Torrid Immortality

Title: Tempting Indecency

Authors: Amber Kupy and Daquiri Seffib

Email: amber_daquiri@hotmail.com

Rating: PG to NC-17 depending on chatper

Summery: Spike takes Buffy on a date!

Spoilers: Takes place after "Gone"
Pairin: B/S

Disclaimer: We don't own the characters, we're just borrowing them.
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Tempting Indecency

Crash! Wood splintered as a body thudded against the floor. Air whooshed out of Buffy's lungs.

"God luv, you alright?" Spike's face was filled with concern as he offered a pale hand help her to her feet. Part of his concern was for himself – the Slayer looked livid.

"What do you think? God, Spike - my ass is going to black and blue tomorrow." Buffy stood gingerly, surreptitiously trying to massage her aching butt. Spike's ice-blue eyes followed the motion of her hand, entranced.

"Well, hello?" Buffy glared. "Aren't you going to pick up the chair?"
Umm Umm righightight," Spike replied, clearing his throat. He managed to bend down and retrieve her chair without his eyes ever leaving her rump.

The other diners in the quiet, tastefully-decorated restaurant were trying their best not to notice the two loud blondes. Having successfully ignored their bickering entrance and the crash of Buffy and her chair to the imported slate floor, they were now pointedly not observing the subsequent hushed argument as Spike righted Buffy's chair.

"Why did you pull my chair out from under me? What possessed you to do that?" Buffy sat down, glaring at the vampire as he eased out of his duster and sat down opposite her.

"Keep it down, Slayer. I was just trying to be polite." He glanced around, making sure no one had noticed their scene. The other diners looked determinedly oblivious.

"Ahem!" A portly man stood looking disdainfully at the couple. "We don't serve burgers here." His voice held the condescension that the French had mastered over the centuries.

"I know that, mate. Give us the menus." Spike didn't wait for the man to comply snatching the menus from the waiters hand. "A tequila for the lady and a Guinness for me."

Buffy turned her smile on the man. "I'm really sorry, sir. My friend here was trying to kill me by stealing my chair." She smiled sweetly at Spike, and kicked him under the table. And I'll just have a glass of water please."

"Very well," with a final disdainful look taiteaiter turned sharply and marched into the kitchen.

"Tequila?" she muttered. "If you think I'm drinking tequila, you're even more deranged than I could have imagined. Which, after this evening, is a lot. I don't know why I even agreed to this stupid idea."

"It's because you were all hot an' bothered, Slayer. I'm not that easy, you know, and if you want me to help relieve some of that built-up sexual tension, you're going to have to start playing by some of my rules."

"Your rules are stupid." Buffy eyed the menu doubtfully. "Your rules involve food in a funny language." Buffy turned the menu sideways to see if the letters made any more sense in that direction. What scraps of French she had actually learned in High School had long ago deserted her. "I think that even if I could read this, I probably still wouldn't have heard of the food. How am I supposed to order from this?"

Spike picked up his menu, trying to ignore Buffy as she mouthed the French words off the front of the menu. She was mangling them horribly. Sometimes he wondered at the cruel irony of the fate which had him fall so deeply and irrecoverably in love with a girl who had no appreciation for anything outside of her own world.

"I'll tell you what it says," Spike told her as he gently took her menu and placed it at the edge of the table, almost sticking it into the waiter's stomach.

"Your drinks," Buffy wasn't sure how the man managed to set down their drinks without spilling them as he literally looked down his nose at them thele tle time.

"We'll order now," Spike told the waiter before the man had a chance to leave. Without looking at the menu Spike started to speak, "Pour nos entrees, nous commencerons avec des salades d'épinards. Pour nos principal plats, moi, je vais avoir le Entrecote Forestiere, et my copine aura le Carre d'Agneau au Romarin. Le vin, je pense, sera un vin rouge, peut-être Bonny Doon Le Cigare Volant, si vous l'avez. Je ne sais pas si nous prendrons le dessert, nous déciderai après notre repas."

The waiter stood there shocked for several moments, the only sound heard was the click his jaw made as the poor man slammed it closed. "Very good, sir," he stammered weakly, and left for the kitchen at a near-run.

