“Christ, Dru! I know you’re in there. The bloody lamp’s on—you know, the girly one with the magenta fuzzies you made me buy for the telly room. Oh right, that’s so like you in’t it? Never practical, oh nooo. We couldn’t get the black one that matched the ottoman. Got to be with the pink and the frilly. That’s what you are. Delicate pink …Godamnit, Drusilla!”
Spike, quite possibly one or seven shots of tequila from sober, rested his forehead against the cool iron doorframe while he banged his fist against the brass knocker. His knuckles were bruised and would hurt like hell in a few hours, but at the moment it felt damn good to give the stupid piece of wood a fair beating. A few lights switched on in the town house next door, and Spike semi-seriously considered just giving up, since the neighbors were prone to calling the police over noise complaints. But common sense and reason weren’t really priorities at the moment.
“Druusiiiilllllaaaaaa!” he wailed, his voice cracking slightly on the illl.
Abruptly, Spike found himself face down on hard, cold, and decidedly unpleasant linoleum. It took a wee bit longer than it should have for him to realize that someone at some point had removed the wooden barrier. When he propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes traveled the length of a lovely flash of pale feminine leg. His first impulse was to lick it, but all things considered, he figured that could potentially be a bad call.
“Hey there, pet,” he said sheepishly.
God she was gorgeous. Tall and winnowy, muscled and strong, waves of long, dark hair, framing her porcelain, heart-shaped face. She wore one of her sheer bedroom numbers—the crimson one. Oh she was goddess. Kind of a crazy bitch from hell goddess, but a goddess nonetheless. He felt himself hardening a twinge in his too-tight leather pants. Fuck.
“Little Willy’s been at the bottle, hasn’t he?” she purred, her voice all silk and cream.
“I told you—it’s Spike. Name’s Spike now.”
“Whatever for? The purple and the gel are all washed out, though I must say dearie, it’s not looking much lovelier.”
Standing was an intensely difficult process, so Spike took the complex maneuver in baby steps. He’d made it as far as his knees, but he still had to crane his neck up a mile to see her and it was making him dizzy. Self-consciously, he ran his fingers through his freshly bleached curls.
“Yeah well, got a new band now. Can’t keep the same look. And we’re gonna be big. Huge. You wait—sold out concerts, top of all the charts, we’re changing the music industry, baby.”
“Ah I see. Still overcompensating, are we? Size isn’t everything, Willy darling.”
She didn’t have to try hard to make it sting. “Yeah okay, see it might be true, I’m I’m a lil intoxicated,” he slurred, “But it’s got nothing to do with you. Cause I don’t care. I’m over it. Over the whole sodding thing.”
“Of course. Then what could possibly bring such a dashing boy breezing through my door after midnight?” her soft, cockney accent lilted her words daintily.
Using the banister for support, Spike finally propelled himself up to standing so that he was at her eye level. Tentatively, he tried to stand up straight, but finding himself a little tilty and wobbly, he let one hand creep nonchalantly back to the banister.
“Two words, bint: The. Ramones. Rocket to Russia. 1977. It’s my record and I want it back.”
She arched one pretty, dark brow at his request and giggled. “You do not honestly believe…I would keep…that rubbish?” she said between little fits of girlish laughter.
“Yeah I don’t have it that means you do so give it.”
“Well you might check outdoors in the bin. Anything you left, I put out.”
Spike clenched his jaw. He really wanted to hurt her. His eyes scanned the room for a possible torture device and fell on a pair of worn ballet pointe shoes sitting on the stairs. Quickly darting around her, he grabbed one and held it high over his head as if he were six years old playing keep-away in the school yard.
“Gimme my record, or I’m taking this!”
It was one of those situations that just made so much sense at the time.
“Go on then and take it,” Drusilla said haughtily, “I have more than one pair.”
“Dru?” a male voice called sleepily from a room upstairs.
“Oh you’re in for it now, Willy. You’ve woken Daddy,” she smirked.
Spike grimaced. Dru had a thing for bedroom games involving submission and masochism, and he really couldn’t bear to think of her…doing that…with him.
“Jesus Christ, just call him Liam, will you? The whole little girl bit’s bloody disgusting!”
“All high and mighty now. It got you off, as I recall,” she dropped her voice low to a husky whisper and said the last tidbit leaning in close to his ear. She smelled like his favorite lilac soap.
His breath hitched as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle a moan. Shit.
“Fine you go upstairs and tell the bloke to get his nancy-boy, Frankenstein-forheaded, little arse down here and I’ll take him good and proper.”
He waved his fists blindly in the air, a pink-ribboned ballet shoe dangling from one, while he swayed on unsteady legs.
“No darling, I am not in the mood to be cleaning you out of the carpet tonight,” she said, choking back another fit of giggles.
“Yo Spike! Spike man, what’re you doing?”
Spike looked over his shoulder to see Daniel Osborne a.k.a Oz, standing on the sidewalk outside, his piece-of-crap brown van lounging against the curb.
“Stay out of it, Oz!” Spike bellowed, “I got some business to take care of.”
