Disclaimers: This isn't mine, and I don't steal. Often.
Feedback: As you can see, it's what keeps me writing. I write for the readers.
Author's Note: Oh, boy! It's the sixteenth installment of 'Musical Chairs'! Aren't your little hearts pounding with anticipation? No? You say that you don't get that excited over stupid fan fiction? Oh, okay, fine then. This chapter has more B/S interaction that we all desire (at least the intelligent people desire) and some surprises. So relax, pull up a chair, and take a gander. But don't slouch, it's bad for your posture.
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He led her to the dance floor, and she couldn't help but notice how cold his hand was against hers. It didn't bother her, however; it wasn't a bad kind of chill.
'Chill of death,' she thought, but brushed it aside. 'It's my birthday, and I should do what I want. Death be damned.'
The slow, melodic tune played softly as couples swayed in time with the music. As he took Buffy into his arms, she couldn't help but appreciate the strength of his muscles.
'God, do I sound like a preening little git, or what?' She blushed heavily at her thought. 'No way did I just use British slang! Too much Spike on the brain, I guess.'
Buffy leaned in closer to him, closing her eyes and resting her head on his shoulder.
'Perfect fit,' she thought, 'I could get used to this.'
She found herself entranced by the rhythm of the music, and closed her eyes in contentment. As soon as Spike pulled away her eyelids snapped open, as she realized the song was over. The band had moved on to a fast dance number reminiscent of swing music. She looked up at him through heavily lidded eyes.
"Song's over, luv," he said, his hands still holding hers.
"I know," she replied, "Just got lost in the moment, I guess."
He shifted his weight back and forth nervously. "So . . ."
"Yeah. I should . . ."
"Yeah." He looked down and, realizing he was still holding onto her hands, dropped them quickly. "Sorry. Guess you kind of need those back."
Buffy rubbed her hands gently, smiling. "Well, I didn't mind them so much where they were." Sighing, she glanced over at the bar. "But I really should be getting back. My friends probably think that I'm dead or something."
She stood on her tiptoes until she could reach Spike's face. Buffy smiled, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight, Spike. Thanks for making this birthday . . . memorable."
He smiled at this, making his way to the bar and picking his duster off of the stool. "Goodnight, pet. And don't mention it."
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Willow picked up a shred of wrapping paper from the table, crumpling it into a small ball. Drawing her hand back, she took aim for the garbage can ten feet from where she was seated. She released the ball, and all three of them watched as it hit the rim and fell on the steadily growing mound of paper at the side.
"I'm bored," Anya whined, looking up at Xander, "And I'm thirsty. Where's my diet Coke?"
Xander rolled his eyes, annoyed. "What, do I look like I'm hiding it somewhere? Buffy's the one getting the drinks. Speaking of which," he added, "where is she, anyway? The bar's not that busy."
Willow sighed, picking apart a bow with her fingers. "I don't know . . . maybe she had to go to the bathroom."
"Yeah, or maybe she decided to get the soda directly from the factory," Xander scoffed. Bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright fluorescent lights of the dance floor, he surveyed the room, but finding no trace of Buffy.
"We haven't been ignoring her, so she couldn't have gone Marcy . . . could she?" Willow asked, her eyes filled with sudden worry.
"I'm sure she's fine, Will," Xander said, in hopes of comforting his distraught friend, "She's probably out getting the drinks as we -"
"I see her!" Anya piped up, pointing out into the crowd of people. "She's dancing."
"Are you sure?" Willow asked, scanning the room. "Would she really just leave us to dance with some cutie?"
"That's Spike!" Xander screeched, his eyes growing wide with disbelief, "She's dancing with Spike!"
"Huh? Huh?!" Willow repeated, having finally spotted her friend on the dance floor, "What - but - she - I - what is she doing?"
"She's dancing," Anya said, rolling her eyes, "I think it's pretty obvious." She stared at the couple on the floor, smiling wistfully. "They look like they're enjoying themselves."
