Tango
Part Three“Hello, Children,” Spike said, nodding amiably at Willow, Tara, Anya and Xander as he sidled up to their table. It was a little after 9:00 p.m. and the vampire had arrived at the bar as a last shot. He had already checked the Summers’ House and the usual patrol grounds and found no Slayer.
He pulled up a chair and sat down around it. Straddling the chair back, he faced the little circle of Scoobies, leaned his elbows on the table and took a long swig off his beer.
“So, whazzup?” he asked, after swallowing.
Everyone at the table was giving him the fish-eye but it was Willow who finally looked over to the dance floor. Spike followed her gaze. Buffy was dancing with a dark-haired twonk in a shiny shirt. The Slayer was wearing a slinky silver metallic blouse, a tight steel gray skirt and four-inch spaghetti strap heels. As she danced, her skirt rode up and her boat-neck blouse slid down, exposing lots of sparkle-spangled skin. Spike lifted a derisive eyebrow at the spectacle. He was about to remark on the outfit when he got his first good look at Buffy’s partner.
Spike cocked his head to one side. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen himself in a mirror. He tried to imagine what he'd look like with short dark hair, a salon tan and, Lord help him, a gold cross around his neck. He sat up straighter,frowning.
“Hey," he said, shooting a sideways glance at Tara, "is it just me or does that bloke resemble…uhm…in this light anyway, from a certain angle…well…me?” The Scoobie Gang tried, collectively, to avoid his gaze. Spike glanced back toward
the Slayer and her partner. “Robot?” he asked, hopefully.
Anya opened her mouth to speak. Xander cleared his throat, pointedly. Willow made a small humming noise as she counted the ceiling tiles.
Tara said, “Retired Silicon Valley Multi-Millionaire,” she gave a small apologetic shrug, “26 years old, imminently eligible, name of Roscoe Valenti.”
Spike sat his beer down with a bang and reached out to grab a passing waitress. He spun the unfortunate woman around by her elbow, lifted a whiskey sour off her tray and drained the fluid from the glass in one long guzzle.
Setting the empty back on the tray, he ordered, “Bring me six or seven more of these, darling. Doubles! No, Triples! And you can leave out the sour and just make ‘em straight whiskey while you’re at it.”
“Spike,” Willow warned, “getting drunk isn't going to solve…”
But the witch didn’t get to finish her admonition because she was cut off by an appreciative stir of applause from the crowded dance floor. People were shifting out of the way, pulling back to make room for Buffy and Roscoe. Shaggy’s “Dance & Shout” was booming from the DJ’s speakers and the Slayer and her date were apparently taking the lyrics to heart. The movements the two were making were sharp and full-bodied falling somewhere between a barroom brawl and a primitive fertility ritual.
“Girl! What you gonna do with all that body?” Shaggy sang.
Roscoe spun Buffy like a top, reeling her out and jerking her back so suddenly she flipped into the air. The Slayer did an ariel cartwheel and landed gently, perfectly balanced on her high heels.
“Careful with that thing before you hurt somebody.” Shaggy advised.
As her partner outlined her body with his hands, Buffy raised both arms above her head and shimmied down toward the floor, bending her knees and swaying provocatively.
As she came back up, Roscoe caught her, pulling her into him with one hand on the small of her back. They took a few whiplash-inducing turns with their hips grinding together and then separated into a series of quick choreographed steps,
obviously all about how wrong it was to suppress your sexual urges.
Do whatever you want, with whomever you want, however you want, Buffy and Roscoe seemed to pantomime as they finished out the number, and preferably do it right here on the dance floor. The musty scent in the bar cranked up to an almost
unbearable level but Spike steadfastly ignored the sensory overload. His eyes were glinting dangerously.
As the song ended Anya, Xander, Willow and Tara realized at the same time that their mouths were hanging open. They shut their traps and swallowed in perfect synchronicity.
“Uhm,” Xander said, reaching for his wallet, “I think we have to go now.”
He looked over at Anya. The ex-demon was breathing heavily, her eyes were shining and her lips were moist.
“Yes," she breathed out, dazedly, "because we have that…thing…that we have to do."
“Yeah, the thing,” Xander agreed, throwing a wad of cash on the table without counting, “and then I want to have sex on the kitchen floor.”
Willow and Tara, got up to go as well, exchanging a look that said, "Ahhh, the kitchen floor…two or three times maybe!”
“Hang on a minute!” Spike yelped, but the others were already making for the door.
The waitress arrived with Spike’s seven whiskeys and leaned against him in obvious interest. Spike, however, had more pressing concerns than a randy woman with alcohol. Buffy and her date were headed for the table. The vampire stood
up balling one hand into a fist.
“I don’t know what kind of game your playin’ at…” Spike started, but Buffy seemed to be suffering from the same glowing distraction that had come over Anya and the Wiccan Lovers.
