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Buffy stared at the tickets in the redhead's hand.

"I didn't know they even still made that show."

Willow nodded. "It's as immortal as Bob Eubanks himself. Of course, now they have to call it the New New Newlywed Game, but still. And these," she fluttered the tickets, "these are gold."

Buffy tried to focus on the rapidly moving tickets. "Actually, they look like paper--"

"--unfortunately," Willow continued, "they have a really stupid no gay couples rule, so I can't actually use them."

"Well, I'm sure Xander and Anya are thrilled," Buffy said, looking longingly towards the door to the training room from which she'd been pulled. She had a gut feeling that no good was going to come from her involvement in this conversation.

Maybe if I dodged left, then made a beeline for the street...

Willow deflated a little. "Actually, they weren't. Anya did this whole thing about how it sounded like lots of fun to share the details of their relationship with a national audience, and Xander got really pale and slammed the door in my face."

Of course he did. She could have kicked herself now for not doing that very thing the instant she'd recognised that excited glint in Willow's eyes.

"Prime time is not ready for Anya," she asserted. It was bad enough that their closest friends, frequent customers, and plumber already knew how many orgasms Anya got on the average night. It would be wrong to unleash that on the civilized, game-show-watching world.

Was that an oxymoron?

Willow had to concede the point. "Okay, so maybe that wasn't the best option. Then again, that was kind of the only option, which leads to..." She thrust the tickets back into Buffy's face.

The blonde's eyes went wide, and her gut feeling laughed at her mockingly. "Me?" She gulped, and shook her head vigorously. "Uhn-uh. No way am I going up on national television and telling everyone where I've fantasized about 'making whoopie.' Besides," she reasoned, "I'm not even married."

Willow waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. Tara and I can throw a big hissy about gay rights, and they'll let you on to save face. Besides, they shouldn't have a problem with a factor that gives you a disadvantage."

"Uh, yeah, Wills, that's great. Except for one thing. Who would I go with?"

Willow just looked at her, allowing Buffy to go through the short list of possible contestants (pun alert!pun alert) herself.

Xander's taken, and he'd giggle at the phrase 'make whoopie.' Giles, hell no. No elaboration needed. ...That's it. That's every guy I know. Well, except for...

A dawning horror settled in her stomach at that last possibility. She wouldn't.

"No. O-o-o-oh, no. Don't even--"

"C'mon, he'll be perfect."

"Just to clarify, Willow, my dear dear friend-who-does-not-wish-to-see me horribly-embarrassed, are we talking about Spike??"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes! C'mon! It'll be fun!"

Buffy jumped up and retreated to the far side of the room, behind the research table. Weapons! Need weapons! Must kill the evil demon that has taken the body of my best friend. "NO. It will be humiliating! He could say a-ny-thing."

Just thinking about the opportunities for chaos Spike would have with an unsuspecting gameshow host and a studio audience at his disposal staggered her briefly. She thought for a second, then added, "Plus, hello: evil, if temporarily incapacitated villain guy! I'm not doing it." Dammit, where's the mace? A spikey ball on a chain can fix this mess. Somehow, it had gone missing. She crossed her arms in front of her and settled for glaring daggers, since she didn't have any real ones at hand.

Willow, for her part, went straight for the big guns, also metaphorically.

"..."

The Slayer's stance took on a more defensive cast. "Willow... Please. Not the resolve face..."

"..."

"*sigh*"

She knew she was sunk. Forget about obese opera singers; when the face came out, it was over. "What did Spike say?"

"He said yes."

Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Yes? Just like that?"

"Well, the prize is a kitchen set, and his microwave just broke."

"He doesn't actually expect to win... Does he?"

Willow shrugged. "He wants to do it."

Buffy hung her head. "When do we leave?"

"Oh, about an hour."

Buffy's head shot up. "What?"

@@@


Buffy watched the interstate go by through the window for a while before turning back into the car's interior.

"I do not want to be here," she reminded it's contents, which at the moment was Willow, Tara, and--

"Aw, c'mon, Slayer. It'll be fun."
--
Spike. Damn his hide. --Too late-- He was far too happy for a vampire on his way to Game Show paradise. 'Fun' he says. As hell.

Buffy slammed her head into the headrest.. "Why does everyone keep telling me that? 'Mom, I'm going on national television to talk about my make-believe marraige to Spike.' 'Oh, that sounds like fun, honey!'"

Spike chuckled, and leaned back in his seat as well. This was fun. He'd seen the possibilities inherent in this from the moment Red'd first offered him the ticket. He was going on a road trip. He was going on television. He was going to be in a prime position to embarrass the Slayer out of her bleedin' mind. He might even get a microwave. Undeath is good. He nudged the Slayer's foot, which had somehow drifted into his airspace. "Mum ever tell you about her crush on Bob Eubanks?"

