Dirty Dancing plot + Buffyverse characters = human AU crack/charity fic being written for moosesal.

(In spite of this being crack!fic, however, when I say 'Buffyverse characters,' I don't just mean names and bodies of Buffyverse characters given to Dirty Dancing characters. I do intend for these characterizations to be true to the shows. If you think they're not, please call me on it via comments or email. I should probably mention that I will be randomly ripping off dialogue from both sources. If you compliment me on one of these lines, I will admit to having stolen it.

Thanks, as always, to reremouseand cordelianne

Dirty Dancing Spander Style

by
Savoy Truffle

Part One
Recall

I didn’t want to go.

I mean, traveling the world? Sure. Yeah. Sign me up.

Traveling the world with my mother, stepfather and step sister for thirty days and twenty-nine nights? Trapped on a boat? Not exactly an eighteen-year-old fantasy dream vacation.

But no one asked me.

They told me.

Well, Hank told mom and mom told me and that was that. Because if Hank wanted the “family” to bond, then the family was damn well gonna bond. Or something like that.

Because nothing says bonding like forced proximity.

And far be it from me to ask Hank if he’d ever happened to see an episode of “The Real World.”

Okay, so I did ask him.

He told me to get packing.

“Gee, Buff, think you brought enough shoes?” The question came between grunts as Xander hauled the fifth piece in Buffy’s matching luggage set from the back of the Escalade.

Buffy stopped frowning down at her pedicure long enough to frown up at her step brother. “I don’t know,” she said, without a trace of irony. “I’ve been thinking about it all the way here. I mean, obviously the Fendi, the Blumarine and the Prada.”

“Obviously,” Xander echoed.

“And then I brought both the Jimmy Choos—because, you know, cruisewear—but then there was no room for the Manolos and there’s this one skirt that just isn’t the same without—”

“I’m sure you’ll look beautiful, Buffy,” Jessica said softly, lighting a cigarette. “You always do.”

Hank Summers walked around from the driver’s side to slip an arm around Jessica’s waist as he watched Xander remove the bags. “And whatever you didn’t bring, you can always buy on the ship or at one of the ports.”

Buffy’s face lit up at the prospect of shopping. “Good point, Dad.” It fell again. “I totally should have brought an extra bag.”

“Xander…” The amount of condescension that Hank Summers could pack into two syllables never ceased to amaze. “I’m sure they have people to take the bags.”

As if on cue, a young man in uniform appeared at Xander’s side and reached for the next suitcase. “Yes, in fact, they do,” said a smooth British voice. “And I would be one of them. I apologize for the delay, sir.”

“Careful with that,” Xander warned. “We’re talking obscene amounts of shoe. You might throw your back out.”

“I’m quite used to it.” The young man smiled at Xander—very nice smile. “Trust me, I’m stronger than I look.”

Something in Xander’s stomach fluttered at the words, or maybe it was the smile. Didn’t matter. He held out his hand. “I’m Xander.”

“Wesley,” the man said, putting down the last of the bags and closing the back before reaching out to shake Xander’s hand. “But my mates call me Wes.”

“Xander, come on,” Jessica called. “We need to check in.”

Xander removed his hand from Wesley’s, feeling reluctant, and smiled an apology. “Gotta go. Duty calls. Nice to meet you, Wes.”

“Welcome aboard, Mister and Missus Summers.”

“Hank and Jessica, please.”

“Hank and Jessica,” the attractive and athletic looking brunette repeated, smiling as she stepped forward to shake each of their hands in turn. “I’m Sally, the ship’s Activities Director. I just wanted to take a moment to welcome you and let you know that we’ve got a very exciting activities schedule this trip.” Her eyes and smile traveled to Xander and Buffy. “Should be fun for the whole family.”

Xander tilted his head and held up his index fingers. “When you say ‘fun for the whole family,’ are we talking enough fun in enough different parts of this boat that we never actually have to see each other, or all-ages bingo night?”

“I think you’ll find that there’s plenty for you all to do both individually and together. In fact, Dru’s leading an introductory salsa mixer right now just over there in the main lounge that I bet you’d all enjoy.”

“Okay, no offense, but—family, enjoyment and mixer? Kinda unmixy things, Sal.”

“Xander,” Jessica warned under her breath, “we talked about attitude.”

But Sally just smiled at him. “Give this trip a chance, kid. It might surprise you.”

