The party maintained the status quo of populars in Spike’s mind. That, in itself, was quite amazing, considering Spike had a pretty damn demented mind. The bleached man wasn’t at all surprised to see half naked people rubbing up against each other to funky Hip Hop music when he first entered Cordelia’s beach house. All the populars were trying their hardest to act as cool as possible by, well... by not abiding to Missus Nancy Reagan’s slogan and “just saying yes.” Drinking, in other words. But Spike knew his alcohol, and he knew that they were only consuming the “light” stuff.
It could have been possible that the party mayhem was the result of some intense inebriation. But a swig of six or seven bottles of that diluted stuff they had the nerve to call beer would only have an aftershock of true drinking symptoms. The upside to everything, of course, was that the beer, however light and unsavory, was free as a swan in the sky. Did swans even fly?
The populars that actually had some reasonable attire on – and by reasonable Spike meant not in the undergarment – were dressed in brightly colored Abercrombie and Fitch and short denim skirts. Not an army of one, but a circus of one.
“‘Least the girls are hot,” Spike mumbled to Angel, who happened to be the only other person in the jam-packed room who was wearing black.
Angel probably didn’t hear Spike’s half sentence because the music was so damn loud. “I’m gonna go s-search for Cordy,” Angel muttered to Spike.
“Yeah,” Spike replied mockingly, “you go right ahead and have sex with Cordy.” It was possible that Spike hadn’t heard Angel correctly because of the music. That was possible. But c’mon, this was Spike. Working up Angel to a verbal frenzy was his specialty.
But Angel had already trotted off, dodging his way around the swarms of people, and left Spike alone in the crowd.
Spike stalked over to the stairs where a treasure chest of his favorite loot in the world – beer – awaited him. The house was an ideal summer house, overly open, spacious, and practically screaming “party!” The ocean front lot topped most celebrity houses, but that type of extravagance was to be expected from Cordelia Chase.
Spike found a nicely striped blue and white sofa and slouched on it. From his observations, the party looked almost amateurish. No drugs or hard liquor. Hell, he was probably the only person who’d ever had a hangover out of the lot of ‘em. He couldn’t wait until Faith arrived so they could make fun of the populars together and inevitably crash the party.
Buffy appeared from the stairwell. She was wearing an absolutely delectable white camisole top and a tanish skirt that, although modest in its length, left Spike yearning for some... well...
Buffy immediately noticed Spike sitting down. She smiled coyly at him and made her way through the crowd to him. Spike tried his best not to pay attention to her, but not paying attention to Buffy for Spike was totally like not possible. Like impossible. Like most definitely not possible. From the corner of Spike’s mind, he processed that Buffy was carrying a cup of a dark substance, probably some type of alcohol, in her left hand.
Spike noticed Buffy’s skin tone was a shade lighter today. See, when you were Spike and analyzed every nook and crevice of your obsession, you just noticed these things. Spike had produced an insightful analysis in his mind on the “shades of Buffy”; he could probably lecture on it if they had those classes in school. Sometimes Buffy was tan, sweet as brown sugar, and other times she bore a lighter tone. Today she was the latter. The light skin tone just screamed innocence and helplessness to Spike. He’d agree that it was quite the turn on – innocence – but the lighter skin tone was a double-edged sword that came with helplessness. Like Buffy was in need of rescuing or something. Like I’d rescue her.
“Hey, Spike.” Buffy electrified Spike with another one of her million watt smiles. Goddamn... how can she buggerin’ do that every single soddin’ time? “Glad you could make it.”
“Glad you didn’ run outta beer,” Spike replied with a grin, and together the two of them took sips of their respective liquor. Buffy circled for the seat next to Spike on the couch but stopped just short when she heard a familiar voice.
“Hey babe,” Riley appeared out of the shadows of the crowd and hugged Buffy. “How’s it going?”
Buffy accepted the embrace, but didn’t look all that pleased to see Riley. “Pretty good, I guess.” Spike noticed Buffy’s eyes were lighter, too, almost a hue of blue. Well that isn’t buggerin’ right... Buffy has green eyes.
“I was thinking we could, uh, talk things over,” Riley slurred a little too quickly, showing how hammered he was. Lightweight. “I think we made a mistake when we broke things off.”
“Sure,” Buffy replied lightly, in a tone that borderlined childish. She was obviously only acquiescing to get away from Riley. “But later, okay?”
Her eyes found their way to Spike again and Riley immediately caught on. He might be drunk, but he wasn’t... well, he was stupid, but he wasn’t that stupid. He did get a 600 total on the new SAT after all. Spelled his name right and everything. Took months of serious practice and intense meditation, but he got that second, and rather ridiculous “n.” Missed the “ey,” but got that tricky second “n.” R-I-L-I F-I-N-N
“Oh I get it,” Riley raged, throwing his hands in the air in disgust, “gonna fool around with badboy William, are we? Fitting... both of you in the dirt together...”
Spike had irritation plastered all over his face; how dare Riley call him by his real name and speak to him that way? Frighteningly more important to Spike, how dare he speak to Buffy like that?
“No; it’s not like that,” Buffy lied, but the notion sent Riley plummeting into her personal space again.
Buffy pushed Riley away, but he immediately invaded Buffy’s personal space for a third time. Buffy was starting to get frustrated by the obviously drunk and delirious Riley. “...could you please just get away from me? You’re drunk.”
“I jus’ wanna talk...” Riley sounded and looked equally pathetic. “C’mon, babe...” He took a swipe for Buffy’s arm.
Spike didn’t know what had motivated him to act. Before he knew it, he was up on his feet. “She doesn’t wanna talk, ‘mate.”
“Back off, man.” Riley seemed to have found an ounce of courage now that he was inebriated. “She’s gonna talk with me. Right now. So fuck off.”
Spike was disgusted by Riley’s possessiveness. “Don’t tell her what to do.”
“You got a problem, William?” Riley teetered right over to Spike. Man, he must have taken some anti-apprehension pills or something. Drunkenness really does make people do the stupid.
Riley poked Spike in the chest. “It’s everyone in this room against you.”
“Don’t touch me,” Spike seethed, eyes smoldering with hate. “And don’t think I won’t.”
Riley put his arms to the side, practically urging Spike to hit him. “Take your best shot, William.”
Spike held Riley’s intense gaze for a handful of heartbeats.
Finally, Spike did something a little odd, possibly even unnerving.
He grinned.
Riley begging for a punch and Spike just grinning in response. The lack of a punch was really much worse than executing a jab. It was like ending an endearing and dramatic story with one sentence on the scenery. A literary device-less scenery.
Spike turned around and started for the sofa. It looked like he was going to be a pacifist. Fighting never resolved the issue; Spike knew this better than anyone else. Images of Mahatma Gandhi were a slideshow in his mind. Riley was weak, anyway. Wouldn’t be a challenge. Beating up Riley was becoming cliché.
“That’s what I thought,” Riley barked. Did Riley have a deathwish or something?
Spike stopped. Was he really gonna just let Riley walk all over him? Own Buffy?
“Same old William,” Riley continued harshly. Riley just didn’t know when to stop. “C’mon, Buffy, let’s—”
Fuck clichés. Fuck passivity. Fuck Gandhi.
Spike whirled around and in one swift motion placed all the force he had into Riley’s gut.