to be here.” Stab. “You said you couldn’t come.”
Drawing on the last reserves of his soul’s patience, Spike sighed. It was true, he had said that it was probably better he spent Buffy’s impromptu birthday party downstairs - but that was on account of the recently broken ribs and his terrible, highly reasonable fear of Anya breaking out the board games. Not to mention - “Well, who was it who said she wanted to explain me to the potentials, hmm? Lay the groundwork so they didn’t get ‘confused’?”
Buffy pouted, sulking. “That was a dumb idea.”
Behind her, Spike could just make out an equally jolly Xander attempting to rally a conga line from some very sceptical teenagers. “Evidently,” he agreed. The thing was, if he’d known the Scoobies had been on for a right-old proper piss up, he might have got upstairs in time to send them in the right direction, before Buffy had been allowed to put on her screechy-girly pop anthems with their mind-numbing, bopping base lines. As it was, he was stone sober and put off his snooze, with no hope for anything apart from perhaps their last scraps of dignity. “Look,” he tried again, dumping the drink on the kitchen table, turning back to an incorrigibly inebriated Buffy. “I know you’re feeling stressed and all, but this is going a bit far, don’t you think?” ‘Course, it probably wasn’t her who’d got this party going, poor anxious girl she was, not quite hidden behind the artificial merriment. Still, no time to think about that now. “Four horsemen of the apocalypse could be outside your door and you’d be asking them in for crudités.”
“But…” She frowned, coming to a pause. Her hand, still in the air from the pointing, came to rest on his chest as she pondered - but he ignored that. That and the rather perfect burn it caused in his broken bones, he was ignoring that entirely. At least until she asked, “But don’t you think Famine would need the sustenance?”
She said it with a grin, front teeth edging out beneath her lip, and something about that, the mixed pain and pleasure he was feeling, not to mention his rather tasteless appreciation of her dodgy humour, it made him laugh.
Unfortunately, that very quickly only left him with hurt, chuckle collapsed into a pained hiss. “Buffy…” he warned.
She relented then, dragging her fingers from the two inches of sternum which immediately felt the loss. “You’re no fun,” she declared, backing away.
One look at her sobering, disappointed expression, however, and that was it. Anya had played the same game with him when she’d been searching his private cupboard for clues that time, but, well, Anya wasn’t Buffy. “Oh, fuck it,” he said. He might have a soul now, but since when had he become this brooding bloody killjoy? “You want a dance, I’ll give you one.” If that was what his Slayer wanted, who was he to deny her, really?
As Buffy’s face brightened again, now more warm rising sun than white lightning, his mind supplied the exact fantasy he wanted to follow: he’d resurrect his old tango moves, glide against her in a step and palm the small of her back to slam her stomach dangerously low against his. She’d bite her lip at the scandal, but then feel up his arms for a sweeping spin across the tiles. Dance, dance, dance, and then a snog over by the breadbin.
As it was, however, Buffy was smashed - and the most his upper body could really cope with was talking, as had just been proved. So fantasy dissolved and Spike took her hands in his, moving his shoulders with the rhythm while she bounced along to the enchanting strains of P!nk.
He had a vague memory of dancing with Dawn like this once, but, as Buffy sent him for a dignity-destroying twirl, he didn’t care. She was enjoying herself; the rest of the world could go hang.
And if he had a few drinks himself, such that later he let this become a bit of waltzing on the veranda - well, no one needed to know.
.
This prompted:
There are good reasons why no one talks about Buffy’s twenty-second birthday. For a start, no one can quite agree on what actually happened.
Twenty-Two to Tango.
“Come on, Spike,” Buffy encouraged, far too winningly. “You know you want to…”
“All right, that’s it,” he snapped, plucking the half-drunk glass of punch from her hand. The stuff looked suspicious - and that tone of voice was enough. “I’m cutting you off.”
