To say they cleaned up would be an understatement.

They played for maybe an hour, mostly sticking to each other's sides as they ducked and weaved and worked their way through the arena. It didn't take long for the other players to figure out that they were hunting as a team, despite their opposing colors, and there was no better word for it than hunting. It was easy in a way she never expected it to be, matching each other step for step, chests rising and falling in tandem even though only one of them needed to breath. At one point she'd followed his lead and rolled down the length of a cargo net, dropping to the bottom only to find themselves in the middle of a set-up. They'd immediately jumped to their feet, slammed together back to back with a gentle whump, pressed close from shoulders to hips, and it wasn't weird or strange or uncomfortable at all.

It felt ok, having him there.

No nervousness or second guessing.

It was ok.

And then they had leapt and twisted and dodged the colored lasers surrounding them until they had fought their way out of the circle of their enemies, Spike tossing her his gun before taking her foot in the cradle of his hands and lifting her over his head onto the safety of a high wall. She'd dropped their lasers and turned back to help him, reaching down to lock their wrists together and haul him up, and for just a second she found herself face to face with him, just inches separating their mouths and she froze, watching his lips curl in a wicked grin that just showed the sharp edges of his fangs. She dropped his hand faster than she might drop one of the sludge slugs that lived under the manhole covers in town, turned away to pick up her gun, still able to see him slip a bit back down the wall before he laughed and swung himself the rest of the way over.

"Ready for another drink Slayer?" he asked, watching her carefully as she gazed over the edge of the wall at the other demons slowly fading away into the dark again between swirls and stripes of paint. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as she panted, her heart pounding harder than the physical exertion could account for, and she had to tear her eyes away from the small smirk he wore when she glanced in his direction.

"Yeah," she muttered, wetting her lips. "Yeah that… that'd be good."

"Right."

The word was slow in coming, drawn out and uncertain, and it was disconcerting, but she followed him anyway, back towards the hidden door they'd first come through. When they got there they thunked their guns down on the counter, stripped out of their chest harnesses, and were directed to the screen hanging above the racks where a running score of the points collected were being broadcasted on a rolling till. Buffy's gun had been numbered 44, Spike's 17, and she was happy to see that they both held the high score amongst their respective teams. Spike spared a few words for the demon behind the counter, coming back with a colorful printout with their scores listed neatly down the side, numbering all the hits she'd made and received with her laser.

"Not too bad Slayer," he grinned, reading over her shoulder.

Buffy cocked an eyebrow in his direction.

"Oh really?" she smirked, holding out a hand. "Let's see yours then, Mr. Sharpshooter."

She hadn't thought that Spike could look coquettish till that moment. A tiny smile tried to tip at one side of his mouth but he was looking carefully away, a softer version of the more salacious teasing she often saw on his face. He wasn't meeting her eyes as he tried to tuck a folded piece of paper surreptitiously into the back pocket of his jeans, but he wasn't quite sneaky enough.

"Hey!" she cried, lunging forward, her arms slinging around his waist as they both turned in tandem. He was laughing as he spun, not putting a ton of effort into keeping the print out from her, and it wasn't until she had her hand slipped tight into his pocket, practically groping him, that she realized that might be exactly why he wasn't. Her cheeks flared but she covered pretty well, jerking the paper out and snapping it open with flare as she turned her back on him, eyes quickly scanning the numbers.

"Hah!" she declared, half to cover, half in real pride. "Fifty-seven hits to fifty-four." Spike was rolling his eyes so she wasn't sure if he'd seen her smug smile. "And… you got hit seven more times than me!"

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered with a grin as he snatched the paper back. "But I took three of those seven for you, so…"

Buffy tsked as she walked towards the stairs that led back up to the main floor of the club. "Excuses, excuses," she sing-songed. "I win, you lose."

Something jolted in her stomach as she saw a shadow flit over his face as the gold bled from his eyes, the darkness of the arena lifting as the lights and pounding musical beat of the dance floor got brighter and louder until it was thrumming up through their feet. She frowned, thinking back over her words as she made her way towards the second stairwell to the bar, wondering what had darkened his features for that fleeting second.

I win. You lose.

Oh.

The bet. Right.

Crap.

She didn't know how to do this, didn't know how to fix what was happening.

