Title: A Little Night Music

Spoilers: Lovers Walk.

Disclaimer: Of *course* they belong to someone else. I could never some up with characters like this. Specifically, they belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, WB, and anyone else I forgot. I'm not sure who "Little Red Corvette" belongs to. Warner Bros., Paisley park, or The Artist himself, or some combination of those entities, most likely.

Rating: G, I think. Maybe PG for a couple of extremely mild swear words (of course, I'm a college graduate -- who has been out of college longer than she was in college -- who still doesn't have the nerve to say them in front of her mom, so maybe I'm not the best judge of these things).

Distribution: Please ask. I'm not too sure I want this going out anywhere else. It was hard enough convincing myself to send it to this list. See my note under "Feedback."

Feedback: Um, sure, I think. This is my first fic -- of any sort. I didn't even take creative writing classes in school. I was strictly nonfiction girl. And this hasn't been beta-read. I have no fear of grammatical or spelling errors (I'm too detail-oriented for that), so the only thing to be concerned about is actual content, and there's something about getting feedback before submitting it to the end readers that makes my stomach churn and back away from the concept of writing this stuff in the first place. Please be gentle.

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Scowling at the radio, she quickly flipped through the presets. Shawn Mullins? Um, no. If she had to hear the "Rockabye" song one more time, she was going to have to hurt someone. Offspring? Oh, please. All she could hear whenever she heard that song was that Beatles song that it ripped off. Random electronica without lyrics, news, conservative talk radio, relationship advice talk radio, a baseball game? Short version: No way. A night like this -- warm, on her way to dinner with her best girl friend, ready for a girls'-weekend-out of just being young -- deserves singalong music. Finally, she found it. The '80s show. The only station that had music that she could sing along to at that particular moment.

"Ooh, damn!" Her best friend slammed on the brakes, killing the engine. Willow sighed. One of these days, maybe Buffy would figure out how to suddenly brake in a car with a manual transmission without killing the engine. "That *could* have been a parking spot if that jerk hadn't parked his boat in it! I hate yuppies." Willow glanced out the window to see the source of Buffy's consternation. One of those hideous SUVs was parked halfway in each of two spots. "Oh, great -- now the car won't start up again! Where's that cell phone? I have to call AAA." Bored and unable to do anything but listen to Buffy's rant, Willow turned her attention to the low rumble -- and incredibly loud stereo playing the same station that she was listening to -- of a small red convertible coming in their direction. All she could do was stare in shock at the familiar bleached blond wearing sunglasses straight out of _Risky Business_ pulled up beside them, singing away to the Purple One, oblivious to anything but the steering wheel he used as a drum.

"It was Saturday night/ I guess that makes it all right/ And you said, 'What have I got to lose?"

Spike felt someone looking -- no, make that gaping -- at him, singing along to Prince -- back when he was still going by Prince, that is -- at full volume. Oh, *wonderful*. The Slayer and the Witch. Well, it could be worse. It could be that brunette boy he captured along with the Witch. But it wasn't the Slayer *and* the Witch staring. It was just the Witch. He grinned, remembering holding her, threatening her with a broken bottle. Then he recalled the way she agreed to help him. Not just *that* she agreed but *how* she agreed. How many other people would have the nerve to *lecture* him when faced with imminent death? Dru sure as hell wouldn't. At times, he thought, she barely had the nerve to stand upright on her own. Sure, after the incident in the church, she had full *physical* strength, but after Angelus returned, she turned out to have very little *emotional* strength. Something the Witch clearly had plenty of.

"Damn car! Why couldn't Mom decide on a nice, easy automatic? The auto club said they should have someone here in thirty minutes. Will? Are you still with me?" Willow realized that Buffy was still talking to her. Is there any possible way she can sneak away from Buffy and go off with Spike wherever he may roam? Where did *that* thought come from? Willow tore her gaze from Spike's long enough to realize that Buffy was no longer in the car but rather outside pacing.

"Yeah, sorry, just spacing out." Damn. In just those couple of seconds, the red car left. "Um, Buffy, it's too beautiful outside tonight for me to just sit here and wait for the auto club. I think I'll go for a little walk." And have a little chat with my hormones, she thought. The night air should be good for that. "Don't worry," she said, anticipating Buffy's objection, "I have a cross, a stake, and that holy water squirt gun Xander insisted I carry after we saw _The Lost Boys_ last week. I just want to get something to drink while we wait for the tow truck. There must be a store a block or two away from here."

Finally, Buffy relented. "Can you get me a Cherry Coke while you're there?"

Willow nodded, grinning. "And some Chee-tos."

The exchange was perfectly normal -- almost enough to convince her that the red Corvette and its driver were simply mirages brought on by the long, boring drive, the lovely summer evening, and the fact that "Little Red Corvette" came on the radio at the same exact time that a small red convertible pulled up next to them. Almost. Then she saw it. The car, the sunglasses -- the black leather duster, the familiar bleached blond , complete with incredible cheekbones and a British accent, leaning against the car. "Hello, cutie. I was hoping you would come."

~~~ the end ~~~