Xander still wasn’t sure about the trip, but he had to admit – Dru, the salsa instructor?

Definitely surprising.

For one thing, he was expecting someone a little… perkier.

Maybe a little more tan.

And possibly slightly more specific in the whole teaching thing.

“Your hips! Your hips!” she cried over the sound of the music, clapping her hands as she twirled around the room.

But Xander was too busy staring at his feet and trying to get them to match the other feet around him to pay much attention to her—or to his hips, until he felt slender hands resting on them.

The hands were followed by sharp hipbones, which pressed into his backside and, in a move that definitely had to count as naughty touching, guided his pelvis in a figure eight. “One, two, three, Kitten” she whispered in his ear. “If you want the boys to stare, you have to move your hips.”

Which, okay, yeah, was kind of a goal. Or maybe not the staring, but you know—the noticing would be good. But still, it wasn’t exactly a goal he made a habit of advertising, so how did this woman…?

She was gone before he could turn around and ask.

The Summerses had already headed for greener pastures by time the Harris gave up on the salsa—which suited the Harris just fine. He might have been the one living in the house these last couple of years while Buffy lived it up at boarding school, but that didn’t make him the one that belonged.

The elders had probably found a bar by now and Buffy would be in the middle of agonizing over what to wear to dinner in three hours. Experience suggested it was best to give Buffy, her clothes, her shoes and her makeup time to wash over the cabin and recede a little before trying to carve out a little Xander-shaped space in the corner.

So, in the meantime… exploration. Preferably of places likely to provide pre-dinner snackage.

About five minutes into his expedition, Xander came across Sally the Activities Director. He thought about admitting to her that he might actually have enjoyed the salsa class just a little, but she was talking to a young blond woman in a business suit and it looked serious and he wasn’t sure if he should interrupt.

Sally, however, felt no such uncertainty, judging by the way she reached out and grabbed his arm as he tried slip past.

“Mr. Summers!” she said with a sort of cheerful desperation. Or perhaps it was a desperate cheerfulness. “How was the salsa class?”

“Harris,” Xander said. He was pretty sure her grip was gonna leave bruises. “And more fun than I expected, I gotta admit.”

“Great!” Sally said, and her smile wasn’t even smug. “You’ll have to try out some dance classes while you’re here.” She turned to the woman in the business suit. “Anya, this is Harris Summers, Hank Summers’ son.”

“Xander,” Xander said. “Xander Harris. And step-son.”

“Hank Summers, the highly successful plastic surgeon?” If Anya hadn’t taken note of Xander before, she certainly was now. Sally nodded and Anya’s smile grew wide as she stepped closer and extended her hand. “Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins, Assistant Cruise Director. I am very pleased to meet a man like you, Mr. Summers.”

“Harris,” Xander said. Firm would have been one word for the handshake and he wasn’t sure she was going to let go.

“And you may call me Anya,” Anya said. “It’s good for us to be on a first name basis.”

“Xander,” Xander said.

“Bless you,” Anya said.

But based on the conversation so far, Xander figured if there were any gods at all in the universe, he wasn’t so much blessed as forsaken.

“You can call me Xander,” he said. Because apparently he enjoyed banging his head against proverbial walls.

Anya tilted her head at him. “Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s my name?”

“You said your name was Harris.”

“Harris is my last name.”

Anya’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were Hank Summers’ son.”

“Step-son, and believe me when I say I’m so not making the will.”

The statement gave Anya pause… for about two seconds. “Well, are you at least pre-med?”

Xander wondered if there was such a thing as “pre-undeclared.” He looked to where Sally had been standing for some sort of out, but she had slipped away while he wasn’t looking, which he realized must have been her plan all along.

Sneaky bastard.

He considered looking for some non-proverbial walls to bang his head against, but gave a mental shrug instead and looked back at Anya who was frowning at him again.

“What kind of name is Xander, anyway?”

Xander was in love. Love at first sight and he could do nothing but stand and stare. Well, stand, stare and drool.

He had the drooling down.

Definitely a major salivation situation.

Somewhere in the course of Anya’s thorough cross-examination regarding his future plans and estimated earning potential, Xander had managed to get a word in edgewise.

He’d chosen that word carefully.

Hungry.

And it almost made up for everything that came before this that Anya had brought him here. Here to the kitchens. Here where he was standing in front of the largest collection of chocolate, chocolate-flavored, chocolate-filled and chocolate-covered desserts he’d seen in his entire—if somewhat short—life.

