Part Two: Dinner and a Show
A date. A real date. With all the drama and heartache Angel had put her through in the past year of their relationship, it seemed both bizarre and sweet that he’d want to take her out. They’d never really been on a date before—patrolling and battles to the death weren’t exactly equitable with movies, flowers, and candy kisses. The whole prospect of dating Angel was so simple and complicated at the same time—she wanted to laugh until she cried.
In all honesty, Buffy’s last real date had been years ago. One of the last years before she became the Slayer. Nothing else was comparable. Her brief interest in Owen had resulted in an evening full of vamps to be slain, and similarly, the would-be relationship with Scott always skittered around the inevitable, “By the way, and I know how crazy this is gonna sound…”
Angel had asked her out on a date. Friday. Date night. Bearing in mind that she hadn’t realized they were on comfortable speaking terms, this was considerable progress. An amiably pleasant, if not peculiar, pursuit to draw her embittered attention to the once-dazzling highlights of her life.
Despite her distancing, there was the want and need to acknowledge that some things would never change, even if the rest of the world did.
The evening itself was long and awkward. Dinner stretched into what had to be hours. Hours filled with long, empty silences and a quip or two about how they didn’t serve Angel’s favorite food. Buffy was acquainted with the various forms of silence. There were silences that spoke for things that neither party could say. Silences filled with quiet understanding. Silences where—
An ocean of discovery. It was so dark, but she could see his eyes—hazed and bewildered, studying her severely. Nothing else…but for the pants fighting to be heard over the loudest silence she could bear to remember.
There would be no thinking of that night right now. Even with the noise that surrounded them that seemed to withstand the push for a meaningful conversation. Beyond the ‘how are yous’ and affirmations of general well being. Buffy sat and watched him. Watched him watch her. Watched as they tacitly concluded there was nothing to say. Nothing that either was willing to discuss, as it were.
Buffy found her nerves pressed when Angel spoke, always terrified that he would eventually cross that final threshold. He hadn’t yet—he had more control, but it wouldn’t last. Eventually, he would reach a breaking point. It would happen someday; Angel would eventually seize her by the shoulders and shake her until she spilled what it was that had happened those few weeks ago. She knew he thought about it. He thought about it often.
And they didn’t talk.
With as much as she would like to blame him, Buffy understood that what had occurred was not simply because of Spike. Her layers of hostility brewed and festered, but that truth remained untarnished. Spike’s intrusion into her life had not changed anything that didn’t need changing. Rather, the entire affair had only brought her to a pivotal realization that otherwise might have taken years to reach.
That hurt, because she knew she’d once loved Angel. She’d once loved him, but she didn’t now. Not in the way she had. Not in an everlasting way. He was no different than any girl’s first love: he would remain bottled and kept with fondness, but that was it. Her first love had come and gone, and now she carried on with him as though waiting for the director to yell cut so she could return to her regularly scheduled life. She needed a place to stop; a place to acknowledge the finale of their once-great love. There was heartache and despair down that road, but she’d been there before. Angel had shown her everything—love, yes, but moreover: turmoil, grief, and death. That was his great contribution to her life.
Without saying a word, he could make her feel like such a child.
It was different now. Spike had complicated things by opening her eyes, and she dealt with that recognition by calling it hate. It felt like she and Angel had—for all intents and purposes—already separated, only they’d skipped the messy ‘we need to talk’ thing.
Despite everything, Buffy didn’t want to think about it. The idea of formally breaking up with Angel, putting a technical end to their relationship, had her road-blocked. He was her first, and she clung to that. She remembered daydreaming about where they would be in twenty years, when she was no longer plagued with the burdens of Slayerness, and for a long time, those dreams had starred Angel by her side. A concocted fantasy that she now knew would never be.
To say that her first adult relationship was over felt like wishing away the last gasp of childhood altogether, as though the barrier had not been broken already.
The world was already too confusing to worry about absolutes.