The Slayer was hanging onto the sodding gigolo’s arm and staring up at him with a sickening fascination. Spike thought she was suppressing a simper.
“We’re going to do some club hopping, guys,” Buffy announced, dreamily addressing the table as she picked up her crocheted wrap. She didn’t notice the vampire at all, let alone note he was the only one still present, “See you tomorrow, okay?”
“NO! It’s bloody well NOT OKAY!” Spike shouted. But, the Slayer had eyes only for her date. She turned and walked away as if Spike hadn't even spoken. Sliding thorough the crowd, Buffy and Roscoe disappeared into the night. The Slayer never once glanced in Spike’s direction.
The blond vampire sat down heavily and stared at his drinks. After a moment, he tossed the first of the seven back. His head felt two sizes too big and his stomach swirled sickeningly as if he had the hangover already.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was nearly two in the morning before Roscoe brought Buffy home. The Slayer felt like the last unsatisfied woman on the planet. The dark-haired, hottie danced a great game but this was their third date and as far as she could tell he hadn’t even considered making his move. Sometimes he seemed more like a cardboard cut out than a flesh and blood man. He was always so formal, calm, and detached. Buffy was beginning to wonder if she had bad breath or spinach in her teeth or something. Or maybe, he was just a gay man who loved to dance. That, she felt, would be the complete story of her life, the final confirmation that the Fates had it in for her.
Roscoe opened the car door and offered her his arm. Buffy slid out of the Jaguar and they walked, side by side, up the lawn toward the porch. The light over the front door was out. The Slayer tensed, certain she had left it on. There was a subliminal movement in the shadows at the side of the house. Slayer senses on alert, Buffy peered into the darkness.
“I had a wonderful time tonight,” Roscoe was saying, quite close to her ear.
“Yeah?” Buffy replied, in distraction. She was still trying to focus on whatever was lurking near the porch. She thought she'd heard the clink of glass on glass.
“Yes,” Roscoe confirmed. Taking her chin firmly in one hand, he turned Buffy's face toward his, looked deep into her eyes and moved in for a kiss. A joyous and fulfilling tingle washed over her.
“Finally," Buffy thought, with a little lift of satisfaction.
A moment later, a fist crashed into the dark-haired man’s jaw and he went down hard.
With an incoherent little cry, Buffy rushed to her date's side, kneeling to comfort. Roscoe was lying flat on his back. His chin and mouth were already swelling.
“Keep your zoddin lipsh off of my Buffy, you dodgy Muppet,” Spike growled, brandishing a fifth of Southern Comfort at the fallen man. The vampire was clutching the neck of the bottle in three fingers and pointing at Roscoe with his index finger and thumb. “Un’ershtan’ me? I won’t have you touching her,” the vampire slurred. Taking a deep pull of his booze, he swallowed and then continued to rant. "Won’t have it. Think I care about a li’l he’dache, well I don’t. 'Cause if my head hursh I don' care…”
He paused in confusion and put his free hand to his temple, “Hey? Where ish my he’dache?”
“Judging by your smell,” Buffy snarled, her eyes watering from the fumes, “I bet it’s waiting for you at the bottom of some bottle.”
Spike looked at the fifth of liquor in his hand and a slow smile lit up his face.
“Head don’t hurt if I’m drunk?” he asked, in wonder. Then, he nodded, sagely, “Tha’sh wha’ drunk ish for ain’t it? Take’s away the pain.”
“My toof,” Roscoe said, calmly sitting up and rubbing one hand along his jaw. “I fink he broke off one of my teef.”
“Oh, God,” Buffy moaned, turning back to her date. It was official; the Fates all hated her. “Can you stand up? Should I call an ambulance?”
“You should call a hearse,” Spike said, pronouncing the words carefully. He was moving menacingly toward Roscoe again. “’Cause if I ain’t got a headache then I don’t have to be Mr. Nice Guy anymore.”
Buffy sprang up and shoved at Spike with both hands. The vampire staggered and sat down hard on the porch steps, splashing whiskey. The Slayer grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him back to his feet.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” she yelled, giving him a good shaking. The neighbor’s dog started barking and lights came on at the house across the street. Reining in her temper, Buffy lowered her voice several notches before addressing Spike again. “You can’t just go around attacking people,” she said, through tightly gritted teeth.
“I can so, Missy,” Spike corrected, trying in vain to wrench free of her grip. “Matter o’ fact, tha’s wha’ I do. When I ain’t feeling no pain and I ain’t got no sweet Slayer in my heart makin’ me behave…’Cause it turns out she’s a li’l tramp.”
“Look,” Buffy sighed, releasing him so suddenly he nearly fell, “it was just a date. And I can go on a date if I want to.”
“A DATE?” Spike squeaked, incredulously. “A DATE? I saw the two of you at the Bronze with the so-called dancing…and where have you been since then, Slutty? ‘Cause that was hours ago!”