And perhaps that life had ended when he wasn’t looking.

Because this had to be heaven.

And just when Xander was vowing never to take his eyes from the holy object of his devotion… in walked an angel.

He passed right between Xander and the chocolate—blue eyes, a face hand-carved by God himself, and platinum blond hair shining like a halo—and as he passed he took Xander’s gaze with him, away from the chocolate and across the room to a cluster of tables at its far side where members of the wait staff sat eating an early dinner.

Xander watched as the angel swaggered up to a waiter with dark hair and broad shoulders and stopped.

“Angel,” the angel said—more like growled—and then he reached out, casual as can be, and tipped a glass of what looked like Coke right into the waiter’s lap. “Oops,” Xander’s obviously mislabeled angel said, without an ounce of sincerity. “Sorry ’bout that, mate.”

The waiter, who was apparently named Angel, leapt out of the chair, the once-white pants of his uniform brown and dripping. Two other waiters jumped up after him and grabbed his arms to hold him back.

“Don’t start with me, Spike,” Angel warned, tugging at the arms that held him.

And Xander was pretty sure he’d be babbling an apology about now or possibly fleeing, but the blond just stepped closer, further into Angel’s space, and two of his own friends moved into hover behind him, ready to pull him back or fight by his side if necessary.

But it wasn’t.

After a long, tense stare down, Xander’s walking-wet-dream stepped back on his own.

“’S already started, mate. But one of these days, you and I are gonna finish it. That’s a promise.” And with one last meaningful smirk in the direction of Angel’s dripping crotch, he just turned and walked away.

Xander watched him go—red silk shirt, jeans tighter than sin and a beat-up pair of Doc Martens—and wondered what had ever made him think angel.

Spike, that’s what the waiter had called him and Xander turned the name around in his head.

Spike.

Hated to see him go, but loved to watch him leave, and Xander wasn’t seeing any point in being good if this was the scenery in hell.

“Xander?”

Xander blinked and tore his eyes away from Spike’s ass, turned to look at Anya, who was offering him a piece of chocolate cake.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching out to take the plate and fork. It only took him a minute or two to finish, taking big forkfuls and swallowing without tasting much.

He handed the plate back and excused himself to get ready for dinner.

Part Two

Xander hated tuxes. Tuxes were hot, heavy and uncomfortable and they made you do stupid things like kiss girls you had no business kissing because not only did they already have boyfriends, but all you really wanted was a boyfriend of your own.

Tuxes made you look dumb and act dumber and they came with shoes that pinched your toes.

Tuxes were for bad high school proms and worse family weddings and had no place even being allowed on a vacation, let alone required.

Xander tugged at his bow tie, but as soon as he let go, it slipped right back into place, choking him.

Stupid formal night.

“Don’t you just love this?” Buffy asked, punching Xander’s arm to punctuate.

It hurt way more than it should’ve and Xander thought about telling her that punching and prom dresses didn’t mix, but that would probably be sexist—and was likely to get him punched again. Xander frowned as he resisted the urge to rub his arm. The girl was tiny, but freakishly strong.

(And once upon a time being hit by Buffy was pretty much guaranteed to give Xander a hard-on—which was pretty fucked up if you thought about it even if Buffy wasn’t his real sister—but thankfully those days had passed.)

“I wish every night were a formal night. I mean, do I look fabulous or do I look fabulous?”

Xander had to admit, Buffy did look good.

Or at least he would have had to admit it if their waiter, Angel, hadn’t swept in from out of nowhere to pull out Buffy’s chair, flash her his ‘shy but soulful’ grin, and say, “I think you’re the prettiest girl in the room, Buffy.”

He said it in a soft voice—the one he always used with Buffy—soft and sincere, like he was more awkward than operator.

But Xander had his doubts.

Buffy glowed.

Xander glowered.

It was only their second dinner there, but something about the waiter irked Xander, made him want to play big brother. But before Xander could fire the warning glare that would surely have Mister Shy-and-Soulful quivering in his waiterly boots, Angel was turning away to greet two older men approaching the table.

Angel smiled at them and Xander’s jaw tightened.

Angel’s smile irked Xander, too.

Irked Xander especially, as a matter of fact.

“Good evening, gentlemen, and welcome to the dining room. I’m your waiter, Angel, and this is the Summers family. I’ll just let you all get to know each other and be right back with tonight’s menu.”

