Wes Dancing Fic

by
Savoy Truffle

Xander can be forgiven for failing to notice that Spike has come to stand beside him.

He’s busy.

Staring.

In horror.

A beer bottle appears in his line of vision.

Xander wraps his hand around it and tears his eyes away from the spectacle to meet Spike’s eyes.

“Looked like you could use it,” Spike says.

Truer words never were spoken. Xander downs half the bottle in one swallow. “What on earth was I thinking?” he asks.

Spike shrugs. “Pity?”

Xander takes another drink. “Possibly.”

They turn back and watch together. Xander’s never actually slowed down to watch a car wreck before, but he knows now what they mean about not being able to look away.

“Could be worse,” Spike says.

Xander nods his acceptance and wanders off to the kitchen to bring out more food, chatting with various guests on the way. When he returns to Spike’s side, nothing has changed. You’d think he’d get tired.

Or that someone would have figured a way to slip him a roofie by now.

“How?” Xander asks.

“How what?”

“How could it be worse? Really? I mean, short of zombie invasion.”

“Could be Angel,” Spike says.

“Could be Angel what? Standing in the corner and sucking the energy out of the room like a giant black hole of boring despair? Oh wait, no, he’s already doing that. And again with the what the fuck was I thinking.”

“Could be Angel dancing.”

“Hey, at least if he was dancing people would know – or you know, at least, think – he was alive. I wish he was dancing.”

“Bite your tongue,” Spike says.

“Oh, come on.” Xander turns to look at Spike, looks back across the room (where Wesley is shaking not only his groove thing but several other things best left unshaken), returns his gaze to Spike. “It’s not like it could be any worse than that.”

Spike looks him straight in the eye. “Could be,” he says. “Is.”

Xander takes another moment to study the flailing former Watcher, shakes his head. “Hyperbole, right? You’re exaggerating for effect.”

“Sadly, no.”

Xander’s imagination runs wild.

“Oh, thank god,” he says a few minutes later as Wesley’s hands fall to the side and he moves away from his self-made dance floor, apparently in search of ice to apply to his forehead.

Or Angel, who happens to be standing next to the ice bowl.

Xander starts in their direction, intending to stage some sort of intervention. Some woman he doesn’t recognize gets there first. He stops several feet away and watches as the woman greets Wesley, who promptly begins to choke on the mini-Reuben he’s just popped into his mouth.

“Nice sweater,” the woman says, through Wesley’s coughing fit. “Hand knit?”

“Certainly not by me,” Wesley says.

Xander cringes.

The woman manages not to.

“I didn’t mean…” she says. “I mean, it’s a great sweater.”

Wesley nods and smiles. “Oh, well, I-I’ll pass that on then.” He pauses. “To the person who knit it,” he clarifies. “I-I mean, I would, if I knew who did – but I don’t.” Xander considers setting the apartment on fire to put Wes out of his misery. “So I won’t pass it on to anyone, will I?” Wesley concludes.

Too bad Xander likes the apartment too much to burn it down. And anyway, the woman is walking away.

Xander’s surprised she’s not running.

Shaking his head, he abandons the mission for impossible and returns to Spike. “Okay, new rule. From now on…” Xander holds up his right hand. “Business.” He holds up the left. “Pleasure.” He draws the two hands even farther apart. “And never the twain shall mix.”

Or at least not without a couple more beers.

And some Jack

The party’s down to its last few stragglers – which, thankfully, do not include Angel or Wes – when Spike reappears at Xander’s side with the new offering.

“So,” Spike asks, “which one am I?”

“Huh?” Xander takes the square bottle by its round neck, blinks at the black label a couple times, shrugs and takes a drink. “Where’d this come from?”

“Tennessee.”

“Smartass.”

“Nicked it from some kid while he was busy puking all over his new cowboy boots.”

“Kyle,” Xander says. “And ew!” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, takes up the hem of his shirt and wipes it around the mouth of the bottle, hands the bottle back to Spike. “At least tell me he was outside.”

Spike nods. “Just try to steer clear of that potted palm until we’ve had a good rain.”

Xander makes a mental note.

“So...” Spike takes another hit from the bottle. “Which one?”

“And again I say – huh?”

Spike sets the bottle down and picks up Xander’s right hand. “Business?” He picks up Xander’s left hand. “Or pleasure?”

The End

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