The Bronze was buzzing, which wasn't surprising for a Friday night, but still, the amount of people currently packed into the place seemed excessive.

Spike stood three people deep at the bar, waiting for his turn to order and half leaning on a bar stool. He shifted uncomfortably and dug out his pack of cigarettes from his duster jacket. His lighter was a bit more work to extract, pressed as it was against his thigh in the pocket of the tight leather trousers he rarely wore. Couldn't be helped though, since the jeans he'd fallen asleep in had been subjected to a bloody wet dream, of all things.

He adjusted the crotch of his trousers with a creak, letting out an exasperated sigh as he flicked open his Zippo. It'd been a while since he'd had a dream that intense, and it still had him by the balls. There had been ones of Buffy before, but they'd never been as visceral as last night's scene, and it was somewhat unnerving.

The lighter didn't seem keen to spark.

"Come on," he growled as he shook the Zippo hard, flicking it twice more, and the flame finally caught. Once lit, he took a drag of his cigarette, relishing the little bit of space it afforded him as some of the patrons moved back from the smoke, and smiled sadistically to himself.

It was warm. And the warmth was starting to fizz in the air, making all the bodies in the place hotter still. Making the scent of blood pumping beneath the skin all the more noticeable.

Making Spike even more fidgety and hungry. And in need of release.

Really fucking felt her… tasted her…

The entire thing had felt oddly lucid. At the time, he'd recognized the dreamlike fugue for what it was, but even still he hadn't been fully in control of himself…

Spike shuddered.

It wasn't anything to worry about. After all, ask any psych major and they'd tell you those sorts of dreams usually meant something else entirely. Work-life dissatisfaction and the like.

It was easy enough to unpick that particular scenario anyway, the meaning wasn't exactly shrouded in mystery. Make the Slayer scream.

Spike snorted to himself. There we go, deeper meaning revealed.

"What can I get you?" the chit behind the bar asked, bringing him out of his inner reflection.

"Double whiskey, thanks pet," he answered, handing across the ten-dollar bill he'd lifted from someone's coat pocket. She got him his drink and his change, and he sipped it as the music from the band washed over him. He was deaf to it however as the song he'd woken up with in his head played again on repeat.

His fingers drummed out a staccato beat on the bar's surface, the words coming unbidden.

Talking away,

I don't know what I'm to say,
I'll say it anyway,
Today's another day to find you,
Shyin' away,
Oh, I'll be comin' for your love, okay…

Take on me… take me on—

"Why are you humming that song?"

Spike almost spilled his drink. Buffy was suddenly next to him, glaring so hard her lips had pinched into an angry white line.

Christ, where the bloody hell did she come from?

After a heartbeat to let the shock wear off, he let out a mocking snicker—privately relishing how livid she'd be if he answered her question honestly—and took another drag of his cigarette, not bothering to angle the smoke away from her.

"What's the matter, luv, you got a problem with New Wave?"

She appraised him for a couple of searing seconds before letting out a bitter snort, shaking her head.

"Just suffering through one of the worst coincidences of my entire life," she muttered before ordering a pitcher of beer from the waitress.

"Oh, well, don't let me get in the way of your suffering," he said jovially as he tapped out his ash into someone's drink. "S'the only bit of entertainment to be had in this hell-hole."

Buffy sucked in a cheek, visibly kicking herself for walking into that one. "Gee. Maybe you should find yourself some other lurking location," she suggested with a pert little sneer that had a history of making him want to wring her neck. "You could take your whole Billy Idol impersonation thingy on the road."

She was off again, pitcher in hand, before he could respond, leaving him seething in his seat.

Out of pure lack of entertainment, he tracked her through the crowd, watching her maneuver lithely around dancing patrons and gaggles of students until she made it to a table near the stairs. He grit his teeth as she tucked herself into her soldier's side, cozying up like she was being bloody paid to, all fluttering eyelashes and coy smiles whilst the enormous dullard wrapped an arm around her shoulders, making chit-chat with her troop of white hats.

Was enough to make anyone heave.

Spike downed his slug of whiskey before pushing off. The scene was dead anyhow, and he all of a sudden desperately needed to kill something.