Buffy raised an eyebrow at Spike. "So, what -- next you're going to tap-dance on the table? Are you trying to impress me?"

However Spike couldn't help noticing that her lips were parted slightly, and that she appeared to be breathing harder. Slayer's not as indifferent as she wants me to think.

He leaned forward, grinning toothily. "Je veux que nous fassent l'amour sur la table, fessent l'amour sur les chaires, sur la mur de la restarante. Je veux le faire si long, si forte, que tu n'oubliez jamais."

Buffy practically melted off her chair. The way the Rs rolled off Spike's tongue made her want to drag him into the nearest dark alley and see what other building they could make fall down. However, she was not about to let him know that. To distract herself, she picked up her glass and took a long swallow. Too late, she recognized the peppery burn of tequila.

She shook her head. "Bleuurrghh." Why did her body have to react to all alcohols like that? She felt like she was ten years old, taking a sip from her Mom’s wine and desperately trying to hid her revulsion in an attempt to be sophisticated.

Her efforts to appear nonchalant had failed miserably if Spike's smirk was anything to go by.

"So what did you order for us?" She really hoped it wasn't some icky French thing.

"I got steak, you got lamb. Don't get your knickers in a twist. Like I'd waste my money on something you'd turn your funny little nose up at anyway." Spike took a sip of his drink and casually looked over Buffy. He had turned her on and pissed her off in a short span of time -- color was flooding to her cheeks. And other areas.

Buffy continued to eye him suspiciously. "What was that last thing you said? I heard 'chair' and 'table' and 'restaurant', and... a bunch of other stuff."

The blond vampire cocked his scarred eyebrow. "If you're really good girl, maybe I'll show you later." He let his voice drop to a velvety growl, "Tu sera mon désert, et je vais tu lécher partout comme la crême glacée."

Spike watched with satisfaction as she swallowed nervously.

Buffy could feel her body temperature rising. She told herself that it was because of the tequila, that it had nothing to do with Spike's unexpected linguistic skills. Nor the way his tongue formed the letters. Damn, she really loved his tongue, it was rapidly becoming her favorite body part. Or maybe not. There were so many pretty and nimble parts to choose from.

She was jerked back to her senses abruptly by the arrival of the waiter, armed with food. Food. Food was good. She was really starting to feel the tequila.

"Will that be all, monsieur?" the tone of reverence in the waiter’s voice for Spike made Buffy snort.

"Just pour the wine, mate." Spike itched to light a cigarette. The git had served his purpose and was becoming tiresome. There was a time when he would have just eaten him.

The waiter poured a dash of blood-red wine into Spike's glass and handed it to him expectantly. Spike swallowed it in one gulp. "Fine. Pour it. Leave." Then with a devilish smile in Buffy's direction, he added, "Maintenez le verre de la dame bien plein. Elle a besoin d'un peu d'aide pour détendre, si vous savez ce que je dis."

The waiter glanced sideways at Buffy, and nodded. "Of course, monsieur."

Buffy narrowed her eyes, looking from Spike to the waiter as the latter poured the wine and beat sty sty retreat.

"What did you say to that man?" Wearily Buffy picked up her fork and knife and began to cut her food.

"I told him that you were an uneducated American and to have a beef burger waiting, in case you turned your funny little nose up at this exquisite meal."

"Right, because you know so much about gourmet food." Taking a sip of her wine, she added, "Tell me, Mr. Buffalo Wings, is it pig's blood or cow's blood that compliments a Flowering Onion?"

Unfazed, Spike smiled sweetly at her, and dug into his m Blo Blood squirted from the steak as he cut into it, and he swirled a finger in it with reverent delight.

Watching him play with his food, Buffy shuddered, and reached for her glass taking a fortifying gulp. "Spike, that's just gross."

"What? It's blood. A bit toasted and not quite human, true, but all the same, a bloke has to take what he can get." He leered. "Unless you want to donate, of course."

"A world of 'No!' God, why did I ever agree to come out with you?" There have to be more pleasant ways to pass an evening, she thought sourly as she took another mouthful of wine, like cleaning blood out of my clothes. Or cleaning out the garage. Or something.