If anything, dinner reminded her why she and Angel rarely went out. His affinity for appearing human did not stretch to his eating habits. She felt that he was punishing himself for being anything less than a man. As though she would forget everything he had done if he smiled soulfully in her direction.
It wasn’t until they were ready to leave that he tripped over an area of discussion that merited more than the obligatory one-word reply. A subject she would like to never mention again. Perhaps it was some strange contingent of irrational feminine logic, but she couldn’t abide the tone of voice he adopted when he spoke of her. “How is Faith?”
A dark shudder rippled through her. Things had been quiet on the Faith front since she killed the Mayor’s aide. Small talk in the greater scheme of things. Buffy was sore on the subject, but not to the point where she would stop their nightly constitutionals. Ever since the birthday-extravaganza, it seemed the other slayer was the only one that refused to hound her for details or regard her as though she were diseased; either because she was too wrapped in her own emotional working or simply didn’t care. It was odd, given her self-proclaimed, god-given right to pry into Buffy’s love life whenever she felt like it. Not a suggestive word had come out of Faith’s mouth in reference to that night.
Of course, that could be attributed to the latest weirdness with her and the Xander kissage. Well, more than kissage, but Buffy really preferred to steer clear of those visuals.
And now Angel was asking about her. He should know. He was her biggest sponsor at Slayer Rehab. Their nights apart left too much to the imagination. The other Slayer’s occasional absence seemed to coincide with Angel’s excuses of ‘I’m busy tonight’ whenever Buffy got around to asking for his time. All things considered, the thought shouldn’t bother her like it did. Not when she was realizing that whatever they had was over. Not when she had betrayed him so willingly. A few hours locked in a steel box with another vampire could do wonders to one’s fidelity.
“She’s good,” Buffy replied softly, attempting to mask her disdain. “I think she’s…she’s dealing slowly. Trying to come to terms…”
The look that flashed across Angel’s face was reflective and understanding. It made her insides boil. “It’ll take time,” he acknowledged. “She went through something traumatic.”
Yeah, because standing there and watching was a walk in the park for me.
“As it shows in her everyday behavior.”
It was impossible not to hear the disdain dripping from her voice.
“People can put up surprising walls, Buffy,” Angel reprimanded with a frown. “We all have our ways of dealing… it took me forever to come to any level of rational acceptance. Faith is…different. She’s coping with what she has done in the only way she knows.”
“By partying?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Well, ain’t that typical? She wondered offhandedly if Spike’s love bite on her throat was meant to pass on some of his more basic urges. That would certainly explain the Angel can be such an ass mantras that had a way of slipping in and out of daily thought.
“I wouldn’t understand,” she repeated incredulously, huffing in aggravation. “Of course I wouldn’t understand. How can I? It’s just another one of those members-only things where—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” she replied, waving airily as she moved to finish off her water. He was not satisfied with that, she knew, but at the moment, she honestly couldn’t give a damn. Not where Faith was concerned.
The rest of dinner was conducted in silence. Neither had anything to say. This was the way it was. Things would be better once they got to the movie. Conversation was not required, and they didn’t have to look at each other if they didn’t want to.
That was, unless her boyfriend was expecting an enactment of what most high school students did while pretending to be interested in whatever film was playing. She really, really hoped not. The idea of kissing him was too wigsome now, especially when her lips still burned from Spike’s passion.
She didn’t want to touch Angel while her mind was with someone else.
*~*~*
Bad, bad movie decision. Bad. A whole world full of bad. Bad to the point of not being able to express the extremity of badness. All the bad in the universe could not have prepared her for a cinematic experience of this variety.
Why oh why had they walked into porn? And why oh why hadn’t anyone stopped them?
Amazingly, Angel remained stoic throughout most of the film, hardly batting an eye if not to toss her an apologetic glance. She wondered if that could be accredited to the two hundred-plus years of experience working in his favor.