“Uh I’m really sorry Ms. DeWitt. The guys went out for drinks and we kinda lost track of Spike here.”
“No need to apologize, Daniel. I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
“Right then, if he’s not man enough to get down here, I’ll just hafta—“
As Spike prepared to begin the delicate task of ascending the stairs, a strong grip tugged on his upper arm and prevented him from proceeding.
“Oi! Get off me!” he yelled, swatting absently at the small, red-headed man.
On a normal day, Oz never could have physically overpowered his bandmate, but Spike was slightly off his game tonight.
“Drusilla, what’s going on down there?” the male voice called out once more.
“Son of a bitch. Spike we need to go. Go now,” Oz said, pushing the taller man out the door.
“Goodbye, dearie,” Drusilla crooned, “I’ll be sure to call as soon as I find that record.”
The door slammed in their faces, and Oz barely caught Spike before the leather clad bleach-blonde tumbled down the porch stairs in a heap. Looking down at the ballet shoe still clutched tightly in his hand, Spike felt a lump swell in his throat, and for a brief second, he was horrified that he might cry. But before he had the chance to contemplate letting the tears loose, his stomach lurched suddenly; and he heaved his dinner, washed down with a ton of alcohol, onto the pavement. Oz stood beside him until he finished.
“Dude, you just puked on my shoe.”
“Yeah sorry about that. I’ll owe you one, mate.”
--*--
“Once more, the combination is changement, jeté, assemblé, and then piqué sur les pointes and repeat. Miss Summers, please come to the front. I’d like the others to observe your form.”
Buffy Summers stepped out of the second line and moved to the front of the group. She caught more than a few huffs and eye rolls from the other girls in the mirror and felt her cheeks getting warm in response. Yes, it was true that she was one of the company’s strongest dancers; but it wasn’t something that had simply been handed to her nor did it happen overnight. Her talent wasn’t luck, or a case of sucking up to the instructors either, as much as her fellow company members enjoyed claiming that it was. Dancing had been Buffy’s life for as long as she could remember—at the expense of pretty much everything else. Her mother had put her in a ballet class when she was only two years old, and something just instantly clicked. Nearly every day of her childhood had been spent practicing barre exercises and working painfully on flexibility and turnout.
The moment that Buffy knew with absolute certainty exactly what she would be doing with the rest of her life came when she was just six. For her birthday that year, her father had taken her to see the St. Petersburg Ballet’s performance of The Sleeping Beauty in Santa Monica. Her eyes had been riveted on the famous pas de deux in Act III; the way the man and the woman’s bodies moved together to create something so poised and flawless, so exquisitely beautiful.
“That’s gonna be me, Daddy. I’m gonna be able to do that one day. You wait and see,” she’d whispered excitedly into her father’s ear.
Well he wasn’t here to see, since he’d abandoned his family less than one year later, but at this point in her training, Buffy was perfectly capable of executing each step of choreography from Tchaikovsky’s renowned ballet. At eighteen, the age when most of her peers were starting college, her dreams were at her fingertips.
“Please run the combination twice Miss Summers, so that the others can have a good example before we begin,” the attractive brunette instructor, Jenny Calendar, directed.
Buffy lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and her legs went through each jump and position smoothly.
“Did you all notice the height on her jumps with perfect en l’air turnout in fifth? You should strive to look just like that,” Jenny said, “And while it’s on my mind, Miss Summers, I would like to see you in my office after class.”
Buffy blushed again at being singled out, but wondered eagerly about the secret meeting.
--
After she changed into sweats and grabbed her water bottle, Buffy hurried upstairs above the studios to Jenny’s office. When she reached the door, she was pleasantly surprised to see her friend, Winifred “Fred” Burkle, perched in a chair outside with her nose in a book.
“Hey Buffy! Jenny just had to take a phone call and then she said we could come right in,” Fred greeted cheerfully in her cute Texas twang.
When they’d met three years before, Fred and Buffy had bonded instantly over a shared strong work ethic. Typically they were known as the two perfection sticklers who stayed after rehearsal practicing until every minute detail of choreography was flawlessly ingrained in their brains. Social lives be damned.
“So we have this meeting thingy together?” Buffy asked.
“Yep, sounds that way. I got pulled out of my modern class to come up,” Fred answered, pulling her curly chestnut hair into a pony tail.
“Did she say anything about what—“
“Come on in and have a seat ladies,” Jenny said as the door swung open.
Butterflies danced in Buffy’s stomach as she tried to imagine what could possibly be going on. Maybe she and Fred were finally being offered teaching positions at the studio, or perhaps a special workshop performance was coming up and they’d been given important roles. Either way, judging from Jenny’s grin, the news had to be good.
“I think you both know that you’re among our strongest dancers,” she began slowly, “You’ve been performing in our principle company for two years now, and quite frankly, I think you’ve both reached the point where the American School of Ballet Arts is beneath you. You deserve to move your training to the serious professional level.”
The girls exchanged giddy, eager looks.
