Fandom/Pairing: BtVS, S/X
Summary: Willow sets Xander up. Stuff happens. A decision is made and the story reaches its end.
Word Count: 1,635
Disclaimer: Not mine, promise.
You know, when I was young and stupid, I thought that friends were those people who were there for you in times of need, to laugh with you when you were happy and cry with you when you were sad. I thought that my Willow was the embodiment of all that friendship was supposed to be. Sweet and generous and kind. Now, though, I know better. Friends are the ones who, upon discovering your very-likely gayhood, set you up on three, I repeat, three dates with various (but remarkably alike) guys, all of which turn out to be a complete disaster, and then have the outright nerve to—but I wont say it. It’s still too soon. Too close to the surface.
I hate Willow.
No, really. I do. There will be no talking me out of it this time, and I don’t care if she bakes me dozens and dozens of delicious chocolate brownies in remorse. I will not budge; I will simply close the door in her face…after taking the brownies. Whaddya think I am, crazy?
The first guy really wasn’t so bad, I guess…if you think that an Angel clone with blond hair is attractive, that is. I couldn’t believe that Willow would do that to me. I mean, sure, I may have mentioned that he was attractive once, in a totally offhand way, but that doesn’t mean that I wanna mack on the guy, for God’s sake. And I don’t get why Willow had to remember that particular comment, anyway. I mean, I once said that Spike was attractive—and for the record I so wouldn’t mind macking on that vamp at all—but does she remember it? Nope, seems to have slipped her mind. So I’m stuck with ‘Angel’; and not just any ‘Angel’, oh no. I’m going on a blind date with ‘Surfer Dude Angel’, who is a whole new brand of idiot, lemme tell you. The guy couldn’t string two words together if they weren’t about surfing, though I gotta admit, he really knew what he was talking about when it came to that. Still, I’m not that into surfing, so there were a bunch of gaps where I missed my cue to nod encouragingly or look interested. Oops. Let’s just finish by saying that we didn’t exactly make it to dinner.
I should have known better than to fall for Willow’s assurances that the next date would be different, but I did, and, well, except for the fact that this new date was Oz with blond hair, it was. For starters, we made it to dinner. We ordered and everything, but it turns out our waiter was this guy’s—is it bad that I cant remember the dude’s name? I’ll have to ask Willow later. No, wait, I wont, ‘cause I’m never forgiving her. Ever.—freakin’ ex! His ex! Who takes their dates to a restaurant where their ex works? Apparently, someone who wasn’t ‘really, technically, all-together split’ (his words, not mine) with his last boyfriend, that’s who. They got into a huge argument right there at our table, and then proceeded to make up—and make out—in the same spot. So sweet. A real Hallmark moment for all involved. Oh, yeah, except for me, who wound up leaving just as the boyfriend’s manager showed up (right when everything’s winding down and the two lovebirds are declaring their everlasting devotion…where was this moron when I needed him, say, before this whole thing happened?), demanding that those two stop doing that Right Now! I hope he lost his job.
Even after that disaster, I was still willing to try the date thing a third time. I really think that I might have a masochistic streak in me somewhere, because despite being me, I thought that there was no way this third date could be worse than the previous two.
Famous last words.
From the second I saw the guy; I knew that I was in serious trouble. Okay, I’m lying. He was hot. He wasn’t even blond—his hair was more light brown—but Xander, Jr. definitely took an interest, thereby putting my theory that I was strictly Spike-centric to shame and ashes. This made my happy. So happy, in fact, that I nearly missed the group of snickering guys behind us as we walked to the movie theater. Nearly, except it’s kinda hard to ignore someone grabbing the back of your jacket and beating the shit out of you. Oh, and hunky? Yeah, he ran, screaming like a little baby the whole way while I got pummeled by some of Sunnydale’s finest, who apparently can accept their friends and family disappearing for no reason at all but cant abide a ‘fag’ living in their sweet little town. Right.
So there I am, screaming and trying desperately to get five of these assholes off of me, knowing that there’s no help for me as the fine, upstanding residents of Sunnyhell are especially good at ignoring the violence, and hoping that these guys aren’t planning on beating me to death, when suddenly two of them are ripped off of me and bashed together so hard I hear a cracking noise. Both guys drop, and a scream fills the air. The other three that jumped me are gone in less than two seconds with no concern for their friends, who don’t look like they’ll be getting up any time soon and to be honest, I’m about half past give a shit. The only one I care about is Spike, who’s holding his head and whimpering, rocking back and forth like a child, and as shocked as I am that it was Spike who saved me I waste no time in making my painful way over to him, grabbing him and helping him stand. We gotta get out of there before someone notices, and quick.
So we walk, me half-supporting Spike, for about two minutes before Spike stops holding his head and the embrace shifts so that he’s the one supporting me, and yeah, I hurt and I can feel myself bruising in several places, but I’m getting all out of this one semi-embrace that I can. I resist the urge to let out an unmanly giggle when I think of the picture we must make walking towards my place, and then it occurs to me that Spike is in affect walking me home and the giggle escapes without my permission. Spike didn’t make a comment though, so it’s cool. Once he deposits me at my door, he’s gone, almost as if he was never there in the first place…gut hey, I got the cuts and bruises to prove it happened.
After that fun and fancy-free experience, I told Willow that there was no way in seven hells that she would get me out on a date with another of those freaks from her support group. And I thought dating a human would be easy? What was I thinking? Did I forget the Anya-induced angst trips that I had before? And the closet fun-but public rejection and persecution-from Cordy? Or the one-time kiss with Willow that wrecked said closet fun for me for good? No, no and no. I did not forget, but I thought in my naiveté that dating a guy would be easier. I mean, duh, guys are notoriously known for being the more relaxed sex; the one who doesn’t freak out in a relationship. Which is probably why I gave into Willow’s pleading over the ‘phone and agreed to go out on one more date. That and the cookies she brought me. Chocolate chip, with extra chocolate…coupled with the resolve face. I was screwed. Figuratively, of course, because, while the thought of Willow like that would once have sent me to a very happy place, now it’s just…so totally not a place I wanna go.
Anyway, point is that I agreed, still holding on to that belief in what best friends are supposed to be, and it led to me opening my door and finding—
Okay. Upon opening my door for my final date, who is here precisely when Willow he’d be and who she also said was quite perfect for me, loved her description of me and who she’s absolutely positive I’ll love…oh, and let’s not forget is the very person I started this whole experience over, I do what any normal, self respecting person who has just received exactly what they want at the best possible time would do: I slam the door in his face.
Spike is persistent. He knocks again. And I, in all my infinite coolness, rip the door back open and cut off whatever he opens his mouth to tell me by saying, “Willow was right,” and kissing him. And the best part? He kisses me back.
About ten minutes later—wonderful, blissful, amazing minutes in which Spike does amazing things with his hands and tongue and I do my part and tell him what feels best—there’s a knock on the door. I don’t even bother to pull myself out of my Spike-induced happy place. Whoever that is can come back later. I decide firmly that despite Willow’s fourth date being just who I wanted, I still hate her for telling him how I felt. And then all thought shuts down for a while.
And much, much later, when I find out that Spike was never intended to be my fourth date, I decide that Willow’s still in trouble. As Spike said: “With the last three dates she sent ya on being what they were, who knows what the next bloke Red set ya up with would be like? It’s a good thing I got ya from now on, pet.”
And it is. A very, very good thing.