He found two vamps lurking around the bins at the back of the club, and toyed with them just long enough to work off the excess of his aggression before dusting them in an easy one-two, spinning the stake in his hand out of one dead heart straight into the other.

He huffed as they blew away on the wind, which was just as warm as inside the Bronze.

Must be a heatwave coming on.

It didn't bother him—what with the distinct lack of body heat—but he could feel the closeness in the air, and it was making everything seem carnal and urgent.

On the way back to his crypt he swiped a bottle of wine from the 7-11 and uncorked it as soon as he got inside, gulping a good swig of it. The cool stone at least did something to elevate the humidity that was getting under his skin, and the lower level was even better.

Spike stripped off his clothes, glad to get out of the copious layers of leather, and climbed into bed, drinking the bottle down to halfway as he thumbed through an old paperback.

Sleep took him in increments, edging him down into the pillows with soft nudges as his eyes began to close.

He awoke again at some point and found himself dressed and back in the Bronze as night began turning into early morning. He'd forgone his duster, since the heat had only seemed to increase, and was practically choking him now, even without his need for air.

The crowd was just as thick as before but the band had changed, no longer playing originals but opting for some covers. The current song came to a crashing close of guitar and drums and after a brief pause, the band started the next one. A drumbeat joined by an all too memorable guitar riff.

The frontman leaned into the mike, his voice soaring over the crowd.

"On the floors of Tokyo,
Or down in London town to go-go,
With a record selection and a mirror's reflection,
I'm dancing with myself…"

Spike knew the words, but they didn't hold his attention past the first couple of lines, his eyes already dragging across Buffy's silhouette swaying amongst the throng of the crowd at the front of the stage.

No Corporal Cornbread this time, she was dancing alone; the center of his vision from where he was leaning against the bar.

She'd gone home too, briefly. Must've done. Her clothes were different; the mauve top and beige slacks swapped out for a strapless clingy gold number that seemed to be held up with nothing but a hope and a prayer. Not a single place to hide a stake (at least not any he'd admit to dwelling on), and no silver crucifixes dangling from her ears or around her neck.

Slayer or not, the girl was outright begging to be eaten.

And he could do it and all. Bat her around some and get the violence really pumping in her, spice the blood up a bit, before slicing her open with his teeth. There wasn't anything stopping him, was there?

Nothing stopping me…

A nagging feeling caught on his subconscious that he was forgetting something. But it was gone too quick to focus on. His stomach growled, a dark vibration that got him moving into the crowd, tugging him towards her like a fish-hook through his cheek.

Bodies pressed against him, brushing against him, transferring more heat, until he was behind her, so close he could reach his arms out and brace them against the stage, trapping her there.

Instead, his hands found their way onto her hips, edging her back into him and she went with it, leaning into his arms. The bitch must not realize it was him. She was bouncing so deliciously in time to the music, pressing her ass against his crotch.

He grinned. Poor tin soldier not here to chaperone…

The perfume of her skin was climbing straight into his brain, nestling in his synapses and practically making him forget where he was, what he was doing, hell, his own bloody name, everything but the need to press his lips against that long expanse of neck and let his fangs out.

In a flash her hand shot back and caught him by the throat, her little finger brushing his earlobe as her thumb dug into the side of his Adam's apple, squeezing enough for his windpipe to almost close. Her wrist was bare beneath his chin and he took an inhale of her blood pumping beneath the surface of delicate, gold skin.

She turned her head, meeting his eyes. Fiery green depths swallowed him whole and sparkled in a way that made the heat closing in around them seem tepid by comparison.

"I thought you left," she hissed and managed to sound almost disappointed in him as her hand gripped tighter, probably leaving penny-sized bruises on his neck.

"Thought I did too," he replied casually, his voice graveled from the way she was suppressing his voice box. "Couldn't let you dance alone though, pet."

"I'm fine dancing alone," she answered, bristling with indignation.

"Are you now?" he sneered, his fingertips digging in over her hips as he held her flush against his chest. "Gotta take all your pleasures solo, do you, sweetheart?" he continued, leering brazenly. Her hand tightened, digging into his artery—anger renewed at his lecherous double meaning—but she didn't stop him as his hands stroked over her waist and up her stomach, over her ribcage. "Poor Slayer. No wonder you're so uptight."