“So here's the offer I have for you: The Royal Ballet Company is recruiting the world’s top young dancers for an apprenticeship program, and they’ve asked us for two recommendations. Basically, the program will last for about six months in London and will be taught primarily by company members. At the end of this time there’ll be an exhibition performance by the student company that will also serve as an audition for the Royal Ballet, which as you know, is one of the top three performance ensembles in the world. Of course, realistically you can’t get your hopes up for that, since they only let in a small handful of new dancers a year to replace the age-outs. But any way you look at it, it would be a great experience. And it’s an excellent way to get your name out into the professional world as well as a star credit for your résumé…So what do you say?”
Both girls were completely speechless, staring at their teacher with mouths agape.
Jenny laughed, “I know it’s a big honor and a huge choice to make. Feel free to go home and think about it, but I’ll need an answer by Friday. Sorry for the short notice, but they literally just let us know and we need time to ask others should you decline. But you are the top picks, ladies. Congratulations.”
Buffy and Fred calmly thanked Jenny and asked for the time to think about the offer, but the second they stepped onto the sidewalk outside the studio, they both erupted into squeals and giggles, hugging and congratulating each other.
“Are you gonna go, Buffy? Come on you hafta go with me!” Fred shrieked.
“Oh my god, I want to so bad, but I don’t know. I need to ask my mom. I mean, I don’t even know if we can afford for me to live in London. And being that far away from L.A…and Parker.”
“Buffy, this is once in a lifetime! We can’t say no to this. Parker’s just gonna turn out to be another stupid jerk, cause no offense, you can’t really pick ‘em. And even if our parents can’t help with the cost, we can make it work. We’ll just get jobs over there, that’s all. And with an apprenticeship, I bet we get free housing at least.”
Buffy laughed at Fred’s honest jab at her dating history. She did have a point. “I know. I wouldn’t actually pass this up for a guy. My mom’s the real problem. I’ll try my best, but you know her.”
“Well hurry up and get home so you can start working on it! Call me later?”
“I will. See ya!”
Fred waved as she crossed the intersection in the direction of her parents’ house with an excited bounce in her step. Slinging her duffle bag over one shoulder, Buffy turned the opposite way toward the bus station on Sunset. God she would kill for a car. Fred had a brand new Honda but lived in walking distance of the studio. As sweet and selfless as her friend was, she really couldn’t understand the Summers’ money troubles. The Burkles owned a Spanish-style mansion with a fancy tiled roof and everything, while Buffy and her mother lived in a tiny duplex in a neighborhood commonly described as “sketch”.
Buffy smiled as she looked out into the hazy horizon while the sun slid behind the Hollywood hills. There was a real possibility that she was on the verge of becoming a world class ballerina. It was more than she’d ever hoped for.
--*--
What a shithole. After sobering up on Oz’s couch for the night, and then this morning vehemently denying that he’d ever challenged footballer Liam Flaherty to fisticuffs, Spike was back home to the hole of absolute shit. At least the rat problem had been taken care of, but it didn’t really help the fact that his flat was the size of a large closet. He’d never really gotten around to decorating the place. All his junk was just sort of piled up in the living room/dining room/bedroom. After pushing a tower of old Chinese takeout containers and dirty laundry out of the way, Spike plopped heavily onto the striped pull-out couch. He rolled over when he realized that he’d sat on something hard and uncomfortable. Reaching into the pocket of his leather duster (which Oz argued was way too goth for a punk/rock band), he pulled out Drusilla’s pointe shoe.
He just stared at it for a minute, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. The hard toe piece was worn, it’s color faded to a dull grey, while the ankle ribbons retained a soft, baby pink. Absently, Spike noticed that the little blue light was blinking on his answering machine. He aimed the shoe over his head and hurled it across the room at button. When the recorded voice began “You have one unheard message…” Spike held up his arms in victory at his perfect aim. Take that Liam. Poofter.
“William, this is your father. I haven’t heard from you in quite some time now, so I thought I’d give you a ring…If you’re there, you can pick up now (throat clearing). Yes, all right then, I suppose you’re off again on one of your drinking ventures. No—I—that’s not the reason I called…I don’t want to do this anymore, William. I understand that you’ve chosen a different path for your life, but cutting me off isn’t going to solve anything. If you could just…if you would give me a call, I’d be willing to talk things out. Well, I’m sure I won’t be hearing from you soon so…goodbye.”
“I don’t need your fucking help, ya ponce!” Spike hollered to the empty room.
Hollering made his head hurt. Examining the dried blood crusted over the knuckles of his left hand, he sighed. Time for a shower…and maybe a wank. Damn it, definitely a wank. God he was pathetic.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I am not giving up on Dreamtime--that one is pretty much mapped out until the end. But a small vacation from Puritan angst is always nice : ) This plot bunny attacked me in dance class the other day; and I just had to play with it, so here it is. I can definitely promise a happy ending!
The story will reference the pas de deux in The Sleeping Beauty so in case you have not seen it and would like to, here's a link:
Sleeping Beauty
The story will reference the pas de deux in The Sleeping Beauty so in case you have not seen it and would like to, here's a link:
Sleeping Beauty