She stopped at the base of the stairs, one foot on the first runner, so abrupt that he knocked into her, his hands coming to her hips to steady himself before he let go just as quickly, like he'd been burned. She half-turned towards him and she could see the apology on his tongue as his lips parted to let the words out, but she didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to hear. So instead she reached out and circled her fingers lightly around his wrist, tugged until he was following her up the steps again.

"Buy me another drink!" she demanded sweetly. "My prize!"

He smiled then, and even though it looked a little forced she took it as another win. He led her to a table and pulled out a stool which she accepted with some quiet dignity and grace instead of the awkward hesitation from earlier. If his fingers lingered on the back of her chair, she didn't point it out. She felt a weight settle on her shoulders as he left her for the bar and she heaved a sigh, dropping her head down onto the table.

What was she going to do? This wasn't… it wasn't going the way it was supposed to, wasn't terrible… The whole point behind this was to get rid of a problem, and she felt like she was making more. Way more. Like, problems ten times worse than the ones she had now. How was she going to...

Buffy shot upright again as she felt Spike approach the table, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she cleared the emotion from her face. Apparently not quickly enough though, because he frowned as he slid another set of three Throttle shots in front of her. He was opening his mouth again, to ask her what was wrong, if she was ok, to say words that would make it that much worse, and so she choose to cut him off, shooting all three of the little blue shots in quick succession, the sweet, fruity bubbles exploding in her mouth and filling up her head with fireworks of color. Spike's eyebrows had shot up towards his hairline, huffing out an impressed sort of laugh that she didn't really hear above the pop and hiss of sparklers in her ears.

"I wanna dance!" she shouted above a sudden burst of guitar as a new song clicked on over the speakers. "Come on!"

She convinced herself that it was the spin of the drinks that did it, encouraged her to reach out and grab his wrist a second time, his skin smooth and soft and cool under her fingers and she pushed away the idea of pressing her lips there, just tugged him up out of his seat before swaying towards the stairs.

"Woah! Alrigh' then. We're… yeah."

With his free hand Spike tossed back his last shot, dropping the glass down onto the last table along the balcony in front of another couple, moist looking yellow demons who gurgled in his direction. Reassured that he was following hot on her heels, she bounced down the stairs and pushed quickly to the center of the dance floor, just in time for a hard, pulsing, opening beat. Throwing her arms out to her sides, she shook off her reservations like rainwater and began to dance.

And wow.

It had to be the drinks, had to be the dampening spell that hummed over her skin like static, because she wasn't sure she'd ever felt like this before. She felt wonderfully, terribly alive, her nerves singing as the music thrummed through her, her body moving and swaying to the rhythm. She could feel her heartbeat pounding in her fingertips, in her chest and her throat and it was amazing. She felt like she was shining, glowing under the club lights and the vivid paint and she thought that maybe the others could see it, feel it too, because it seemed like they were all moving together, perfect synchronicity in matched pulses and mirrored movements. She could feel Spike behind her, even with her head thrown back and her eyes closed, could feel the looming presence of a Master vampire burning into her, a flush of heat on the back of her neck that trailed down her spine. And she felt a smile curve her lips.

Damn.

This was what power felt like.

It was something she knew, something she was used to, but this…

This was more.

As weird and messed up and unbelievable as it was, she had caught the attention of a Master Vampire, of William the frickin' Bloody, and that was… ridiculous and incredible and just plain stupid.

But it felt amazing.

So it was the drink.

Fine.

And it wasn't a real date, it was a bet that she still had every intention of winning, but he wasn't with her, just keeping a careful distance between them as he stared from the edge of the dance floor, stalking her. She could feel his eyes and suddenly she was jerked back in time, to that first night she'd met him, when she was dancing her heart out at the Bronze. She felt the same as she had that night, and altogether different, throwing everything she had into the dance, older and stronger and maybe a little smarter, but still radiant. She turned a quick circle on her heel as a new song began to play, staring at him between the strobes and the colored lights, meeting navy irises edged in gold as she gestured smoothly with one hand, drawing him onto the dance floor. Her heart pounded in her chest as he took one step onto the raised floor, heavy black boots spattered with fluorescent pink paint, and she thought that in that moment he looked more the predator than she'd ever seen him. His eyes burned and his teeth were only just sharper than they should've been beneath the wicked curve of his grin, and damn if he wasn't leading with his shoulders, the muscles in his arms and chest strong and taut beneath the tightness of his t-shirt.