Hank stood up and stretched his arm across the table to exchange handshakes with the men, but Xander was confused. What were these random old guys doing at their table?

“I’m Hank and this is my wife, Jessica, my daughter, Buffy and my step-son, Xander.”

(Like Xander, Hank enjoyed being clear about the non-biologicalness of their relationship.)

“I’m Rupert.” The accent sounded British. “And this is my partner, Ethan. I’m sorry we weren’t able to make it last night. I’m afraid…”

“He was a bit tied up,” the other man, Ethan, explained, and something about tone had Xander looking up just in time to catch a fleeting smirk.

They pulled out their chairs and sat down—Ethan right next to Xander—and Xander finally remembered that this was part of the whole cruise thing.

Assigned seating with strangers.

Which seemed like kind of a social crap shoot, but then again, if the known was twenty-eight more evenings with his family, what did Xander really have to lose?

“Partners,” Jessica said. “How nice. What do you do?”

“I’m an archivist,” Rupert said.

“And I… dabble in photography,” said Ethan.

Jessica frowned.

Rupert chuckled. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“I earn my keep,” Ethan told the table. Rupert looked skeptical. Ethan leaned toward Xander and lowered his voice. “It occasionally becomes necessary to remind Rupert exactly why he keeps me around.”

“Though I tend to prefer he not do that in public,” Rupert said.

“Most of the time,” Ethan added with a wink.

Xander blinked. Was it just him or did that sound kinda dirty?

“That’s enough, Ethan.”

Ethan leaned toward Xander again. “He keeps me on a short leash.”

Okay—that? Definitely dirty.

Xander blushed. Hank and Jessica exchanged a look.

Angel arrived just in time to break the growing silence. “Are you ready to hear about the menu?”

After he had finished describing the dishes on offer and everyone had placed their orders, Angel walked off and the silence returned.

And lingered.

Awkward looks were exchanged.

Except by Buffy, who was studying her fingernails. Suddenly, she looked up and Xander watched the light come on. “Oh,” she said, “partners!”

Apparently, it wasn’t bad enough that Xander was trussed up in a tux on what was supposed to be a vacation, because after dinner he found himself on a dance floor.

With Anya.

Doing the white man’s shuffle and listening to her talk about the investment portfolio she’d started building.

In high school.

Someday, when I’m awfully low…

A woman was singing on stage, backed by a quartet of live musicians. He watched Angel and Buffy dance by. Buffy looked like she was having the time of her life.

And the world is cold…

Xander wanted to reach out, grab Angel and…

“So what kind of investments do you prefer?” Anya asked.

Xander’s eyes focused back on Anya. He blinked. “Uh… do Babylon 5 collectors plates count?”

A second of silence and then Anya laughed. She sounded like a member of the live studio audience. “You’re so funny,” she said.

Xander wished he was kidding.

A few seconds later, there was a break in the music and Xander was looking for an excuse to sit this one out when he caught a flash of platinum blond out of the corner of his eye. He turned to watch that flash weave through the crowd toward the center of the dance floor as the opening notes began to play.

That’s all I wanted, the singer’s voice crawled up his spine, low and smooth, something special, something sacred… in your eyes.

The crowd cleared the center of the floor, offering Xander a full view, and then and there he took back every bad thing he’d ever said—hell, every bad thing he’d ever thought—about tuxes.

Because Spike in a tux?

A thing of beauty.

And when Spike started to move?

Beauty didn’t even begin to cover it.

For just one moment, to be bold and naked… at your side…

And suddenly Xander knew exactly what Dru had been saying about the hips.

Then she was there, too. Dru. In a dress that floated around her breasts and thighs like scarlet smoke. And they were moving together. Two pairs of feet. Two sets of hips. Slow and sharp and liquid all at once and holy shit couldn’t you get arrested for doing that in public?

I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand in mine. I will be your preacher teacher, anything you had in mind…

“What is that?” Xander asked, his voice little more than a whisper, as if anything more would break the spell.

The question might have been rhetorical, but Anya answered, her regular too-blunt tone showing no awareness of the magic before her. “Oh, those are the dance people,” she said. “Guests spend more money when they’re entertained. They also pay for dance lessons. And then they have to buy drinks before they have the courage to dance. It’s very lucrative.”

Xander hadn’t taken his eyes of the couple and somehow Dru’s leg was over Spike’s shoulder and you’d think that would look uncomfortable, but it looked amazing.