The Slayer cracked a smile. "Hyeah. She just lo--" Buffy realized that this was dangerously close to going-with-the-flow-and-enjoying-herself. She immediately sobered. "Bob Eubanks is a stupid old man clinging to a dead career by his fingernails, and should be kicked off the air before the birth of his great-great grandson. He's probably a demon, anyway."

Spike scoffed. "Bob Eubanks is not a demon."

"Bet he is. You know, it would be just like my life if he was," Buffy insisted, mainly for the sake of argument. If she kept arguing, she could avoid thinking about how civil Spike kept trying to be. She turned away to make another general statement to the car. "This whole situation is absurd, and I want to go on the record to say that I'm only in it for the overnight at the Hillerman Hotel Spa."

"Actually," Tara spoke up from the passenger's seat in front, "you're not going to the hotel."

"What do you mean?" Buffy asked, confused. "Everyone knows they provide contestant accommadations."

Spike leaned in near her ear, like he was imparting the secrets of the universe. "The taping's at nine am, Slayer."

"And?" Buffy turned to face him, before realizing that brought their faces within an inch of touching, and swinging back to front.

"I tend to burst into flame around then. Not a big problem in 'Ignore It And It Will Go Away' Sunnydale, but around here they might ask questions."

The Slayer's mind spun, and she had the logical continuation of the thought process in impressive time. This time she did turn to face Spike, too incensed to care about proximity.

"We're spending the night in the studio?" she hissed.

"Actually, the sound box adjacent to the studio," Willow corrected, flipping on her turning signal. "Tara made friends with the sound editor when we had our lesbian-powerfist rally over the phone." The two witches took a moment to high-five each other.

Buffy gaped . "You're serious. Not only do I have to pack for a two-day trip in thirty minutes, be horribly embarrassed in front of thousands of couch potatoes, and spend eight total hours in the car with him," she pointed fiercely at the smirking Spike, "but I'm going to be bunking in a sound booth??"

Tara turned around in her seat and spoke earnestly. "Jeff says it's actually really comfy. He used to sleep there every night until he got his apartment a few months ago. He said all you need is a sleeping bag or two, and you'll be fine."

Spike put an arm across the seat behind the gaping Slayer. "See, pet? Everything'll be just fine."

Buffy slapped at his arm. "Stay on your side, Combustible Boy!" She flopped back in her seat for a minute, sulking, before she realized Spike was enjoying watching her pain. She thrust a finger right in his face, jabbing at his nose to emphasize her words. His eyes crossed trying to focus on it.

"You are so going to owe me for this, Spike. Words cannot describe how deep in debt you'll be. And if you do anything to embarrass me on television--"

Spike rolled his eyes and sucked her finger into his mouth.

Buffy sat frozen for a good five seconds while Spike's tongue ran up and down her index finger before regaining her senses.


6-Year-old Max Lawrence finished his Young Reader and looked out the window, just in time to see the pretty blonde lady in the car next to his mom's minivan tackle the man next to her to the seat. They momentarily dissappeared from view, only to appear again, this time with the lady wringing the man's neck while he pulled her hair. Now the hair-pulling, Max could identify with immediately.

He watched curiously as they tumbled down below the level of the windows again, only exposing themselves as random legs and arms while the battle raged on near the floor. At one point, one of the hands was wielding a shoe.

Gee, Max thought. They must really like each other a lot.


"Hey!" Willow said, in her best teacher voice. "Keep it down back there, or I'll turn this car around right now!"

"Please. Do." Buffy spat, grappling with Spike for her left heel.

"Aw, little Slayer's backing out," he taunted, arching his back and stretching his arm out to keep the shoe from her questing hands. "Doesn't want to play the little game. Afraid people're gonna laugh at you?"

"Bite ME!" She screamed, and kicked herself off the door, grabbing at Spike's shirts and beltloops to pull herself up his body and towards her footwear.

"Grabby!" Spike shot.

"Brat!" Buffy returned.

"Bitch!"

"Asshole!"

"Separate!" Tara shouted, hand outstreched and glittering.

Buffy and Spike shot to opposite sides of the car, and seat belts looped around them, apparently of their own volition. Because they were temporarily magic seat belts, they also wrapped around their mouths, effectively both trapping and silencing them.

With a last icy look, Tara turned back around in her seat and adjusted her own seatbelt. Willow reached over and patted her hand. "Good job, honey. That's much better."

The brunette witch smiled back. "I agree. How much longer?"

"Oh, three and a half hours."


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