Despite whatever mental fallout she currently battled, there was one thing that would remain fresh and permanent in Buffy’s mind. Her time with Angel had moved her, soiled only by the knowledge of what had happened after. He’d been tender and intimate; embodied everything that ‘making love’ was all about. And she’d loved him. She’d loved him so much that her love had destroyed her, her friends, and everything she held dear.
He had been considerate and gentle. He had been everything a girl could want in her first experience.
Well, until he spoke.
“It's what? Bells ringing, fireworks, a dulcet choir of pretty little birdies? Come on, Buffy. It's not like I've never been there before.”
Buffy flinched and jerked away from him, ignoring the confused look she earned. It wasn’t his fault, she knew. He had not said those words to her. He had not filled her mind with doubt. He had not intentionally broken her.
No, that was Angelus.
“Somethin’ I oughta tell you, before we get back to tradin’ nasty jibes,” Spike said, nudging her head with his. Buffy blinked sleepily and yawned, fighting the urge to stretch. It was still dark, and still hours from any perceptible disruption from the outside world. “Not sure exactly how long we’re gonna be snuggled all comfy-like.”
That very thought had crossed her mind more than once, but she refused to voice her insecurity. She stifled another yawn and reclined comfortably against his shoulder. “You better tell me now,” she warned. “A sleepy slayer is a grumpy slayer. I can’t be held accountable for the monster you’ll wake up to tomorrow if I don’t get my beauty rest.”
Spike rumbled in amusement. She loved the feel of it; rippling sensations across her skin, as if making a point of sharing every smile with him. Every barb of laughter that accompanied every ill-timed pun or horrible joke. From enemies to friends to lovers to lovers who were friends in a matter of hours.
“Beauty rest is overrated, kitten,” he told her. “’Sides, from where I’m sittin’, you’ve already had your fill.”
“You’re either trying to make me blush with that compliment, or you’re very horny.”
“Both, actually. You mind?”
She felt another yawn approaching but hadn’t the strength to push it inward. “Get to the point, Spike.”
Another chuckle. His cool lips found her forehead. “Where’s all that slayer stamina I’ve been dreamin’ about?”
“I’m all stamina’d out. And…dreaming?”
“Yeh. You’re a right annoyin’ chit once you get stuck in someone’s head, you know that?” His fingers ran down her arms, eliciting shivers and goose bumps, and he purred his delight. “Like those musical numbers I was tellin’ you about earlier, only a lot more…entertainin’.”
She found the notion sinfully pleasant. To the point that she was on the verge of asking about the various scenarios and positions his wicked mind had entertained before remembering that he had awoken her for a reason.
“Again with the point. Points are a good thing. They’re nice and…pointy.”
Easy set-up. Spike barked a laugh in return, squeezing her closer to him and settling contentedly. “I’ll let that one slide, pet.”
“Thank God.”
Spike graced her temple with a tender kiss, fingers finding the bite mark she had allowed him to give her earlier that night. It was astounding—how considerate he could be. The compassion he had displayed in the past few hours alone was blowing her away. Counterpoint to everything she had ever experienced before. “What he said to you…” he began cautiously; there was no questioning to whom he referred. “I don’ know the whole story, ‘course, but he gave me an’ Dru a good hint. He was a bloody wanker, luv. That rot about…” Spike lost himself in her hair, inhaling appreciatively as she trembled against him. This was it. This was the way the first time should have been. Lying wrapped in each other’s arms, talking and touching as lovers. A sense of what had been fought for and what was found. Here in the hold of a killer.
Irony, how I mock thee.
“You’re such a fireball,” he continued, his tone having adopted a funny note of worship. Something she would never have anticipated from any man, least of all him. “Christ, it burns me to think this was only your—”
“Don’t,” she whispered softly. “Don’t bring him up. I can’t…I…”
And that was as far as it went. Spike wasn’t about to engage in a heart-to-heart about Angel now. Not with Buffy willingly in his arms. Not for all the blood in the world. She understood what he was trying to say, and that was all that mattered.
