When She Was Mine

I'm not much of a dancer. Never have been.

I might shake it like John Travolta in Grease when I'm in a good mood and completely alone, but even I've gotta admit that my John Travolta makes my Snoopy dance look sexy.

So that's why I'm not moving while Buffy moves against me in the warm heat of the Bronze.

I don't get it. Mostly because I've never got women.

And then there's the little fact that Buffy's rubbing up against me in a way that makes all thought go south. Which would be very bad. Bad because it'll be embarrassing and bad because this is Buffy.

This is the girl that turned me down. Made me lay for hours on my bed listening to country music. The music of pain. This is the girl that I am waaaaay over.

I turn my head a little when she slides down my body and notice Dead Boy in the shadows.

And somehow, this embarrassing and world changing experience suddenly feels like a victory. Because it doesn't matter how many times he slips out of the shadows, all sexy and mysterious, I'm the one that saved her life.

I'm the one she sits with at lunch.

I'm the one she passes notes to in class.

I'm the one she actually gets. I'm not mysterious, soulful, boundary-guy. I'm there, I'm open. I'm gettable.

And because of that, I get her more than he ever will. And that's why she'll always turn to me.

That's why part of her will always be mine.

"Did I ever thank you for saving my life?" she whispers huskily into my ear.

I'm not sure if I answer. I think I shake my head and mutter "No."

"Don't you wish I would?"

She gives me a smile I've never seen before and then pulls away.

That's not the Buffy I know. This is the fun-no-more version. This is the version I no longer like or get.

But for a moment, that didn't matter, because for one moment, on the dancefloor, she was mine more than she has ever been before. Because I know she must have felt it too.

But as I watch her, she passes Angel, glances at him and carries on towards the door. He looks towards me, some weird look on his face.

And that pisses me off because it looks like pity. It should have been jealousy, hatred, or anger if he actually loved her like he's supposed to.

And then, as I push my hair back, gasp for the air I hadn't realised I needed and leave the dancefloor, I get it.

He's not jealous or angry and he doesn't hate me because he doesn't think I'm a threat.

Because he gets it more than I do. He understands what that thing on the dancefloor was. Just Buffy trying to prove to the Evil Dead that she didn't miss him. When even I know that she spent all the summer thinking about him and I probably didn't even figure into a passing thought.

So, I get it now.

Even when she's mine, she's his.

The End.