'A Matter of Taste' by Quinara, PG.
It's a 'first dance' random S7 basement conversation (+more random extra coda bit)! Possibly a little pick-your-own point, possibly slightly meta, but it's 950 words, needs no warnings on the AO3, and has Buffy asking one of the most important questions of our times. (Fans of Wind Beneath My Wings should probably avoid this one. Or not?)
A Matter of Taste
by Quinara.
“Spike?”
“Hmm?” He turned to look at her, where she was staring contemplatively into the basement, sat on his bed beside him. Good sight, that was.
Her question, however? Less so. “D’you remember when we were engaged?”
She had that guileless look to her, all round eyes and unconsciously pouty lips, girlish even in the hard lines of her face. Faced with that, he didn’t know what to tell her, because of course he did. Time was, that memory had kept him going for nights on end, with the wriggling and kissing and her insistent, harping demands. He’d always liked her commanding. “I can about recall, yeah,” he offered eventually, deciding that was a good compromise.
“Do you…” she began, before visibly slouching, her hair bunching a little behind her head, caught on the breeze block. “Do you really think Wind Beneath My Wings is that bad a song?”
All right, he couldn’t help it; she was fucking adorable. He laughed.
Then she was pouting for real, waiting until he’d stopped (caught up in that pout) before she explained, “It came on the radio the other day and Kennedy turned it off. Everyone agreed it was awful - everyone! Even the girls who can’t understand the lyrics!” Earnestly she looked at him, as if this was the most important question of their lives. “I don’t have bad taste, do I, Spike? I’m cool and hip and - young, right? Just ‘cause this house is full of people Dawn’s age doesn’t mean…” She trailed off helplessly.
What could he tell her? “Far as I’m concerned,” he said, hoping for diplomatic, “taste is an individual thing, with no ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Style and charm are what you want, then you can get away with anything.”
Buffy nodded, seeming mollified. Then, however, she replied completely seriously, “I guess that’s what you rely on, huh, with that outfit?”
Oh, now… “Oi!” Try to do the girl a favour and she kicked you in the balls - every bloody time; made his soul pinch. “This how you treat a bloke who’s trying to be nice?”
Giggling, she leaned forward, ducking her head and then scooching round on the bed, sitting with one knee raised so she could look at him. “Sorry,” she apologised. “But you get this face when you bullshit, which requires me calling you out. Give me the real answer.”
Spike sighed, feeling put out. “All right, fine, if you want my actual opinion…” Really, he should never have given up trying to needle her. “If we’d gone through with it, due to whatever quirk of hideous fate, it would have been tacky as hell.” He shrugged, but she was holding back her reaction, so he kept answering, getting ensnared ever so slightly in the thought of it, “I’d have clawed and scratched and fought trying to get you to change it, Rupes would’ve sat you down and suggested something more like a jazz standard and less like bad hen night karaoke, but you’d have got your way in the end.” After all that, however, and faced with her mulish expression, he couldn’t help confess, “And it would have been bloody magical, because it would have been our wedding dance.”
Embarrassed, he looked away, shaking his head. The silence was somewhat deafening, so he must have taken her by surprise.
After a little while, though, he could hear her heartbeat speed up, settling at something slightly fast. It didn’t seem to be in anger - Buffy was leaning forward, resting her chin on her knee and looking at him with eyes even bigger than before. Excitement, perhaps? She said, “It would’ve been, wouldn’t it?”
He was sure she was seeing it like he was - their weirdly loved-up doppelgangers, her in an OTT meringue, him in poncy suit, swaying like prats in the middle of a dolled up hall somewhere… “Yeah.” Hell, who was he kidding? He’d have danced to all kinds of shit and loved it. It would’ve been fantastic. “Course,” he conceded, “that spell made the pair of us pretty handsy, so you’ve gotta ask whether that dance would’ve stayed decent enough for the non-blind members of the wedding party.”
Buffy laughed again, a speculative gleam in her eye as her face settled into a lopsided grin. Yeah, he agreed in his head, it would’ve been a lot of fun, that dance, bum-gropes and all.
There wasn’t much to say after that, and Buffy pushed herself back to the wall, brushing her arm against his as they sat staring in silence. Spike was pretty sure they were both imagining it: the dance, the spat over how wide there were supposed to be cutting the cake, the fight over him ‘ruining’ the honeymoon by convincing her to go for a quickie halfway through the dancing… It wasn’t worth talking about, not even to get their story straight, not when it would so quickly get too raw - but it was fun to daydream all the same. And daydream they did, for a little while.
A few nights later, he got the idea of looking up Bette lyrics on the internet and dropping them into casual conversation. Buffy didn’t catch on at first, but then she started recognising them, blushing as she did so and clearly too embarrassed to ask him whether he was doing it on purpose.
That’s what you get for casting aspersions on my taste, Miss Buffy Fluff-Skirt Summers…
Of course, it wasn’t long before she started saying them back, speeching them to the Potentials with a poker-straight face and a wink over their heads. And that was just more fun.