Roscoe stood up, carefully, brushing grass and dirt off of his slacks, and asked, “Is there something going on between the two of you?”
“There is nothing going on between us,” Buffy snapped, turning back to her escort. Seeing his unruffled expression, she swallowed down her ire. “Less than nothing. He’s my cousin actually.” She shot Spike a fierce warning glare before
continuing, “My mentally unstable cousin, William. Down for a visit from the Home. He’s not supposed to mix alcohol with his medication.”
“Wha’s he got that I ain’t got more of?” Spike asked, failing to take the Slayer’s hint to shut the hell up. He stepped in front of Buffy and raked a sneering glance over Roscoe before answering his own question, “Sodding suntan! Tha’s what?”
“Yeah, that and a pulse,” Buffy confirmed, trying to skirt around the vampire.
“Oh, tha’s right,” Spike cried, in an injured tone, as he tossed aside his nearly empty bottle, “throw it up in my face, you judgmental little tart!” The vampire made a sudden lunged for Roscoe, snarling, “I can take care of his pulse for him.”
Buffy grabbed Spike’s arm and spun him around. Without thinking, he took a wild swing at her. She ducked it easily. He swung at her again, missing by a country mile. Roscoe snatched up Spike’s discarded whiskey bottle and brought it down hard on the vampire’s head.
"--bloody'ell,” Spike peeped and dropped like a stone. Buffy grabbed him as he headed for the ground, breaking his fall a little and getting cold blood and warm booze all over her.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, shooting Roscoe an accusing glare. “I told you he was harmless.”
“He didn’t look harmless,” Roscoe returned, unflappably dusting off his hands. “I thought you might be injured if he struck you.”
Buffy was appalled at the calm, rationality of the man. She was on an emotional rollercoaster and Roscoe seemed to be watching from the sidelines. Spike may have been acting like a jealous twit but at least he was expressing his emotions. They were unreasonably volcanic emotions maybe but heartfelt and real. By comparison, Roscoe was almost an empty shell. He was pretty on the outside but Buffy was starting to wonder if there was anything inside the man.
Indicating the vampire with a bob of her chin, she sighed, "I'd better get him in the house."
“There’sh da he’dache,” Spike mumbled, starting to come around. He fumbled one hand to his brow.
“Okay,” Roscoe agreed, with easy acceptance. “I am sure you can handle things, but if there’s something I can do just let me know. I am always ready and willing to lend a hand.”
“Jus’ bet you are,” Spike muttered, groggily, as he struggled to sit up.
The vampire rolled over on his side. Holding onto a bush, he pulled himself into a sitting position and then tried to stand. Risking the accidental live-wood impaling, he made a valiant effort and regained his feet. Buffy tried her best to ignore his efforts. She made one final attempt to reclaim her earlier feeling of euphoria.
“We'll be fine,” Buffy promised Roscoe, moving close and offering him both hands and a dazzling smile.
Watching her, Spike felt the red twist of jealousy rip into his heart once again. His eyes wandered over Buffy’s body. He took in the soft fall of her hair and the way her silvery blouse reflected the moonlight. He noted how her neckline had slipped down to expose one of her glitter-accented shoulders. And he noticed her legs. They were good legs to have. Spike’s eyes devoured the line of them from the ankle straps on Buffy's sandals all the way up to the slit in her skirt, which exposed a good bit of thigh. The skirt itself was so tight it left virtually nothing to the imagination.
“Thanks for a wonderfully unexpected evening,” the Slayer's date was saying as Spike mentally traced the outline of her ass beneath the spandex. Roscoe leaned forward to place a soft kiss in the palm of Buffy's hand, and then he walked to his car, got in and drove away.
By the time the Jag's taillights winked out in the distance, Buffy was completely under Roscoe's spell again. Smiling dreamily, she pressed her hand to her cheek. Forgetting all about her recent doubts, she let her fantasies run wild. He was the perfect man, a prince really and she was going to be his princess. They would live in a mansion and hire people to slay and…she sighed, “He'll always knows the right thing to say."
“What the hell are you wearing?” Spike slurred, from a few inches behind her. “You look like a six shilling whore.”
The Slayer’s romantic idyll shattered into jigsaw pieces. As her fairy tale bubble popped, Buffy became aware of exactly how grimy, booze soaked and trashy she actually looked. She suddenly felt just like the sort of woman who gets picked up by the police at three in the morning for brawling with her alcoholic boyfriend on the front lawn.
“I HATE YOU!” Buffy spat, bitterly at Spike.
She shouldered by him, stalking away. He followed. She pounded up the steps and keyed open the front door, shoving it violently inward as she entered the house. Turning quickly, Buffy slammed the door shut in Spike’s face. She snapped the bolt in place and stomped her way upstairs. Spike tottered for a moment fighting for balance as he fished a set of house keys out of his pants pocket.
“No, you don’t,” he said, with quiet assurance, before putting all of his concentration into inserting the correct key into the lock.