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Author's Chapter Notes:
Despite the hilarity of Buffyisms and her constant inability to pronounce demon names in the Whedonverse, this Buffy is obviously a writer and therefore must have a stronger vocabulary. I only realised this when I wrote the word 'iota' during the section in her voice.
So in this chapter I was, and still continue to be a bit unsure about characterisation of Spike and Buffy but I will one day, go back and edit the first three chaps. Rated NC-17 for future chapters.

As always, all characters are the property of Joss Whedon and ME. The idea and plot is my idea, while the borrowing of said characters and certain snips of dialogue are used only for entertainment purposes with no copyright infringement intended.
Chapter Three: Dinner Date

My bleedin’ tie wouldn’t sit right. I had been ’twixting it from left to right all night, but the damn Windsor knot just wouldn’ lay right.

“William, come over and meet Mr Blaisdell. He’s the Vice President of the LGBT Writer’s Society.” Angel beckoned and I was expected to come running. Stupid sod. I wanted to rip his head off. But I walked over to the large, beefy men and jammed my hands into my pockets.

“Actually, Mr Angel, I’m the President. Mr Finn here is my vice.”

I sniggered and Angel glared at me.

“Well, men, I’ll leave you to your vices. I’ll be at the bar.”

I could tell from the almost-growl that erupted from that angelic throat that I was in trouble with the big man. He took one step forward and opened his mouth as if to say ‘If I hear one more ungrateful word from your mouth-’ but he was cut short by his chit of a secretary. Brunette and skimpy, she was. Her little skirt rode up as she tapped him on the stupidly wide shoulder.

“She’s here and she’s not happy.”

For the sake of Angel’s precious face, I thought, his secretary better not mean my girl.

There she was, blonde tresses dripping perfectly down the edges of her pretty lil face. My eyes flew down to her breasts that were pushed together from her tight black halter-neck dress that swirled out down to her feet in delicate drapes. A pretty red headed girl in a Grecian styled emerald dress was trying to calm Anne Summers down when they walked into the ballroom. Miss Summers had a look of thunder across her brow. I tried again to flatten down my tied as I cautiously stepped towards her.

I had to run out of the apartment when Angel had rung asking me where I was. I yelled at him for about a minute and a half about him stealing my girl and trying to flaunt it off tonight when he asked what the hell I was talking about. I ranted for another minute until he said, “Look, I didn’t invite you to show off anything. I just knew you loved Anne Summer’s books and she is going to be opening the Writers’ Festival with a quick speech.”

I had growled when I asked him whether he and Miss Summers were an item. He just laughed and hung up on me. That’s why my bloody tie was crocked. I ran out of me place with fire burning on my toes, trying to dress and run at the same time. I had to know why Peaches had laughed.

He had ignored me as soon as I got to the Casino, breath heaving and hand patting down my cornflower tie.

Captain Forehead made a move to walk over to Miss Summers, leaving me with Secretary Slut but Miss Summer’s glower told him to stand right where he was, next to me. Well, that was until she saw me.

****


I poked Willow hard in the stomach.

“Oomph. Buffy, what the hell did you do that for?”

“He’s here. Busboy is here!” She looked around, her eyes scanning the crowd of well dressed butt-monkeys. I nervously hissed at her not to look at the most gorgeous man with the rumbled tie and ruffled blonde hair standing next to Angel.

“Go on, go over to him.”

I hissed again. She looked at me like I had just rolled in dog poo.

“Okay…huh? What do you mean ‘you can’t’. Of course you can. There’s cans and can’ts you can and can’t do and this you can.” I looked at her pleadingly.

“See this face? You know what it means.”

Her resolve only strengthened when I proceeded to complain. I sighed a sigh of ‘fine’ and pushed my shoulders back, brought my head up and my breasts forward only to run into Parker Abrams.

“What do you want, Parker?” My bitter tone didn’t register on his all too boyish face.

He smiled, not at all politely.