“No,” Xander said. “I mean, what are they doing?”

“Well,” Anya’s blunt tone shifted into one of disapproval, “they’re supposed to be splitting up and dancing with other people now. That’s what sells lessons.”

And they couldn’t have heard her from across the floor, but somehow Dru and Spike were splitting apart and choosing other partners from the crowd and the spell was broken and Xander was resentful.

“No,” he said again, turning back to Anya. “The dance they were doing? What was it?”

“Oh. That was the rumba. It’s really easy. Want me to show you?”

Xander stared at her. “You know how to do that?”

“Sure,” Anya said. “Social dancing is a valuable skill and I get lessons for free. I’ll show you.” She took his left hand in her right and placed her left on his right shoulder and began back-leading him in a clumsy box-step. “Side, together, forward. Side, together, back. See? It’s easy.”

“Okay—what we’re doing? Is not what they were doing.”

“Of course it is.” She back-led him through another box-step. “It’s the rumba.”

Xander shook his head. “No. That?” He gestured toward the center of the floor. “Was having sex on the dance floor. What we’re doing here?” He looked down between them. “Basically the dance equivalent of splitting a poppy seed muffin over a cup of coffee.”

Anya thought about that for a moment, then shrugged, dropping her hands away from him. “I need to go check on some stuff.”

For a moment it seemed like she was just going to walk off and Xander thought he was going to let her, but a few steps away, she turned back.

“You could come help, if you want.”

He didn’t want. Really didn’t. And the excuses were lining up behind his lips, but she looked a little sad and he kept his lips closed, quirking them into a half smile as he shrugged and followed her out of the ballroom.

By the time Xander made it back to his cabin, he’d pretty much decided he was never leaving it again. “Checking on some stuff” had turned out to consist of visits to every evening cruise he’d never wanted to attend and more.

Bingo night, for example, where a bevy of biddies had set upon Xander and cheek-pinched him within an inch of his life. And he wasn’t just talking facial cheeks.

Then, the magic show, where Xander had been dragged onstage to have a series of coins and other obnoxious objects pulled from behind his ears. Because it was always nice to have your least favorite facial feature spotlighted. Literally.

And, not to be forgotten, the karaoke bar, where Xander’s ears (and ass) had suffered further indignities at the hands (and voices) of drunken middle managers and plastered soccer moms. He’d never be able to hear “Copacabana” again without suffering post-traumatic flashbacks.

So, yeah, unless there was a well hidden alternative to the mainstream evening choices, Xander was planning to spend the month ordering a lot of in-cabin pay-per-view.

A heavy sigh slipped from Xander’s lips as he stripped off his tux jacket, kicked off his dress shoes and grabbed the remote, flipping on the TV as he flopped on his back on the bed.

He woke an hour or so later when Buffy came in.

“Hey, Xan,” she said, kicking off her heels and setting her purse on the table before she disappeared into the bathroom to take off her face.

Xander groaned as he rolled out of bed and stripped down to his boxer shorts, intending to get right back in, but at the last minute, he changed his mind. He threw on a pair of jeans, instead. Followed by a tee shirt, an overshirt and a pair of sneakers.

“I’m just gonna get some air,” he called through the bathroom door. He waited for a grunt that sounded affirmative, then slipped out the door.

Things were quiet outside on the upper deck. He strolled along its length toward the stern, then leaned against the railing and gazed out into the black waves for a while, listening to the sounds of the engine way down below.

The air off the ocean was cool and when he felt himself starting to shiver, Xander headed back inside. He headed down a floor and the hallways seemed deserted, but then he rounded a corner and ran straight into…

“Wes?”

Yes, it was Wes, who was struggling not to drop the trays of food balanced on his arms. Xander reached out to grab the top tray as it tried to slide off the rest. It was full of cheese.

“Xander.” Wes peered at him over the top of the trays he was still holding. “You startled me. What are you doing up so late?”

“Just wandering. Didn’t feel like sleeping. Can I help you get this stuff wherever it’s going?”

Wes shook his head. “Oh, no. No guests allowed. Besides, I can manage. You should get back to your cabin.”

“Really, it’s no trouble. I don’t mind helping.”

Wes shook his head again and added a smirk. “So I noticed. I saw you helping Ms Anya Christina Emanuella Jenkins tonight. Tell me, has she picked out her engagement ring yet?”