The Slayer shuddered and fell cold again. It was a conversation she relived more than she cared to admit, simply for the satisfaction of her qualms and misgivings. After all, if he had meant a word of it, he would have come back.
Even after she told him that she needed time.
Buffy honestly didn’t know what she’d meant with the suggestion. It was appropriate then. Everything was new and confusing. She remembered the dazed appreciation that coursed through her veins when Angel swooped in and took her into his arms. She remembered panicking when he discovered the fresh bite marks on her throat. She remembered the bewilderment that flickered across his face when she threw him off the vampire that was supposed to be her enemy. She remembered the similar flash of incensed jealousy that had shone in Spike’s eyes. She’d felt for him; he was sad and alone, consigned to the odds playing against him. She’d given Spike no reason to think that they would ever have more, aside from asking him to come back. Their hours together had been infuriating, then annoying, then lust-addled, then passionate, and then the best of her life.
The very, very best.
Angel had not mentioned Spike’s bite mark since that first night. The reflection of hurt in his eyes was too much for her to handle. And while she sensed his overriding emotion was betrayal, something told her that he was just plain pissed on a solely primitive level that that she’d let another vamp’s fangs near her throat. A sort of if-I-can’t-have-her-no-one-can kind of thing. Honestly, there were times when Buffy wished she had a soulful-monster manual that listed all the characteristics of a brooding demon. At least then she would know what to expect.
At that, she hazarded another glance in his direction, ill timed with a guttural moan that hissed across the screen. She flinched but he did not. He merely sat there, stone-faced and watching. She thought about suggesting they leave but decided against it. There was a look of rejuvenated resolution coloring Angel’s features, as though God would have to strike the theatre down before he’d budge. Perhaps he was too embarrassed. Perhaps he wanted to prove something to himself. Whatever the case, he wasn’t moving. So she sat. And watched. And tried not to watch. And wished herself away.
And then felt horribly guilty. Despite whatever hardships they were going through, it wasn’t fair to rub his nose in what he couldn’t have.
Oh, speaking of…the leading man was descending rapidly down the actress’s overly heaving body, his mouth well-aimed at her shorn pussy. Buffy’s eyes widened comically, her mind shooting to all sorts of inappropriate things.
She made a small noise of complaint as the cool body she had been resting on slid from her embrace. Still half-dazed with sleep, her grip tightened to hold him still, but his own wiry strength was still greater than hers. Spike had to be tired—he hadn’t slept in five days, too rattled with adrenaline in preparation for whatever he had to face tonight. But the added dose of Slayer-blood had completely vanquished any sleeping habits. He acted like he had consumed twelve café mochas in ten minutes.
Which was all well and good, but she was trying to sleep. He had allowed her an hour at first before waking her, then half an hour before feeling the need to reaffirm Angel’s wankerness, then fifteen minutes before waking her again to ask if she was cold. Finally, when she threatened to emasculate him if he dared awake her again for any reason, he settled back with a pout and wrapped his arms around her protectively, telling her to go on back to sleep.
To which, she responded, “Coulda sworn that’s what I’ve been trying to do. You kinda did wear me out.”
She felt him rumble with masculine pride. “Did I?”
“That slayer stamina you mentioned? I told you…slayer powers gone, ergo stamina’s not as staminy as usual.”
She loved it when he laughed. He was so boyish when he laughed. “That’s not a word, pet.”
“Anything’s a word when I’m this tired.”
“You know,” he mused, “I’d like to try to wear you out when your powers are at their full. Figure we could have a helluva week figurin’ out exactly what gives you that inklin’ of satisfaction.”
“Ego much?”
“Well, I am the bloke who ‘wore you out’.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Spike snapped back a witty retort, she was sure, but she was halfway to dreamland before it reached a level of comprehension.
She honestly wasn’t sure how long he allowed her rest during that interval. It seemed longer than a half hour, but the night was going fast. Funny how forever could pass in a blink. The wear-and-tear of hours of incapacitation was weighing on her resolve, but morning would still come all too soon.