“You think I could get a dance with the prettiest girl at the party?” I scoffed and looked at him properly. He hadn’t changed one iota.

“Get out of my way Parker I’m off to see a man with a soul.”

He sneered, catching my arm as I tried to pass him. Before I could put him down, right on his arse, a pale arm grabbed Parker’s clutching hand.

“You don’t want to be doing that.” A snarl curved his lovely lip up, frightening the idiot into backing away.

“Hello love.” If only I could describe the colour of those eyes. There were too many names for blue that couldn’t ever truly show the sparkle and shine that made this blue so very different.

“You hung up on me before I could tell you my name.”

“You had tall, dark and forehead over at your place. And I already know your name.” His body was so close, his fingers hovering over my limp arms.

“Angel? He’s my publisher.”

“And that scum?”

“Parker. He’s manipulative and shallow. So I, uh…”

“Let him take a poke?” He said with a wicked smirk. His hands moved lower to hover over my hips. His head was almost against my forehead.

“Urgh, you’re a pig.” Said too soft to be an insult. But he stepped back and took a grabbed a flute of champagne that floated by on a waiter’s tray.

“And then?” I could see the need in his eyes; he wanted to know something.

“And then came lots of beer.”

He chuckled but a silence quickly drifted between us. I wanted him. But I couldn’t make my usually eloquent mouth produce the much needed words.

“I’d better get back to Willow.”

“I think Red’s a bit busy now, love.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw a cute red-headed guy hesitantly talking to Willow.

He smiled, opening those lips to say something else in that deadly sexy accent. But chimes rung throughout the frosted ballroom air. It was dinner time.

“My name’s Buffy.” I whispered as I trailed into the crowd moving to the tables. My fingers tinkled a tiny wave to him.

****


I watched the minx. Her mouth barely opened enough to slip the silver of the fork in to be cleaned so thoroughly. Her eating was seductive, tempting and way too sexy to be done in public ever again. I wanted her. I could pick her voice out from anywhere, and whenever she took the time to swallow those small bites of food she slid into her precious mouth, she chatted to the girl at her side. Her words were like those on the page, thoughtful and witty and so much more. The depth with which her eyes shone reflected in her inflection as she talked. I knew I was staring but I couldn’t help it. That mouth was a muse; forming and breathing and discussing the beautiful words which graced her mind.

She occasionally saw me staring and blush tinted those perfect gold cheeks.

Buffy. Her name was Buffy. So Anne Summers was just a pen name, concocted to hide behind. But she couldn’t hide from me, not anymore.

I could barely wait for dinner to be over. To be near her again. She was so close. Her body smelt like the night blooming jasmine ground into orange peel. She was sweet and bitter and so very close. I wanted to push her up against the twinkling walls and–

I snapped out of it when, once again, the chimes filled the air. Dinner was over and the talks were about to begin. Three guest speakers were to chat about poetry and writing and everything I cared about unless Buffy was in the room. My eyes couldn’t stay on the greying man at the podium; drifting back to her delectable body.

I snapped out of the stupor I had created, lusting at the very idea of her touching me again. And this time, more than just her knee. Angel had shoved me, his eyes trying to point daggers. I just smirked at the git and looked back at her empty chair. I hurriedly scanned, not wanting to ever take my eyes off her again, and found her standing at the podium.

A few clicks of cameras, the press, whirred as she hesitantly started off her speech with a joke.

“Some of you don’t know this but my real name isn’t Anne Summers. Anne is my middle name because my mother gave me a given name that is too embarrassing in literary circles.” She coughed ‘Buffy’ into her hand and looked back up at the glamour sitting at the tables until her greened eyes landed on mine.

I was gone. I couldn’t hear what she said, only look into those depths of solitude and wisdom. All the years of existentialist deconstruction-ism as I pandered around with Ripper, not knowing what to do with ourselves asking why we were here, were suddenly gone. I knew my place, looking into those knowledge abysses.

She only broke eye contact when her speech had finished and she looked down to step off of the podium.

What had I gotten myself into?





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