Xander scowled and lifted the cheese tray, dropping it into Wesley’s arms on top of the others. Wes shifted and tried to keep the balance.

“Later, Wes,” Xander said, starting down the hall. After a few steps, he turned back. “Oh, and for the record, Anya’s not exactly my… type.”

“Xander, wait.” The trays hadn’t reached equilibrium and Wes kept shifting. “Can you keep a secret?”

Xander walked back to Wes and reclaimed the cheese tray. The other trays settled into balance and the two boys smiled at each other over the food.

“What is this stuff, anyway?”

“Leftovers,” Wes said. “C’mon. Follow me.”

Part Three

He could feel the rhythm of the bass vibrating in his chest even before they reached the windowless door in the center of the hallway. Before Wesley balanced the trays on one arm, turned the handle and nudged his way inside, releasing the words and melody.

Ooh lordy, trouble so hard, don't nobody know my troubles but God, nobody knows my troubles but God…

The room was dim and smoky and it took a minute for Xander’s eyes to adjust from the bright too-white light of the hallway, but what he saw—when he could see it—made his breath catch.

Xander used to sit in math class and think about gay clubs. Thought about them for months before he admitted that curiosity looked a lot like longing. Thought about them for almost a year before he turned eighteen and worked up the courage to actually go to one.

He’d gone alone, of course.

At about nine-thirty because it was a half-hour drive and he’d had an eleven o’clock curfew.

He’d gone alone at nine-thirty and stood in the corner of the converted warehouse, which was dark and mostly empty, and the few people who’d been there had been clustered around the bar, which he hadn’t wanted to approach because all he could see was rows and rows of bottles and he hadn’t had a fake ID and he’d probably have thrown it all up anyway the first time he tried to talk to someone, which he’d had no intention of doing because the music had been blaring and he’d have had to shout to be heard and he’d known his pickup lines were too bad to be whispered, let alone yelled.

He’d stood there in that corner for an hour, looking away whenever anyone looked in his direction, and it was nothing like he’d imagined in math class—no one there had been dancing or had seemed to be having any fun, least of all him—and he’d driven home disappointed, disenchanted and still alone.

But this? Here?

Here—in the unlikeliest of places—was exactly what he used to imagine.

A crush of bodies.

Moving bodies.

Bodies moving in time, in rhythm, in synch.

Bodies of girls with bodies of boys, sure. But boys’ bodies with other boys’ bodies, too. And girls with girls and various other combinations, all of them dancing and laughing and smiling and singing and kissing and touching and smoking and… having fun.

It was exactly what he used to picture in his very best daydreams.

Which didn’t make it any less scary as hell.

At all.

Xander stood and stared and held on to his cheese tray like a shield, resisted the urge to back into the nearest corner. Then Wesley took the tray and walked off somewhere and Xander felt exposed, out of place, and started inching his way toward that corner after all. But before he could get far, the door opened again and it was Dru, followed by Spike, whose tux jacket and bowtie were gone and whose white shirt was damp with sweat and unbuttoned almost to the waist and suddenly Xander couldn’t even move his eyes, let alone his feet.

The rest of the crowd seemed happy to see the couple, too, and parted to let them through. Someone changed the music, put on something Latin- and familiar-sounding, and the couple danced their way to the center of the floor with wide smiles and rolling hips, moving together as naturally as breathing.

Man, it’s a hot one. Like seven inches from the midday sun. Well, I hear you whispering the words to melt everyone, but you stay so cool…

It wasn’t like in the ballroom, but it was. The moves weren’t rehearsed—it was looser, closer, more playful—but the rhythm, the control of their earlier routine infused every step. The slightest rhythmic break in the music, a look exchanged and they could both stop on a dime, freeze in place, bodies in perfect counter-tension for a split second before snapping back into motion.

It was perfect.

Xander wondered what it would be like to be that close to someone, to know the movements of another person’s body as well as you knew your own, to communicate perfectly without exchanging a single word.

“That’s my cousin, Spike.” Xander glanced in the direction of the voice. Wesley had returned to his side and was following his gaze. “He’s the one who told me about cruise jobs, got me out of England.”

Xander meant to look at Wes while he was talking, but his eyes had snapped back to the couple and he couldn’t seem to tear them away, didn’t want to miss a single step. “They look great together,” he said.

“Mmm, I know,” Wesley agreed. “You’d think they were together.”

