TANGO
Author: 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann
Characters: Buffy/Spike/Roscoe(aka Rocko)
Valenti
Rating: R
Beta Babes: Unavailable…so you can
just imagine…the horror…the horror…
Synopsis: This is the story of
Buffy’s attempt to return to dating and put her
craving for Spike behind her and how that plan
goes seriously awry…because
well…it's just SO wrong <eg>
Spoilers: Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining…well not really…more like to “The
Gift”
because after that I went all AU…
help and there were all kinds of ramifications but
not the same ones we have in
S6! So…other different Ramifications…and I went
totally off canon and then I
got all depressed and quit. Actually this fic
was part of the B/S history that
led to the events in my fic
Cuore Della Notte…but I
wasn't able to finish the
massive thing (which also includes my version of
the Buffy resurrection)…Still,
I
liked this bit and wanted to resurrect IT!
Even if it's lame.
Disclaimer: Obviously everything
belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I
would be in the bloody loop wouldn’t I? Anyway, all
hail the genius of Joss
Whedon and Co. and don’t sue me for being insatiable
in my longing for B/S
interaction.
“Though
I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.”
William
Shakespeare from “A Winter’s Tale”
PART
THREE
“Hello,
Children,” Spike said, nodding amiably at
as he sidled up to their table. It was a little after
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
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.
made a small humming noise as she counted the
ceiling tiles.
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,”
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,
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.”
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.
END
THIS PART