There are many dances in the world.
There are rain dances.
There are mating dances.
There is the dance of anger.
And then there is the dance of rage– Spike knew the steps all too well.
It was the dance of lying awake in the dormitories after lights out, apprehensively waiting for one of the larger boys to take advantage of him because they could.
It was the sting of the ruler across the knuckles of his left hand while the other boys laughed.
It was words falling into place beautifully in his head only to come out like a donkey's bray. It was having heartfelt words painfully written down to be read aloud by someone else in a silly voice to laughter… of dropping his slate in the rain so that the words washed away.
… it was being invited to parties as part of the entertainment, it was being told that he wasn't good enough, it was the derisive sneer on his mother's face as she dissolved into dust, it was the mocking look Dru aimed at him over Angelus's naked shoulder, it was having Dru leave him over and over for something better, it was being at the mercy of a monster so big it had not one face but a hundred, it was helplessly writhing against the restraints of an operating table as that monster stirred his brain like so much pink and gray cake batter, it was having to throw himself on the mercy of those he despised, it was having a stake driven into him so that it deliberately missed his heart, it was standing on the outside looking in knowing that everybody was welcome but him no matter how hard he tried, it was watching Joyce's funeral from a distance, it was wildflowers on the sidewalk, it was learning over and over he was merely a convenience easily replaced…
…it was mistaking sex for love.
…it was a bedroom blown to bits.
…it was a beating over a battery, spilled blood and having to take a job.
….it was Buffy telling him off no matter that he'd done everything for her to make it not hurt so much… it was all the flung mud, piss, and shit that he couldn't duck because he never saw it coming…
It was a dance where the steps are blunt force trauma and blood on the walls.
And Spike knew how to dance – demon-faced and snarling and claws fully extended, he reached behind him with both hands, ripping into the stupid bear's belly as singing it gripped him by the back of the neck, grinding his face into the dirty floor.
Rrrrrrip went the cheap polyester fuzz. Crash went Freddy, toppling over backwards into a shelf of absurdly happy masks and spare hands
Thud – rolling end over end, the moronically grinning face of the ridiculous bear trying to kill him caved in with one kick: Spike's dance continued, a violently graceful waltz to the mismatched chorus of the songs of childhood twisted to sell cheap pizza and balloons made in China as howling, he levered himself up off the floor with just the strength of his legs, fists smashing into fake fur-clad bodies in colors never seen in nature as he rose among the puffs of carrion stinking dust, landing kicks against pudgy legs and torsos so that their crassly frivolous owners toppled into each other with electronic squeals – cartoon eyes incapable of expressing anything besides corporate-approved joy opening and shutting even as they tore each other apart with Spike as the epicenter.
The yellow rabbit stood in the doorway, hands at its sides, watching the chaos it had created, Mike and Jeremy stood in the opposite door, faces unreadable.
Vinnie and Maggie huddled in a corner, arms around each other.
Carrying a shovel and a garbage bag Mrs. Schnelz pushed past the two former night guards, snapping turtle face grim with annoyance, "Hey" she hollered at the storm, "Skinny butt! Yeah, you, there's a dead dog in the parking lot. Deal with it!"
The workshop went still.
With a snarl, Spike dropped Chica's detached arm in the middle of beating her with it and faced the dragon of Freddy Fazbear's, "Fuck off and deal with Rover yourself, you wrinkly old trout!" He hurled Chica's arm through the window over the workbench with a crash and a shower of broken glass. "Because I soddin' quit!"