Maybe that ruddy terrible music could be good for something after all? Now that was a worrying thought.
.
A Matter of Taste
by Quinara.
“Spike?”
“Hmm?” He turned to look at her, where she was staring contemplatively into the basement, sat on his bed beside him. Good sight, that was.
Her question, however? Less so. “D’you remember when we were engaged?”
She had that guileless look to her, all round eyes and unconsciously pouty lips, girlish even in the hard lines of her face. Faced with that, he didn’t know what to tell her, because of course he did. Time was, that memory had kept him going for nights on end, with the wriggling and kissing and her insistent, harping demands. He’d always liked her commanding. “I can about recall, yeah,” he offered eventually, deciding that was a good compromise.
“Do you…” she began, before visibly slouching, her hair bunching a little behind her head, caught on the breeze block. “Do you really think Wind Beneath My Wings is that bad a song?”
All right, he couldn’t help it; she was fucking adorable. He laughed.
Then she was pouting for real, waiting until he’d stopped (caught up in that pout) before she explained, “It came on the radio the other day and Kennedy turned it off. Everyone agreed it was awful - everyone! Even the girls who can’t understand the lyrics!” Earnestly she looked at him, as if this was the most important question of their lives. “I don’t have bad taste, do I, Spike? I’m cool and hip and - young, right? Just ‘cause this house is full of people Dawn’s age doesn’t mean…” She trailed off helplessly.
What could he tell her? “Far as I’m concerned,” he said, hoping for diplomatic, “taste is an individual thing, with no ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Style and charm are what you want, then you can get away with anything.”
Buffy nodded, seeming mollified. Then, however, she replied completely seriously, “I guess that’s what you rely on, huh, with that outfit?”
Oh, now… “Oi!” Try to do the girl a favour and she kicked you in the balls - every bloody time; made his soul pinch. “This how you treat a bloke who’s trying to be nice?”
Giggling, she leaned forward, ducking her head and then scooching round on the bed, sitting with one knee raised so she could look at him. “Sorry,” she apologised. “But you get this face when you bullshit, which requires me calling you out. Give me the real answer.”
Spike sighed, feeling put out. “All right, fine, if you want my actual opinion…” Really, he should never have given up trying to needle her. “If we’d gone through with it, due to whatever quirk of hideous fate, it would have been tacky as hell.” He shrugged, but she was holding back her reaction, so he kept answering, getting ensnared ever so slightly in the thought of it, “I’d have clawed and scratched and fought trying to get you to change it, Rupes would’ve sat you down and suggested something more like a jazz standard and less like bad hen night karaoke, but you’d have got your way in the end.” After all that, however, and faced with her mulish expression, he couldn’t help confess, “And it would have been bloody magical, because it would have been our wedding dance.”
Embarrassed, he looked away, shaking his head. The silence was somewhat deafening, so he must have taken her by surprise.
After a little while, though, he could hear her heartbeat speed up, settling at something slightly fast. It didn’t seem to be in anger - Buffy was leaning forward, resting her chin on her knee and looking at him with eyes even bigger than before. Excitement, perhaps? She said, “It would’ve been, wouldn’t it?”
He was sure she was seeing it like he was - their weirdly loved-up doppelgangers, her in an OTT meringue, him in poncy suit, swaying like prats in the middle of a dolled up hall somewhere… “Yeah.” Hell, who was he kidding? He’d have danced to all kinds of shit and loved it. It would’ve been fantastic. “Course,” he conceded, “that spell made the pair of us pretty handsy, so you’ve gotta ask whether that dance would’ve stayed decent enough for the non-blind members of the wedding party.”
Buffy laughed again, a speculative gleam in her eye as her face settled into a lopsided grin. Yeah, he agreed in his head, it would’ve been a lot of fun, that dance, bum-gropes and all.
There wasn’t much to say after that, and Buffy pushed herself back to the wall, brushing her arm against his as they sat staring in silence. Spike was pretty sure they were both imagining it: the dance, the spat over how wide there were supposed to be cutting the cake, the fight over him ‘ruining’ the honeymoon by convincing her to go for a quickie halfway through the dancing… It wasn’t worth talking about, not even to get their story straight, not when it would so quickly get too raw - but it was fun to daydream all the same. And daydream they did, for a little while.
A few nights later, he got the idea of looking up Bette lyrics on the internet and dropping them into casual conversation. Buffy didn’t catch on at first, but then she started recognising them, blushing as she did so and clearly too embarrassed to ask him whether he was doing it on purpose.
That’s what you get for casting aspersions on my taste, Miss Buffy Fluff-Skirt Summers…
Of course, it wasn’t long before she started saying them back, speeching them to the Potentials with a poker-straight face and a wink over their heads. And that was just more fun.
Maybe that ruddy terrible music could be good for something after all? Now that was a worrying thought.
.