Sensing an advantage, Spike leaned forward. "Okay, no bloodsucking. But, you could let me pour this on you, and lick it off..." Spike licked the blood off his finger, and smiled. The spluttering as Buffy choked on her wine was deeply satisfying to behold. As was the fact that she was blushing a deep crimson.

"Breathe," he suggested in a low murmur, after a moment, and she shot him a black glare.

"There is no way I am drunk enough for this," she announced, taking another deep sip of her golden wine, to clear her throat, if not her head. But her entranced gaze was fixed on the finger he was still licking. His skillful tongue caressed the knuckle sensuously, lingering on the pad of the finger, circling the tip. Buffy finished the rest of her glass in a single gulp.

"Eat your meove,ove, I don't want you passing out. At least not from wine," Spike's chest puffed with satisfaction as he saw the Slayer's eyes briefly glaze over.

As she started to eat, the waiter appeared, refilling her glass.
---

Spike suspected that Buffy wasn't paying very much attention to the movie. It could be her fidgeting, or the way she was playing with the popcorn, or it could be that every time he stopped focusing on her, the Slayer's small, strong, agile hand ended up on his thigh. He wasn't entirely sure whether she was intending to grope him, or if she was searching for his flask. There was a certain purpose to her movements, either way.

The blonde vampire had already caught her going for the flask twice, during the short walk from the restaurant to the theatre. By the time they'd finished dinner, and the second bottle of wine, she was fairly drunk. Once that girl started drinking, she didn't stop until there was no liquor left. Or she was puking on his shoes. And frankly Spike had plans for the rest of that evening that did not involve him holding Buffy's cropped hair back as her small body wretched over a toilet.

To ensure the evening turned out as he planned Spike had stashed his flask in his back pocket. Not that he'd tell her that - the way her fingers were roaming across his thigh and lap was far too tantalizing for him to draw a halt to.

"Luv, watch that -- the lights are still up," Spike whispered as he caught her hand fiddling with the button on his jeans. The middle-aged lady on his left had been giving them progressively dirtier looks as the minutes passed.

"But Spike, I thought you liked it in the light." Buffy's speech might have been slightly slurred, but her teasing tone came across loud and clear.

"Better to see you with, my pet," he replied. And with that the Slayer dissolved into a fit of giggles.

The middle-aged woman glared at them, then shook her head in emphatic condemnation before she gathered her purse and moved several rows down.

Seeing that they were now alone – relatively speaking - Buffy became bolder. She leaned her head over and nibbled on his ear, causing a shudder to race through Spike's body.

"I love the way you taste," she murmured as her mouth moved from his ear to his jaw, "I could nibble on you for hours." Spike drew in a deep unneeded breath and held it for a while, trying to assert his self-control. Of its own volition his hand made its way to her left knee and slowly wandered up her thigh.

If she kept this up, there was no way they were getting through the movie. Think about something else. Think of something distracting. His hand continued to move up her thigh, and by now he was almost painfully hard. Think of... what? Something extremely un-sexy. The watcher. In a skirt. The whelp, in pretty much any of the items he called clothing. Baseball.

The Poofter. Right, that pretty much did it.

Bloody hell, she was using her tongue now. Then her teeth, as she nipped and nibbled her way over the corded muscles in his neck.

"Slayer," he groaned. Buffy felt the blood buzz her veins at the pure need in Spike's voice.

"Spike?" Though she tried to sound teasing, his hand was under her skirt now, caressing the tops of her thighs, toying with her black silk knickers.

Suddenly, Spike felt someone kick the back of his seat. Followed by suppressed giggles. He whipped around to look over his shoulder, and almost knocked heads with the girls leaning forward from the seats behind.

They were grinning entirely too widely. One, with shoulder-length dark brown hair streaked red and blue, had the audacity to wink at him. The other one, who had long sand-brown hair, also streaked blue and red, gave him a thumbs-up.

"Sorry," the longer-haired one said unapologetically. "We, um, dropped our drink."

"Yeah," added the other. "We were just leaning over to look for it. Don't let us interrupt you guys." Their smirks made him feel like a randy teenager looking for his first shag.

He resisted the urge to growl at them, settling for a dismissive snort instead, and turned back to Buffy. Yet the illusion of privacy was lost, and he swiftly removed his hand from Buffy's leg.