"Screw you, I'm not uptight—" Buffy gasped when lightning-quick his fingers brushed over the swell of her cleavage, tucking in beneath the neckline of her dress.

Her free hand flew to his wrist, stopping him from tugging down and freeing her breasts.

"Let go," she snarled.

Spike smirked, and with the hand gripping the fabric of her dress, pulled her closer to him.

He leaned into the hand around his throat, brushing his lips over her ear. "You. First."

Buffy's mouth tightened into a rebellious scowl, obviously weighing up the standoff to see if there was another way out that would allow her to keep her grip on his neck. Finding none. She'd have to relinquish eventually or risk him grinding against her ass regardless.

She opened her fingers slowly and he pulled back, releasing her dress from his fist.

She turned to face him, leaning against the edge of the stage, her chest started rising and falling so deliciously from the lack of air between them.

"I'm pretty sure I told you to find someplace else to do your whole cliché punk rocker act," she said, her eyes roving over him. Her tone was dismissive but he caught the swallow at the back of her throat as her gaze lingered a little too long on his crotch.

"I'm not a cliché, luv," he growled, and this time he did cage her in, bracing his arms on either side of her. "I'm the original."

"You're a nightmare," she parried with a sneer of affected boredom that didn't do enough to quell the sound of her heartbeat tripping up into a higher tempo.

"Oh-ho. Dreaming about me, are you?" he asked, dipping another inch closer.

"Oh-ho, I'm really really not," she bit back. But her eye twitched mutinously and caught his attention.

"Think you are, pet. An' if it helps ease that stick up your arse out by just an inch, I'll tell you that I'm dreaming of you too." She stiffened at that, her jaw clenching tight at the insult even as her heart thudded at the rest of it.

"I—"

Whatever she was about to say died on her lips as the song finished and a new one began almost immediately, fast-paced and loud enough to drown out any second thoughts he might have entertained.

"Last night a little dancer, she came dancing to my door.
Last night, that little angel, she came pumping on my floor.
She said, Come on, baby, you got a license for love.
And if it expires, I pray help from above…"

"Come on, Slayer," he goaded, the blue of his eyes flashing briefly yellow so she couldn't miss his intentions. "Don't you wanna dance?"

"It's not really my taste," she answered stubbornly, but he didn't miss the wicked glint in her heavy-lidded gaze, the tell-tale flame that always sparkled when she was about to lose herself in a war.

Spike grinned, thinking about the brawl to come, thinking about sinking his teeth straight into her neck.

"That's not what I asked."

Buffy's eyes burned—dark and vengeful—and suddenly it wasn't a double meaning anymore. Suddenly he really did want to wrap his arms around those petite curves and press her body against his.

Evidently, she did too from the way she was angling her body towards him.

"In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more, more!
With a rebel yell she cried more, more, more!"

He stepped into her, relishing the anticipatory exhale from Buffy as he crushed the space between them, her breasts grazing his chest with each breath. He placed his boot between the strappy heels adorning her dainty feet, and with both hands on her hips slid her up and settled her high on his thigh.

"What are you doing?" Buffy stuttered, holding onto his arms for balance as he lifted her off the floor.

Spike shivered out an exhale as the heat of her core warmed his skin even through the leather encasing his legs as he brought her into a grind against the muscle. "Whatever I like."

"In the midnight hour, babe, more, more, more!
With a rebel yell more, more, more!"

He yanked her hard into his hip, forcing the friction against the crux of her thighs, and repeated the action when she gasped. On instinct she threw an arm around his shoulders, clutching the shirt on his back as he moved his hips against hers, grazed her deeper, and kept going, flexing the muscle of his leg with every drag.

She rolled her hips, riding him in time to the beat, sweat already starting to dampen her hairline.

He sank his mouth over hers and hauled her into him as she tangled her tongue with his. Fierce, wet kisses turned ferocious as the air between them turned to fire. Her muscles squeezed tight, filling Spike's mind with thoughts of what her thighs around his face would feel like, hugging his jaw as she shivered beneath him.

"She don't like slavery, she won't sit and beg.
But when I'm tired and lonely, yeah, she gives me head—"

Fuelled on by the song's words and the way her tongue fought with his, thoughts of the Slayer on her knees, her mouth around his cock, consumed him. Had him devouring her in a kiss that bruised them both, feeding the image of her soft lips around his hilt.