The somewhat dangerous, definitely drunk grin Buffy was sporting all too quickly turned into a scowl. It rather set off the tuft of silver streamer in her hair. “Cutting me off?” she exclaimed, the party music taken as more than an excuse for her to shout, even though they were in the kitchen and it wasn’t nearly so loud out this way. “You can’t cut me off!” And now her eyes were narrowing; brilliant. Her empty hand became a pointing finger, stabbing him in the chest, just about clear of his wounds. “You’re not even meant to be here.” Stab. “You said you couldn’t come.”
Drawing on the last reserves of his soul’s patience, Spike sighed. It was true, he had said that it was probably better he spent Buffy’s impromptu birthday party downstairs - but that was on account of the recently broken ribs and his terrible, highly reasonable fear of Anya breaking out the board games. Not to mention - “Well, who was it who said she wanted to explain me to the potentials, hmm? Lay the groundwork so they didn’t get ‘confused’?”
Buffy pouted, sulking. “That was a dumb idea.”
Behind her, Spike could just make out an equally jolly Xander attempting to rally a conga line from some very sceptical teenagers. “Evidently,” he agreed. The thing was, if he’d known the Scoobies had been on for a right-old proper piss up, he might have got upstairs in time to send them in the right direction, before Buffy had been allowed to put on her screechy-girly pop anthems with their mind-numbing, bopping base lines. As it was, he was stone sober and put off his snooze, with no hope for anything apart from perhaps their last scraps of dignity. “Look,” he tried again, dumping the drink on the kitchen table, turning back to an incorrigibly inebriated Buffy. “I know you’re feeling stressed and all, but this is going a bit far, don’t you think?” ‘Course, it probably wasn’t her who’d got this party going, poor anxious girl she was, not quite hidden behind the artificial merriment. Still, no time to think about that now. “Four horsemen of the apocalypse could be outside your door and you’d be asking them in for crudités.”
“But…” She frowned, coming to a pause. Her hand, still in the air from the pointing, came to rest on his chest as she pondered - but he ignored that. That and the rather perfect burn it caused in his broken bones, he was ignoring that entirely. At least until she asked, “But don’t you think Famine would need the sustenance?”
She said it with a grin, front teeth edging out beneath her lip, and something about that, the mixed pain and pleasure he was feeling, not to mention his rather tasteless appreciation of her dodgy humour, it made him laugh.
Unfortunately, that very quickly only left him with hurt, chuckle collapsed into a pained hiss. “Buffy…” he warned.
She relented then, dragging her fingers from the two inches of sternum which immediately felt the loss. “You’re no fun,” she declared, backing away.
One look at her sobering, disappointed expression, however, and that was it. Anya had played the same game with him when she’d been searching his private cupboard for clues that time, but, well, Anya wasn’t Buffy. “Oh, fuck it,” he said. He might have a soul now, but since when had he become this brooding bloody killjoy? “You want a dance, I’ll give you one.” If that was what his Slayer wanted, who was he to deny her, really?
As Buffy’s face brightened again, now more warm rising sun than white lightning, his mind supplied the exact fantasy he wanted to follow: he’d resurrect his old tango moves, glide against her in a step and palm the small of her back to slam her stomach dangerously low against his. She’d bite her lip at the scandal, but then feel up his arms for a sweeping spin across the tiles. Dance, dance, dance, and then a snog over by the breadbin.
As it was, however, Buffy was smashed - and the most his upper body could really cope with was talking, as had just been proved. So fantasy dissolved and Spike took her hands in his, moving his shoulders with the rhythm while she bounced along to the enchanting strains of P!nk.
He had a vague memory of dancing with Dawn like this once, but, as Buffy sent him for a dignity-destroying twirl, he didn’t care. She was enjoying herself; the rest of the world could go hang.
And if he had a few drinks himself, such that later he let this become a bit of waltzing on the veranda - well, no one needed to know.
.
This prompted:
- Art from alwaysjbj: The Dance Begins
- Fic from snowpuppies: Knowing (unknown)
- Fic from shapinglight: The Apocalypse Has Been Postponed
- Fic from readerjane: Love, Mom