Behind him, he heard one of the girls exclaim in a barely suppressed whisper, "He's pretty!"

"Bet he knows what he's about, she certainly seems happy," the other one replied. More giggling. This time they did nothing to suppress it.

Gritting his teeth, Spike thought fondly of fangs ripping their way through cheeky throats. Spike scooted away from Buffy; if he had been human he was sure he would have been blushing bright red.

Buffy looked up at him, puzzled. "Whassup? You're not touching." The lights had started to go down and the obligatory commercials before the previews were plgn
g.

"Bloody hell, woman! The lights are still on, and I worked long and hard to get the money - legitimate work mind you - to get the money to pay for this evening!"

Just then, the lights dimmed. Buffy pouted, and sat back in her seat. She didn't want to see a stupid movie; she wanted to go home and get nekkid. Or failing that, drink some more. With that thought her hands were once again on their search for Spike's silver flask.

Spike was pretty sure he wasn't going to make it through the movie if she kept it up. He might not even make it through the previews if she kept it up. More to the point, if she kept *him* up. He tried breathing for a while, to see if it would help. It didn't. Neither did thinking of his grand-sire, the wonder of nancy-boy hair gel.

In fact, if she kept deliberately stroking him like that, he might not make it through the commercials before the previews. Her hands had taken a decided detour on their search of his pockets.

His resolve was weakening by the second. “If you don’t stop that, we’re leaving,” he threatened, fighting the urge to pull her into his lap and take her right there.

"Bout time. Starting to think you'd never ask," Buffy was ecstatic, they were leaving. She wouldn't have to watch some stupid movie with Meg Ryan and Hugh Jackson. She stood quickly, but gravity and alcohol ganged up on her, and she swayed dangerously. Spike reached out to steady her, and she toppled neatly into his lap. She blinked at him in surprise, then grinned. She was adorable when she was drunk.

"Is that a stake in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" she murmured, then ruined the effect by giggling. She was squirming deliciously. He snaked one arm around her waist to restrain her, batting her hands away from the button of his jeans with his free hand.

"Do I bloody well have to tie you up? Cut that out."

There were a few shushes from around them, but more telling was the uproarious laughter from the electric-haired girls behind them.

Buffy caught the irritation that flickered across Spike's face in response to the laughter, and frowned. "Could kick their asses. You an' me." More snorts from the peanut gallery.

"That's it, if you don't sit your bottom down, in your own chair mind, and stop squirming, I'm going home. Alone." He scowled threateningly, to prove he meant it. This was supposed to be special, a nice evening for the two of them. How was he supposed to prove himself if the silly chit was too smashed to remember in the morning?

"You tell her, mate," came the voice of the longer-haired girl. She had the faintest trace of an Australian accent.

"Show her who wears the pants," echoed her friend, who sounded Canadian. "Just make sure you can still walk out on her in those tight jeans."

In his lap, entirely too close for comfortable movie-viewing, and squirming iway way that was extremely difficult to ignore, Buffy was pouting. She could feel him, through his jeans, and she knew Spike wanted her as badly as she wanted him. So why couldn't they just leave?

At some point, the movie had started. Spike pretended to ignore her, fixing his eyes on the screen. Buffy seemed to have stopped trying to drive him mad and had rested her head on his shoulder, snuggling into his neck. Or maybe she had just passed out.

Spike had picked this movie because it seemed the furthest thing away from their real life. Now as some stupid git went back in time to London in the 1870's Spike began to have his doubts. "Oy, now that's all wrong!"

"What is it, cutie?" Buffy roused herself to look at the screen, startled to see that the movie had begun. She thought that maybe the alcohol was wearing off a little bit.

"Well look, that carriage is all wrong, the coat of arms was not like that. And that shop wasn't there, nor was that pub. At least not for another thirty years!" The indignation in Spike's voice brought a soft smile to Buffy's lips. She may no longer have been wasted, but she was in her happy place, and amused by Spike's ire.

"Mmm," she said, after a while, "Who's that? He's nice." Buffy found his nineteenth-century manners charming, the way he opened doors, and bowed over Meg Ryan's hand.