Her nails scored his skin, her fist tangled into his hair, their movements turned wild and mean, each of them trying to hurt the other as much as find release as they bit and clawed, sucked and scratched—

"Spike—," she rasped as he refused her an inch of space, rutting his leg against her in time with the music's frantic tempo. His hands found their way onto her thighs. Her lips moved like she was trying to frame a thought, but every drag over his thigh seemed to knock it back.

"On your mind am I, Slayer?" he asked as her angry gaze took a dip, fluttering as he leaned her into a steeper recline. She groaned, hooking a leg around his hip, too engrossed to tell him to shut up. "Got a nice cozy spot in your thoughts now, huh?" he added, relishing the sour glare she shot him.

"Your ego is suffocating me," she managed.

He chuckled and nipped her bottom lip in a quick, mean kiss intending to sting. "As long as it kills you, honey."

His fingers brushed underneath her dress, uninterrupted all the way up to her hips, and a grin spread across his mouth as it dawned on him that she was completely bare under the skin-tight fabric.

He ground into her more ferociously—bolstered by the thought of her naked pussy sliding over his leather—and nipped her chin and bit her neck.

"In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more!
With a rebel yell she cried more, more, more!"

Her hand curled around the bulge in the leather under his zip and squeezed almost cruelly, pressure enough to make him buck wildly, knocking her back against the stage, relishing the pain as much as the bliss of her hand covering him, rubbing enough to bring out that tightening in his gut—

"In the midnight hour, babe, more, more, more!"

She took hold of the waistband of his trousers and with a hard yank tore off the button holding them closed. Her hand scratched brutally down his stomach and gripped him in a burning hold, pumping him almost enough to hurt, almost enough to burst.

He bit her kiss-swollen lips, and drew a bead of blood, smearing his tongue with the salt of it, and hell if he could have more—fucking swallow a whole mouthful—he'd come right now—

"With a rebel yell more, more, more, more!"

She growled furiously and kissed him back even harder, fighting him with her mouth as she denied him retreat with her hand at the back of his neck, her fingernails leaving crescent cuts beneath his ear.

"A million times for you, for you!
I'd sell my soul for you, babe!"

His nails scratched her back, scoring welts over her shoulder blades before fisting her hair and pulling her head back to bear her neck, sucking over her jugular as she moaned, scrabbling at his arms as he ground mercilessly at her core.

His hands dropped to grip her by the waist, thumbs digging in at her ribcage so he could feel the flex of her stomach muscles as she wriggled and writhed.

"What's money to burn for you, for you!
I'd give you all, and have none, babe!"

It was a brutal race to the end, the pair of them needing to finish when the song did, the crescendo making them frantic, spitefully pushing one another higher towards that precipice as though they hoped the drop would kill the other.

"Oh yeah, my little dancer
She want more, more, more, more, more!"

"Spike—I—"

"More, more, more!"

"Christ, Buffy—"

"More, more, more!"

With a livid howl, she fractured—every muscle clenching against him—followed by a cry of relief wrenched from her lungs that had him bursting too, beneath her hand. He slumped against her, their limbs tangled together and trembling enough that they would've collapsed save for the crowd pressing around them and the stage at her back.

Spike blinked, coming back into himself with each gulp of air, his lungs heaving out of habit and in harmony with Buffy's as she clung to him. Her dress had rucked up around her hips, and the leather of his trousers was slick from thigh to knee.

The sound of laughter brought him sharply out of his dwindling ecstasy, and he tilted his head up to the frontman on the stage—

Dark red eyes blazed down at him, framed by thick scarlet horns. The demon grinned in satisfaction, adjusting the guitar strung across his shoulders. "That was a good one," he chuckled darkly.

Spike jolted into consciousness with a gasped curse that echoed around the crypt, thrown into a half-sit from the shock as sticky, cold dampness clung to his thighs beneath the sheets.

"Fuck—"

Just a dream. Oh God, just a dream.

He huffed angrily, slumping back into the pillows, running his hands down his face before carding them through his hair.

"Bloody Billy Idol…"

Chapter title: Dancing With Myself, Generation X

Additional lyrics: Rebel Yell, Billy Idol