First Dance Misconceptions

~Blame the rain

Blame the television

Blame the everything~



The music has me gyrating like popping fire, flinging my curls madly about, swiveling my hips suggestively, bopping like no tomorrow, like this is the very last day of Buffy Anne Summers' life. Is this what the dying do before they reach that bright light or dark tunnel? Do they do things to the extreme, with such passion, and unimaginable drive?



~But it won't send my problems away

I unleashed my morals they're all astray~



Well, I am dying in proverbial terms. I'm escaping out of old dead, flaking skin, to show to the world, the most alive, shining, and beautiful skin beneath.

Yeah, I am dying. But I am still living.

The thought forces a flashback of last night, when I got home, to when Willow confessed the happenings of her dream. You were dying, in an enthralled whisper she declared, as you were living. My movements never falter, as these disturbing recollections seep to the front stage of my mind.

Coincidence? Or not?





~Blame the noise

Blame the disposition

Blame the everything~



More questions than answers leave you standing, thinking you have moved. The only thing I really should be utterly focused on is Spike. Not the past, or the present, especially not the future. I don't want to build my hopes up for some blissful future and in the course of eliminating Angel end up with a bullet through the brain; so no, I have to staple most of my dreams, and my number on goal on Spike.

For if my psychical death does occur in the process, I hopefully will live through Spike, and he will get the job done . . . not with my motives, but with our combined desire.



~But it won't make me feel less worse

Just a brief solution to this curse~



He is my freedom incarnate. Anyone can have a goal, but you have to have the means if you hunger to accomplish it. He is my means, my guide to attempting this diabolical plot. I'm ready, Spike. I'm willing, Spike. Now where are you? Grasp my hand in yours and lead me down this forest path full of blocking brambles, wrong turns, and fallen tree trunks; lead me down the treacherous path most traveled to freedom. Come on, already!

A fine sheen of sweat has encased my body. My muscles have a slight ache to them. But this dance I am dancing cannot end at this crucial moment. This dance is somehow vital to the welfare of everything, of all to come. How do I know this? I don't.

Instinct. Pure instinct.



~Blame the time

Blame the proportions

Blame the everything~



Out of the thick throngs of frolicking people a covert shadow slithers past my view. With all the strobe lights creating a mystifying and murky atmosphere I cannot decipher it. There is a thrilling black flow weaving behind the figure. I whirl around. A subtle beat of sturdy boots. Arms held high, I aggressively toss my head back. A flash of blinding platinum is blurrily seen through the threads of my hair. My eyes scrutinize for another sign of this form.

No other sight of it to be seen.

"Buffy?" A voice behind me closely inquires into my ear, spraying tickling hot breath, making my name sound like a blooming rose.

Whoa. Nice British accent.



~But it won't fix what is critically broken

The mechanic quit with words unspoken~



I swivel to face him. My hips are suddenly and firmly seized in his hands. I quirk my eyebrow in a silent question. Is he a customer? Will this be the first man of tonight? He joins my rhythm, brushing us together as we sway in synchronized movements to the spastic song. My hands creep down and place themselves over his; inducing our moves to be more erotic.

My tone is coy with loads of sugar. "At your service."

"Good to know, pet." He eyes me with brazen hunger, voice sly and humorous. "Thought you'd be all hag, less Britney Spears."





~Blame the change

Blame the unresolved

Blame the everything~





I begin to leisurely glide my hands up his leather-clad arms. Hey, might as well get a customer in before Spike gets here. A frank and heavy grind of my pelvis against his, a well-done swipe of my tongue over his lips, a slow shimmy compression of our lithe bodies, and Seduction Buffy is in full mode. This has just gotta be a quickie, though.

"Glad I proved you entirely wrong." My arms encircle his neck, pivoting his head for a very delightful view down my shirt.

He dives for my offered breasts, takes a nip, and leaves a liquid trail of sensations up to my neck, where he stops to huskily whisper. "Not that I wouldn't enjoy a very smashing rough and tumble with you kitten, but I am only here on business."

"We can do business."





~Just keep on blaming and blaming and blaming

Is there really a God in the sky?~





Our eyes lock in a way that manufactures the feelings of intense unspoken words that can shatter the mind with a tiny prod, that can promptly reconstruct it with a helping hand, producing the overall effect mutual to-dare I fucking say-a true spiritual connection. I do not recoil but my body winds its self up into a spring. A tigress drawing back in preparation for a deadly leap. Now either that was imagined from years of mistreatment and feeling terribly forlorn or . . .

A mischievous smirk, too mischievous, it should be labeled diabolically evil, blooms on his features, eliciting him to halt our flowing movements in a sea of motion, and blow out wisps of words. "Guess my name, Buffy."





~Just keep on blaming and blaming and blaming

Is there really a God in the sky?~





In our bubble of silence all is frozen . . . Surrounding us moments of life play on and on, but we are stoic by thoughts. Soon everything else has its own trivial world and he and I are vacuumed into our own private nihility. Flashbacks from the tale of Willow's dream assaults my psyche. He stays concrete within my arms, warm and solid with unfulfilled expectations, not fading or insubstantial.

Here you are, Spike! My lips stutter to a jubilant smile. Here you have come to be the knight in . . . dead cow hide . . . to rescue me.

This is what I have been waiting for, long before I even knew I was waiting for anything.

A trembling hand glides barely centimeters over his face and hair, my eyes tear up with realizations never once yet realized until here, now, this moment. "Silver Panther."

Still coincidence? I have to talk to, Willow.

His face darkens. No reply.

My breathing switches to quick and erratic. I am drowning, drowning, drowning. Another sharp intake equivalent to flailing arms from an unskilled swimmer in a livid ocean. Drowning, drowning, drowning in fear . . .

Precious seconds tick on. The music rises to a glass shattering height. The singer climbs mountains with her voice, advancing to the last words of her song. And in a flick of my wrist I hold his hand in a iron grip.

He gazes down at our joined hands, back up to me, down once more, then back up, slack jawed, eyes wide he sternly demands. "How do you know about that?"

Everything has flipped to surreal. Wake up, Buffy. Wake up! Nope. I can't awake because I am awake. I now see things that should never be viewed with a dreamers' eye, with a dreamers' perception, with a dreamers' thoughts while conscious. I have to agree with you now, Poe, you dead whiny fogey, the world we know is a dream within a dream. So many dreams colliding, interweaving, and some one sided like a police department's interrogation rooms.

Spike captures my faraway eyes, and with his other hand he gravely shakes me, while gruffly repeating, "How do you know about that?"

After his last words are released I tug him off the dance floor. Guess I was right. That dance was crucial. Thank you, instincts.





~Blame him, not you?~







Author's Note: *nervously bites lip* Uh, song is written by me. I kinda feel exposed here with my heartfelt lyrics laid out for you all to read . . . but ya know, I'm willing to bear it out there for the cause of this a-pain-in-my-ass story (Okay, not really a pain more like a numb spot) and if it
sucks, tell me. Thankys. *runs to bed cause right now its 2:54a.m. and I got things to do tomorrow* Enjoy this wacky chapter, the next one, and the next one, and the next one . . . as they slowly come.