Which is likely why he caved to temptation and challenged her threat of emasculation.
Buffy wasn’t sure what woke her at first. Drowning in a pit of long, dreamless sleep. She was grateful for that. Thoughts of what was to come when the door finally opened defied logical reasoning, and she wasn’t ready to cross that bridge, even if it was coming up sooner than she cared to admit.
It didn’t take long to pinpoint the cause of her disturbed slumber. Spike was situated between her thighs, suckling hungrily at her clit. As soon as the first violent shudder ran through her body, he looked up to meet her eyes with a mischievous grin.
Coherency crashed and departed in the wake of fresh desire. His gaze alone was enough to make her core tremble—flickers of disobedience that simply begged to be disciplined. A strangled moan escaped her lips before she could think to stop herself. “Spi…wha…”
He winked at her before sliding down once more, his tongue probing her clit as he hummed with delight. “Sorry, pet,” he returned, not at all apologetic. The tremors that echoed across her skin in response to his voice provoked another arch, and she slammed her head to the floor. “Know you wanted to sleep.” Another torturous lick. Buffy whimpered, her thighs closing around his head. “Figured a midnight snack this delicious would be worth the wrath of Grumpy Slayer Monster in the mornin’.”
She moaned at his words, fisting a handful of platinum locks and holding him to her desperately.
“You’re delicious,” he murmured, his fingers stretching her pussy lips apart. “Christ, Buffy…”
“Ohhh…”
“So delicious. I’ll want this every day. Every fucking day. You understand me?”
She understood. She just couldn’t reply.
She knew she’d want it, too.
The movie was over, and the look on Angel’s face was not at all accommodating. She knew he could tell when her pulse accelerated. When her eyes glazed over. He had seen enough to provide suitable verification without having to resort to petty suspicion.
He knew.
“Well,” she said, trying and failing to sound normal. “That was…well, from the title, I thought it was going to be about food.”
Oh yeah. Smooth, Slayer. Real smooth.
When had her conscience adapted an English accent? She didn’t want to know.
Angel simply nodded and muttered some disjointed reply. Neither was really paying attention.
Buffy emitted a seething breath. Never before had she allowed her thoughts to sway toward the blonder persuasion in her boyfriend’s presence. It was too dangerous—their link too similar. However, her anger was empty; in the end, she knew it didn’t matter. In the end, it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though Spike would be waiting for her when she went home.
Again with the all-right-with-that. I’d probably stake him anyway. Hate him, remember?
All well and good. The word excuse was in serious need of redefining.
“No one’s ever done that to you, have they?” Spike settled back, smiling smugly as he wrapped his arms around her once more, steering her to his chest.
It was only then that she felt her cheeks flush. Her body was quaking still, coming down from a euphoric plane and settling with new strains of fatigue. Fresh and waiting to be claimed. “I…erm…”
“I’ve boldly gone where no man has gone before.”
No one should ever be allowed that much arrogance, but she hadn’t the strength to contest him.
“Sure. Whatever. If you’ll let me get to sleep, believe what you want.”
He pouted, mood sullied by the implication. “You still wanna sleep?”
Buffy paused thoughtfully for a minute, turning to meet his pitiful eyes with a wicked smile of her own. The curve of her mouth fit naturally against his. Soothing and calm. The way things should have been for her all along. So strange to find it here and now, even if it wouldn’t last. “Well,” she conceded saucily, “now that you mention it…”
“You ready?”
“Huh?” Buffy blinked vacantly at Angel before realizing that she had done it again. The look on his face was solemn, nearly hurt, and sent waves of guilt through her gut. That was one thing she never wanted to do. Hurt him. Hurt him with her own selfishness. Hurt him because her thoughts were with another.
Another who she hated.
“Right,” she said, nodding more to herself. “Let’s go.”
Something told her that hell would freeze over before he took her to the movies again.
TBC
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