"Name?" The major domo asked as the couple approached.
"Bond. James Bond," Spike replied. The man checked the list and nodded.
Buffy swatted him on the arm as they walked past. "You're weird."
"I've always wanted to do that," he said with a small shrug. The tuxedo he was wearing blended perfectly with the rich crowd as he led her directly to the dance floor. The music changed as if on cue and the vampire pulled Buffy to him.
Angel moaned when they started to dance, the flash of leg, the sway of her hips, the look of barely suppressed desire on her face was always too much for him. He wanted it to be him whose hands ran down that velvet gown seductively as the tango music swelled, to be that close to the long expanse of creamy flesh of her neck to her breasts as they thrust up out of the top of the dress.
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he desperately tried to touch himself or rub his aching shaft against something. But he couldn't, he could only lie there, strapped naked to the table as the screen in front of him replayed the images over and over again as it had for weeks, the never ending erection weighing heavily against him.
Then one day, he was gone. A pile of ashes lay on the table where he had been, the erotic dance still flickering on the screen. The vampire known as Angel went down in the Watcher's Diaries as the first vampire in history to die...
...from blue balls.