"No! No, no, no, no, no!" Xander said, still shocked, "It's gotta be a spell! Thrall, that's it! She's under his thrall!"
"Does Spike have thrall?" Willow queried.
"Well, obviously! Look at Buffy, having to dance with that peroxide fiend; and on her birthday, even!"
"It doesn't look like she's complaining to me," Anya said, smiling, "Why don't you ever dance with me like that, Xander? It looks like fun."
"Because I'm not evil!" he spat out, scowling, pushing his chair away and standing up, "And I'm going to put a stop to this."
"No need," Anya said, "The song's over. But don't worry, sweetie; I'm sure you can be needlessly heroic some other day."
They watched, stunned, as Buffy pulled away from Spike, smiling coyly, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Xander stood there with his jaw to the floor as Willow looked away, her eyes wide.
"I told they were enjoying themselves."
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Buffy made her way over to the bar and picked up the three soft drinks that were now lukewarm. 'They won't notice,' she thought, balancing the cups in her hands as she walked over to the table she had been occupying. Setting the drinks down on the counter, she glanced up her three friends and stopped in her tracks.
They were all staring at her; Xander, with an expression of horror on his face, Willow, who looked quite confused, and Anya, who was grinning happily.
"Jeez, guys," Buffy said, chuckling nervously, "What happened since I left?"
"Spike!" Xander blurted out, "We saw you dancing with Spike! Why? For the love of God, why?"
Buffy blushed, her cheeks turning a deep crimson. "Well . . . um . . . I did. So what?"
"You and Spike aren't exactly . . . best friends," Willow said.
"It's disgusting!" Xander said, angrily, "It's Spike!"
"Spike is -not- disgusting!" Buffy said, perhaps a little too loudly, and she blushed even harder. "I mean, I had fun, and it's my birthday, and I can do whatever the hell I want. And, God, Xander, we were just -dancing-; it's not like you caught us making out or something."
"Oh, oh God, no!" Xander cried, pressing his hands up against his ears. "That's a visual I really don't need right now!"
"What's your problem, Xander?" Buffy asked, placing her hands on her hips angrily.
"It's just . . .we're worried about you, Buffy. You and Spike aren't normally . . . so friendly. We just want to make sure that nothing's going on and that . . . you know what you're doing," Willow piped in.
"What I'm doing?" Buffy asked incredulously. "I was -dancing-! Don't you think you guys are overreacting just a little? Spike didn't have to put a spell or something on me to just get him to dance with him; he's not that pathetic."
"Oh, I beg to differ," Xander said, shaking his head.
"You know what? I - I can't deal with this right now," Buffy said, grabbing her coat off of her chair and tugging it on. "Until you're willing to talk to me rationally, Xander, I don't . . . I just don't know."
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Spike left the Bronze, sauntering down the alleyway. It had been a great night, he thought, and was glad that he had pushed himself to get out of the crypt. And meeting up with Buffy, dancing . . . it had been a ray of hope in an otherwise bleak two weeks.
'Maybe she really does love me . . .'
"Spike."
Stopping in his tracks, Spike turned to see who had called his voice. He found, however, that he was alone.
"Who's there? Buffy?"
"Spike, come here."
Arching his eyebrow in suspicion, Spike followed the sound of the voice, warily. The person (whoever it was) that was calling to him was in the alley next to the Bronze, and Spike approached it cautiously. 'This is a set up,' his inner voice told him, 'Don't do it, you idiot, don't go in that alley. Just walk away.'
Spike knew, however, that if he ignored the voice that it would bother him for the rest of the night. He had to find out who was calling him. He stepped lightly and carefully as he entered the alleyway, searching in the dark for the person that had been calling to him.
"Who's the-"
The sentence was cut off as Spike was tackled and knocked into the hard cement floor. He groaned, feeling quite stupid, and rolled over to face his opponents. He attempted to lift his legs and get up, but found that several supernaturally strong enemies were pinning him down. Struggling to get free, his eyes widened worriedly as a tire iron was raised over his head. It smashed down on his head; it was the last thing he saw before everything went black.