Licking her lips, Buffy turned away, broke the stare and toppled back into the hard beat of the music. She felt every step he took in the pulse at her wrists, felt him stop behind her

He wasn't touching her.

He wasn't even close.

Which was weird when you thought about it, because he was fine being in her personal space while they were playing laser tag. Pressed back to back, or side to side, locking wrists or elbows to propel each other forward or swing each other out of the way.

But then, Spike was battleborn wasn't he, forged in blood and war once life had changed, just like her. The fight was the dance, and suddenly she just wanted to know if he danced the same way he fought, all power and shadow and perfect control. Jerking the tie from her ponytail she shook out her heavy wave of blonde hair, ran her hands up through the fall of it until he was drawn into the circle of her space, inexplicably pulled by the sudden lure of her that she couldn't stop or reel in, and then he was finally close, and she reached back and looped her arms around his neck, pulling him in close so that they were plastered front to back, and then the dance was more.

He'd buried his face in the curve of her neck and she could feel him breathing against the side of her throat, dragging the scent of her into his lungs, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She didn't think that was the cause of the goose bumps breaking out over her forearms. She was intensely more aware of the hands at her waist, the long, pale fingers curving tight around her hips and pulling her back so that they were pressed even more closely together, a fast hard grind that whipped them along the floor along with the music. She almost couldn't breathe with the heat of it, could only move, sway to the beat and feel him sway along with her, moving in tandem the same way they had before, the same way they did when they fought, whether it was together or one on one.

The music changed again and Spike grabbed her hand, spun her around and out and she laughed, loud and sweet and full as she reached the end of his arm, their fingers tangled together and lingering until she pulled away. Beginning a rollicking bouncy swing of her own, she grinned and laughed as he followed suit, executing a perfectly terrible white boy step that she suspected was choreographed just for her enjoyment before he began to mirror her, a challenge burning in his gaze as though he were daring her to do her worst. Buffy smirked, totally up for a dare, but then her eyes narrowed and she went stock still.

Curiosity flickered over Spike's face as he cocked an eyebrow, aimed a grin in her direction, but then the dark-skinned vampire who'd slipped in behind him, dancing way too close, slipped a hand around his waist, ran lacquered fingernails up his chest as she leaned in to purr in his ear. Spike jumped and Buffy wondered just how deep he'd been into their dance if some fledge had gotten the drop on him, but then he twisted round on his heel and the scandalous curve of the vamp's ruby painted lips disappeared as her golden eyes dropped to his chest and went as wide as dinner plates.

"Oh, shit," she stammered, her gaze meeting Buffy's as she took two measure steps away from Spike. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize…"

Spike looked nervously between her and the vampire, licked his lips.

" 'Sall right pet," he murmured gently, and she wasn't sure who he was trying to placate, because suddenly something was wrong and all her trepidation came flooding back with a hot wave of anger. "It's not…"

But the vampire was still backing away, fear rolling off of her so hard that all the other demons in a twelve foot radius around them had been brought to a standstill, their eyes sharp with wariness as they edged carefully back from the Slayer whose hands were fisted at her sides.

"I'm so sorry miss," she whimpered in Buffy's direction. "I didn't know… I mean, we didn't realize that you'd…"

Her eyes were flashing between the natural, dark beauty of her human face and the glaring, sharp gold of her demonic one, darting between Buffy and the bright, hot pink handprints that marked Spike's chest, swallowing hard as she realized…

Realized what?

That she'd marked Spike as though she…

Ho. Ly. Shhhhh…

If looks could've killed, she'd have incinerated every living, or non-living, thing within a mile.

But one in particular.

One blonde-haired, blue-eyed Master vamp who suddenly looked small and panicked without the heavy leather duster that normally graced his shoulders, swept around his ankles.

Blinking back the heat stinging the corners of her eyes, Buffy shook her head in disappointment and disbelief before turning on her heel and marching out of the club, demons parting before her like the Red Sea.

Sorry for the intensely late update. Seriously. I suck, I know. But after all the amazing reviews, I decided I wanted to re-write the end of this story, and, well, real life has been an absolute BEAST. But that's over now, and here we are. I really, really hope you enjoy!