There’s nowhere in Sunnydale to go for a beat like that, so she makes Spike take her to Los Angeles, reminding him that he’s hers, tracing her fingernail across his face. He’s hers and so they go, never mind that it’s too close to Angel and Cordelia and all their strange and unholy ways. She has to have a fucking beat, a beat to wake her from her poisoned dreams.
What’s sad is that they actually have to call Cordy, who has to call motherfucking Wesley of all people, to find a decent club. Spike threatens Cordy idly on the phone, tells her never to tell Angel, and Cordy snorts.
“Witness me not giving a shit about your freaky lives as long as you leave Angel out of it,” Cordy says before hanging up. Spike gets mad, but it’s not about Cordy being a bitch–that’s par for the course–it’s about finding somewhere to dance.
Faith always danced to feel alive.
They look good walking down Santa Monica Boulevard with Spike’s arm draped around her as he sneers at everyone. They’re skinny and beautiful and glam and all the other glittery flowers want to be them. Buffy wonders if they’d want to be if they knew they were both dead and cold.
The club is awesome and she wonders for about ten seconds how Wesley gets into the place before smirking at the faux-fur clad bimbettes who get left behind at the door as she and Spike cruise in.
Yes, this is the place. The beat’s fast, it’s pulsing fast and before Spike can find a bartender to make them a pair of martinis she’s in the middle of the dance floor, her arms thrown up, moving as fast as she can in leather pants and a tube top.
Spike scowls, gets a drink anyway. She doesn’t care.
Doesn’t give a
this feeling never subsides.
The beat can never stop or she’ll die. She’s already feeling something pulsing in her veins, in her nerves, in all those dead parts of hers she thought would never be warm again.
There are so many LIVING people here. None of them are skulking around corners, cold and reptilian, watching her because they’re dead inside.
She’s surrounded by warmth, anonymous, clean warmth that doesn’t try to take something from her. It’s empty, but it’s giving to her anyway. The beat is so wonderful and it’s getting
this feeling never subsides.
Missing Faith. She does all of a sudden, a hard feeling to get in the middle of all the warm bodies. Faith wouldn’t have let her feel dead. Faith wouldn’t skulk off for a drink.
Faith is crazy, but she’s always alive.
Faith would have fucked her brains out and now that she’s been dead and now that she’s cold, she would like that.
So many people here. And Spike. Spike’s the one she has to go home with. She’d hate him except that he’s useful and if she needs him, she has him. But she doesn’t really need him now that she’s here with the beat and the heat and all the people.
She dances away from him when he tries to get close, losing herself in a world where it’s just her body, nonlethal movements, hips shaking, knees bending, arms fluttering around and if Buffy can add another degree to the fire, she’ll be warm again.
She sees a girl and maybe she knows this girl, maybe she doesn’t. Dark eyes, strange fire in them. Dark hair. She seems familiar but this girl doesn’t look like anyone Buffy knows.
I can’t help this longing.
I can’t hold it all in.
The dark-haired girl looks at her and smiles the kind of smile Buffy knows. Faith had that smile once. She looks toward Spike, who is hovering. Buffy shakes her head, she slides over toward the girl. The beat is slower now, not slow at all, just not so fast that she, Buffy, can’t think.
In this whirlwind–in this silence–I believe.
She brushes up against the girl and maybe she thought she knew the girl, but she doesn’t. The girl is just a girl, pretty, thin, nice lipstick on her lips. They don’t speak, they just start dancing. Spike doesn’t let up but Buffy didn’t expect him to. She draws him in, rubbing against him while the girl grinds against her and for a moment they’re a total spectacle. Reality and fantasy.
And six million ways to die.
She pulls away from Spike, leans into the girl, who has hot breath that burns against her shoulder. Warm, very, very warm and she turns around and pulls that girl against her, with such big, dark eyes that she could drink up.
Buffy isn’t necessarily into girls. But she wants this one and the dark voice in the back of her head, the voice that’s the most alive of all the little voices in the back of her head, says the way to feel heat is to find all the warm skin she can.
She tugs at the girl’s hand, giving her a look that’s all need and raw nerves and desire. The girl’s eyes light up like she’s won the lottery and the two of them disappear into the crowd, leaving cold and dead behind, leaving Spike to sputter and get over it.
The girls’ bathroom is dirty and pretty empty and they can hear the beat through the walls and the metal walls of bathroom stalls. That’s a good thing, because Buffy still needs the beat, needs it as much as she needs the warm skin squirming under her hands like a gift from God in his heaven above.
She kisses the girl and it’s all tongues and pushing her up against the door of the bathroom stall and hearing this whimpery sort of porny moan and feeling it all the way down her spine. The girl’s got her hand under the tube top and is rubbing against the side of Buffy’s breast, and damn it feels real. Feels the way desire is supposed to feel, all crazy and awkward and hot as hell.
Did Faith do this? Why is she thinking about Faith when she’s got some girl’s tongue tracing the alphabet along her jawline? Cuz Faith was like this dark version of her, the version who knew that life was a cosmic joke but that the only way to enjoy it was to find a beat and dance with it til you forgot it was just a joke.
Buffy moves her hand to the waistband of the girl’s skirt and tries to decide the best way to do this. She’s not really experienced in girls. The girl giggles and goes back to sucking on her naked shoulder. God almighty, feels good.
She’s got her hand under the girl’s skirt, deciding that it’s easier that way and the girl has pulled off Buffy’s tube top and is doing something to Buffy’s right nipple that’s making it hard to concentrate
The girl bites down gently and Buffy’s hips buck and suddenly her body wants all the attention. She pulls the girl’s hand toward her crotch and the girl looks up and smiles and nods, undoing the buttons on Buffy’s leather pants. There’s this funny, evil gleam in her eyes as she pulls the pants and the underwear down halfway and Buffy’s exposed, slight case of nudity and she’s going crazy.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” the girl whispers as she slides three fingers into Buffy. Slides in and out in and out
Buffy closes her eyes and starts rubbing her own breasts, twisting the nipples back and forth violently.
This doesn’t have to be a girl.
Just something warm, someone who’s got three fingers in her and is breathing heavy because she’s watching Buffy squirm and wriggle and
Buffy catches her breath. Almost almost almost there if the girl just touches there
The music changes.
Slower but stranger, but with a beat and the girl’s not paying any attention, she’s going to make Buffy come hard because the slow isn’t slow enough to make the warm and the good and the oh god she’s touching
do you call out his name when your conscience is shivering?
she’s touching she’s touching her fingers are moving fast the girl is warm and human and real and oh and oh and oh and oh
could you fake your reflection, child?
Buffy comes and goes and is lost in the beat and found in the beat and that girl is still there and that girl looks like Faith, looks like dark eyes dark hair does she know this girl doesn’t matter she’s coming hard and it’s good it’s good it’s very very good
very very very
She’s sticky now and still naked where it counts.
The girl looks at her and licks her lips.
The music changes.