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To be continued . . .
Feedback: As you can see, it's what keeps me writing. I write for the readers.
Author's Note: Oh, boy! It's the sixteenth installment of 'Musical Chairs'! Aren't your little hearts pounding with anticipation? No? You say that you don't get that excited over stupid fan fiction? Oh, okay, fine then. This chapter has more B/S interaction that we all desire (at least the intelligent people desire) and some surprises. So relax, pull up a chair, and take a gander. But don't slouch, it's bad for your posture.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
He led her to the dance floor, and she couldn't help but notice how cold his hand was against hers. It didn't bother her, however; it wasn't a bad kind of chill.
'Chill of death,' she thought, but brushed it aside. 'It's my birthday, and I should do what I want. Death be damned.'
The slow, melodic tune played softly as couples swayed in time with the music. As he took Buffy into his arms, she couldn't help but appreciate the strength of his muscles.
'God, do I sound like a preening little git, or what?' She blushed heavily at her thought. 'No way did I just use British slang! Too much Spike on the brain, I guess.'
Buffy leaned in closer to him, closing her eyes and resting her head on his shoulder.
'Perfect fit,' she thought, 'I could get used to this.'
She found herself entranced by the rhythm of the music, and closed her eyes in contentment. As soon as Spike pulled away her eyelids snapped open, as she realized the song was over. The band had moved on to a fast dance number reminiscent of swing music. She looked up at him through heavily lidded eyes.
"Song's over, luv," he said, his hands still holding hers.
"I know," she replied, "Just got lost in the moment, I guess."
He shifted his weight back and forth nervously. "So . . ."
"Yeah. I should . . ."
"Yeah." He looked down and, realizing he was still holding onto her hands, dropped them quickly. "Sorry. Guess you kind of need those back."
Buffy rubbed her hands gently, smiling. "Well, I didn't mind them so much where they were." Sighing, she glanced over at the bar. "But I really should be getting back. My friends probably think that I'm dead or something."
She stood on her tiptoes until she could reach Spike's face. Buffy smiled, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight, Spike. Thanks for making this birthday . . . memorable."
He smiled at this, making his way to the bar and picking his duster off of the stool. "Goodnight, pet. And don't mention it."
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Willow picked up a shred of wrapping paper from the table, crumpling it into a small ball. Drawing her hand back, she took aim for the garbage can ten feet from where she was seated. She released the ball, and all three of them watched as it hit the rim and fell on the steadily growing mound of paper at the side.
"I'm bored," Anya whined, looking up at Xander, "And I'm thirsty. Where's my diet Coke?"
Xander rolled his eyes, annoyed. "What, do I look like I'm hiding it somewhere? Buffy's the one getting the drinks. Speaking of which," he added, "where is she, anyway? The bar's not that busy."
Willow sighed, picking apart a bow with her fingers. "I don't know . . . maybe she had to go to the bathroom."
"Yeah, or maybe she decided to get the soda directly from the factory," Xander scoffed. Bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright fluorescent lights of the dance floor, he surveyed the room, but finding no trace of Buffy.
"We haven't been ignoring her, so she couldn't have gone Marcy . . . could she?" Willow asked, her eyes filled with sudden worry.
"I'm sure she's fine, Will," Xander said, in hopes of comforting his distraught friend, "She's probably out getting the drinks as we -"
"I see her!" Anya piped up, pointing out into the crowd of people. "She's dancing."
"Are you sure?" Willow asked, scanning the room. "Would she really just leave us to dance with some cutie?"
"That's Spike!" Xander screeched, his eyes growing wide with disbelief, "She's dancing with Spike!"
"Huh? Huh?!" Willow repeated, having finally spotted her friend on the dance floor, "What - but - she - I - what is she doing?"
"She's dancing," Anya said, rolling her eyes, "I think it's pretty obvious." She stared at the couple on the floor, smiling wistfully. "They look like they're enjoying themselves."
"No! No, no, no, no, no!" Xander said, still shocked, "It's gotta be a spell! Thrall, that's it! She's under his thrall!"