The blond vampire growled involuntarily. "He looks like a right git." Poncy, nancy-boy, falling all over himself to impress a chit who continued to spurn his advances in favor of her career. Spike paused at the irony rearing up to laugh in his face.

"I like the way he dresses. Sort of reminds me of a picture I once saw. I can't remember – oh, right. It was of Angel."

Spike stood up abruptly, spilling Buffy fris lis lap. "Right then. Enough movie. Time to go." Half-dragging, half-carrying the confused Slayer, he marched out of the theatre, into the lobby.

Rapidly sobering up, Buffy took objection to being carried out of the theater. "So help me Spike, if you don\ut mut me down right this instant--"

"You'll what? Pout me to death? Lick me senseless?" Spike was furious. All he had wanted was one night, one night away from slaying, away from death. Away from his bloody poofter of a grand-sire. Why was he always getting compared to the souled one and found lacking? He, who had been good, restraining himself from killing without a soul. Had he not, time and time again, put his life on the line for Buffy? Dawn? Even the damned Scoobies? Spike was pacing back and forth feverishly. One night where I can treat her as I've always wanted to. Show her another side, be a man, not a monster.

A gentle hand on fore arm halted him mid stride. Buffy looked up at him, her eye full of regret, "Spike, I'm sorry." She had felt instantly sorry for him and ashamed of herself. He had been so good to her and Dawn, worked so much against his nature.

She was looking up at him, her lips parted slightly, trembling a little. He gazed into her eyes, and he could see her sincerity blazing out at him. Tentatively and with surprising sobriety, Buffy reached out a hand and stroked his cheek. It was the first show of gentleness, of caring that she had given him since their kiss that night of the sing-along.

Spike turned his head into her hand, like a flower turning to find the sun. They gazed into each others' eyes a thousand different emotions; need, sorrow, lust, pain, tenderness. An unneeded breath caught in Spike throat as he saw acceptance come to across the Slayers golden features, and rest in the depths of her eyes.

As if in slow motion Spike turned his head into Buffy's caressing and planted a petal soft kiss. A tear welled in Buffy's eye as she brought her thumb to brush against Spike's cool lips before closing her hand in a fist and bringing her hand to rest over his heart.

"Spike..." she said softly, her eyes shining. And he leaned down to brush her soft lips with his own. The kiss that Buffy drew him into was nothing like anything that had come before. It was slow and tender and filled with emotion.

Her hands slid up his arms and came to rest on the back of his neck, toying with the hair at his collar. He slid his hands up her arms, pushing her backwards against the nearest wall.

She wrapped a leg around his, using the extra leverage to plaster herself against him, and he was suddenly reminded of another night, in a more private location, when they had brought down a house together.

Buffy tore her lips from his, dropping her mouth to his neck. Her sharp teeth nipped and pulled the flesh in that special spot she had found on that memorable night. Growling, Spike thrust his ever growing hardness into her yielding softness. Releasing the skin, she bathed the tender area with her soft tongue.

"So I guess she went with the death by licking pumentment, huh?" someone said conversationally from behind them, in an Australian accent.

"Hey, if I were her I'd quit wasting my time with all the stupid words and just drag that pretty man home and have my wicked way with him." This from the Canadian.

"Yeah," replied the first girl, "But if they go home, I won't be able to watch."

"I reckon they don't really care where they are," retorted the Canadian. She paused. "I give them a 8.9 for artistry and a 10 for creativity, 9.7 for technique. How does my Australian counterpart judge?"

"I'm going to go with a 10 for enthusiasm, and a 9.6 for technique, but a 6.5 for consistency. Enough with the angst already."

"Sod off!" came a very aggravated British growl. "What the hell are you two? Don't you have anything better to do then watch us?"

"Oooh, he's broken form. That just might cost him the gold," said the taller girl with shorter hair.

Spike would have lunged at them were it not for the fact that Buffy's legs were tangled in his own. The pain of the chip would have been worth it.

"Excellent performance, but fumbled on the dismount," the long-haired Australian agreed, tilting her head to eye the two blondes critically.

Filled with thwarted desire, the pale vampire grabbed Buffy's hand and hauled her out of the theater, chased by the laughter of the two foreign girls.
TBC