Xander did look at Wes then. Look and blinked. “Uh, yeah, you would. I mean, I pretty much figured they had to be having as much sex off the dance floor as they were on it.” He looked back at the couple and then at Wes again, disbelieving. “They aren’t? Really?”

“Well, yes, they used to. I mean, that sort of chemistry…. But not anymore. Not for quite some time.”

Xander nodded slowly and went back to staring and there was that feeling like when you’re standing in line at the grocery store and you pick up an Us magazine and you read that Justin and Britney might be breaking up even though they haven’t admitted to being together in the first place and you think to yourself, Good, now when we meet, he’ll be available and we can live happily ever after, and you let yourself ignore the fact that there’s no way in hell Justin Timberlake would ever be interested in you anyway.

Xander had that feeling and he kept on staring as the song ended and Spike and Dru split apart and another song started and Spike began to dance his way in their direction, bumping and grinding with boys and girls alike as he moved through the crowd like he owned it.

And then Spike was right there, stepping between Xander and Wesley and grabbing Wes’ hips and pulling him close to dance him in a quick and dirty circle, apparently by way of greeting.

Xander was pretty sure that if he ever tried to greet his cousin Rigby like that, he’d end up with a black eye.

Though Rigby was kind of cute…

“What’s he doing here?”

Xander looked up and blinked into blue, blue eyes.

Spike was looking at him.

Spike. Was looking. At him.

Xander’s throat dried up and he thought he might be breaking into a cold sweat.

“He came with me,” Wesley said from somewhere in the distance. “He’s with me.”

Xander watched Spike look him over as he nicked a cigarette from a passing girl and produced a Zippo from his pants to light it with. Spike took a long drag, then blew a slow, smooth stream of smoke from between his lips.

Xander swallowed and tried to find words.

Any words.

Any words had to be better than this stupid, stupid staring.

“I carried a cheese platter.”

Correction—any words but those.

Xander felt the heat rising in his cheeks as Spike smirked, gave him one last once-over, and sauntered off. Xander hoped the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

“I carried a cheese platter?” he asked himself in disgust.

Himself had no answer.

Spike was back to dancing—cigarette in one hand while the other slid down over the ass of the guy (yes, guy) he was plastered against. And Xander was back to staring and on to feeling jealous, but he couldn’t decide who he wanted to be right then—the guy or the cigarette.

And then Spike kissed the guy, but not like it mattered. He kissed the guy like it didn’t mean anything except fun, and then grabbed another guy and danced with him that same easy, beautiful way and suddenly Xander knew it was Spike he was jealous of—that confidence, that cockiness, that ease, like he belonged in his body and he knew it—and Xander was so busy watching and wishing that he almost didn’t notice when the song changed and Spike looked at him, dropped the cigarette and crooked his finger, smiling as he beckoned Xander to the dance floor.

Xander would have sworn that he wouldn’t be able to move, but somehow his feet were taking him there and he was standing in front of Spike—stiff and awkward and too big in his body—and Spike was stepping forward, sliding a knee in between Xander’s and placing his hands on Xander’s hips and speaking close to Xander’s ear.

“Relax, mate. Bend your knees. That’s it. Now listen to the music and move your hips a bit… No, not like that—like this… Yeah, that’s it—feel me, follow me… Yeah, there you go… Now lift your head a bit. Don’t look at the floor—look at me. Watch my eyes…. There you go. Yeah…”

And Xander was listening—just listening, not thinking—and it seemed to be working. It felt like real dancing and he’d never been able to do that before now, but somehow he was and it felt incredible.

A little too incredible, even.

He knew he was hard against Spike’s hipbone and he knew that Spike knew but Spike didn’t seem to care and there was nothing mocking in those blue eyes that Xander felt lost in and Xander’s heart was beating too fast, but it didn’t matter because Xander knew that if he dropped dead of a heart attack at the end of this song, it would still be totally worth it.

He was dancing.

Really dancing.

With the most gorgeous guy on earth, and no one was pointing or laughing and he was probably grinning like an idiot, but so what?

And then the song ended and they stopped moving. They were just standing, but Xander didn’t quite feel steady on his feet, which might have been the boat, but anyway…

He didn’t drop dead and couldn’t stop smiling and Spike smiled back at him for a moment before walking away.

And Xander left just a few minutes later—found the power to move his feet, found Wesley and said goodbye—but his heart didn’t stop racing for at least an hour.

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