"Does Spike have thrall?" Willow queried.
"Well, obviously! Look at Buffy, having to dance with that peroxide fiend; and on her birthday, even!"
"It doesn't look like she's complaining to me," Anya said, smiling, "Why don't you ever dance with me like that, Xander? It looks like fun."
"Because I'm not evil!" he spat out, scowling, pushing his chair away and standing up, "And I'm going to put a stop to this."
"No need," Anya said, "The song's over. But don't worry, sweetie; I'm sure you can be needlessly heroic some other day."
They watched, stunned, as Buffy pulled away from Spike, smiling coyly, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Xander stood there with his jaw to the floor as Willow looked away, her eyes wide.
"I told they were enjoying themselves."
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Buffy made her way over to the bar and picked up the three soft drinks that were now lukewarm. 'They won't notice,' she thought, balancing the cups in her hands as she walked over to the table she had been occupying. Setting the drinks down on the counter, she glanced up her three friends and stopped in her tracks.
They were all staring at her; Xander, with an expression of horror on his face, Willow, who looked quite confused, and Anya, who was grinning happily.
"Jeez, guys," Buffy said, chuckling nervously, "What happened since I left?"
"Spike!" Xander blurted out, "We saw you dancing with Spike! Why? For the love of God, why?"
Buffy blushed, her cheeks turning a deep crimson. "Well . . . um . . . I did. So what?"
"You and Spike aren't exactly . . . best friends," Willow said.
"It's disgusting!" Xander said, angrily, "It's Spike!"
"Spike is -not- disgusting!" Buffy said, perhaps a little too loudly, and she blushed even harder. "I mean, I had fun, and it's my birthday, and I can do whatever the hell I want. And, God, Xander, we were just -dancing-; it's not like you caught us making out or something."
"Oh, oh God, no!" Xander cried, pressing his hands up against his ears. "That's a visual I really don't need right now!"
"What's your problem, Xander?" Buffy asked, placing her hands on her hips angrily.
"It's just . . .we're worried about you, Buffy. You and Spike aren't normally . . . so friendly. We just want to make sure that nothing's going on and that . . . you know what you're doing," Willow piped in.
"What I'm doing?" Buffy asked incredulously. "I was -dancing-! Don't you think you guys are overreacting just a little? Spike didn't have to put a spell or something on me to just get him to dance with him; he's not that pathetic."
"Oh, I beg to differ," Xander said, shaking his head.
"You know what? I - I can't deal with this right now," Buffy said, grabbing her coat off of her chair and tugging it on. "Until you're willing to talk to me rationally, Xander, I don't . . . I just don't know."
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Spike left the Bronze, sauntering down the alleyway. It had been a great night, he thought, and was glad that he had pushed himself to get out of the crypt. And meeting up with Buffy, dancing . . . it had been a ray of hope in an otherwise bleak two weeks.
'Maybe she really does love me . . .'
"Spike."
Stopping in his tracks, Spike turned to see who had called his voice. He found, however, that he was alone.
"Who's there? Buffy?"
"Spike, come here."
Arching his eyebrow in suspicion, Spike followed the sound of the voice, warily. The person (whoever it was) that was calling to him was in the alley next to the Bronze, and Spike approached it cautiously. 'This is a set up,' his inner voice told him, 'Don't do it, you idiot, don't go in that alley. Just walk away.'
Spike knew, however, that if he ignored the voice that it would bother him for the rest of the night. He had to find out who was calling him. He stepped lightly and carefully as he entered the alleyway, searching in the dark for the person that had been calling to him.
"Who's the-"
The sentence was cut off as Spike was tackled and knocked into the hard cement floor. He groaned, feeling quite stupid, and rolled over to face his opponents. He attempted to lift his legs and get up, but found that several supernaturally strong enemies were pinning him down. Struggling to get free, his eyes widened worriedly as a tire iron was raised over his head. It smashed down on his head; it was the last thing he saw before everything went black.
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To be continued . . .