Author's Chapter Notes:
First of all, I'm sorry for the gap in updating =D I've been getting caught up...and thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It really made my day! Also, this fic has been nominated at the Love's Last Glimpse awards for Best Romance, WIP, and Fantasy!!! *squee* Thanks so much to whoever nominated me! You guys are the best *hugs*
He couldn’t stop staring at her. It was the worst evening of his life, yet he was transfixed by the angel in front of him.

The first surprise of the evening had come in the form of Buffy’s clothes. She was wearing a filmy red dress, not exactly skimpy but certainly more revealing than her usual clothes, and it was having a severe effect on him.

He was finding eating difficult because of the massive hard-on he was sporting under the table—and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was tempting him on purpose. They were just ‘bout as close as two people could get. She knew his favorite color was red, and everything she had on that night, from her makeup to her dress to her shoes, was deep crimson.

Enough to make a bloke cry, it was.

Even worse, it wasn’t just a dinner with Buffy and her folks. That would have been bad enough, but for some reason, Willow and Faith were there, too. Willow at least looked as awkward as he felt, but Faith had been dropping innuendos and calling him by various odd pet names all night. If the dress Buffy had on didn’t drive him mad, then the girl’s overly sexual friend was sure to accomplish the task.

Still worse, conversation wasn’t exactly flowing at the table. It started, lurched to a halt, and then started again when one of the brave souls at the table decided to take another stab at it. Spike took no part in it. He caught everyone at the table occasionally sending him odd glances—everyone except Buffy. She didn’t seem at all concerned with the fact that he wasn’t talking, and that told him a hell of a lot.

Something had changed. He just wasn’t sure what.

After what seemed like ages, Hank said, “Well, guess you kids had better get going.”

“Yeah, we sh-should go,” Willow stuttered, clearly relieved. “Come on, Faith. Buffy, want to maybe walk us out?”

Faith rolled her eyes as she stood up. “You know, Willow, I’m seriously doubting your sanity. The door’s right over there—we don’t need B to show us where it is.” She grinned slowly. “Although if His Studliness wants to show us out, I’m not gonna complain.

“No, it’s okay.” Spike watched as his girl hastily jumped up and hurried out of the dining room, telling her friends as she went, “Although Faith’s right, in a gross, slutty kinda way. The door really is right there.”

Spike shifted uncomfortably in his seat; sitting for two hours with a raging hard-on sure as hell didn’t do much for a man’s disposition. Joyce and Hank were sitting silently, seemingly perfectly alright with the evening’s events—which made Spike more than a little suspicious.

“So, Spike, how’s work at the agency going?” Joyce, ever the soul of courtesy, asked.

“Uh, fine. ‘m workin’ on a project for Aflack.”

“They got tired of the duck?” Hank chuckled. “And here I thought that one would never go out of style.”

Spike smiled slightly. “Don’t think it would, but they got tired ‘f searchin’ all their employees t’ make sure one of ‘em wasn’t a crazed PETA person tryin’ to blow their offices up. Rough gig, that.”

“Goodness. I wasn’t aware advertising could be so dangerous!” Joyce said, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, that ain’t the half ‘f it. PETA makes some organizations look safe as houses,” Spike said, leaning forward with a grin on his face. He loved enlightening people about how strong an influence the advertising community had on the world around them. “You know how many terrorists ‘ave tried to do Victoria’s Secret in ‘cause of their underwear ads?”

“And let me guess,” Buffy said dryly from the doorway. “You had a hand in the ads in question.”

He stiffened immediately. With Buffy out of the room he could talk to her parents without a problem—now that she was back, all his feelings came rushing upon him again, guilt and shame included. Victoria’s Secret—Buffy wearing Victoria’s Secret—Buffy getting Victoria’s Secret ripped off her body— Suddenly Joyce and Hank’s expectant faces looked accusatory. “Not exactly,” he mumbled, getting up. “’s late—I should probably go.”

God help him, but she pouted. “No fair,” she said grumpily. “First you’re all bad moody through dinner, and now you’re leaving like I have some kind of freaky disease, or something.”

Wonderful—in trying to save his own arse, he’d hurt her. “’s not like that, kitten” he said earnestly, trying to get her to understand. Not like that at all. I just want to shag you on top of the table, an’ we might have a bit of a problem with that, given that your mum an’ dad are currently staring at us. “But ‘s a big project I’m workin’ on, and the creative juices aren’t gonna flow ‘f I stay much longer. I’m an old man, need my beauty rest.”

She smiled grudgingly at that. “Okay, fine,” she said.

“Now that that’s settled,” Joyce cut in smoothly, “Hank, you can help me clean up in the kitchen.”

When her husband didn’t move, only sat with a slight grin on his face as he watched his daughter and her best friend, Joyce tugged on his arm sharply. “Hank. Now.

Spike couldn’t help himself—he grinned slightly at the disgruntled expression on the other man’s face. “Women,” Hank muttered, allowing himself to be drug into the kitchen by a very determined Joyce.

“Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em,” Spike added, winking down at Buffy.

She laughed. “Well, Mom’s just about the only thing that saved this dinner. It was uber-awkward.”

“That it was, but—“

“No buts, it just was.” Buffy sighed, looking suddenly despondent. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” That startled him. What did she have to be apologizin’ for?

“Well, it’s my fault that the dinner turned out to be such a suckfest.”

He cocked his head at her. “An’ how exactly does that work out?”

Buffy shrugged, the expression made eloquent by her bare shoulders. “I invited Willow and Faith,” she said simply. “I know you don’t like being around them…”

“That’s not true!” He felt the need to protest even if he was lying through his teeth. “Your friends are just fine.”

“Yeah, but they’re my friends, and my parents,” she argued. “And that’s what made it awkward. You—“

“Don’t belong.” He sighed wearily, running his hand through his hair. “I get it, Buffy, alright? I was the odd puzzle piece that kept the evening from being nice. ‘m not entirely stupid, you know.”

“Hey.” She swatted him. “Would you stop being self pity guy, already? That’s not it at all. You’ve been around my friends before.”

She was right. Dammit.

“It’s just—“ she sighed impatiently. “I don’t know why it was weird, okay? It just was. And I’m sorry.”

He recognized it for what it was—a peace offering. “’m sorry, too,” he said, and they began to move towards the door.

He shrugged into his suit coat. “’least I got to see what Faith considers evening wear,” he joked feebly, remembering the tiny black dress the girl had been wearing. “You sure she doesn’t work at a brothel?”

Buffy grinned. “She’s threatened to turn into an actual ho once or twice, but no, so far she gives it away for free.”

Spike shook his head, unable to resist goading her. “Tsk, tsk. Talkin’ bout your friend that way. Just ‘cause a tumble with you prob’ly costs a pretty penny—“

“Spike! I am so not a slut!”

“Thought I was callin’ you a whore,” he said, frowning in mock puzzlement, “An’ Faith a slut.”

He’d only been teasing—but apparently Buffy took it the wrong way. She slumped against the door, saying, “It’s the dress, isn’t it? The dress is totally hobaggy. I knew it!”

“What?” He couldn’t believe his ears. She thought she looked like a slut? “Buffy—I was kidding, luv. You look…”

“Yeah?” Forced casualness, and they both knew it.

Spike sighed, suddenly tired of playing. Tired of trying to pretend that seeing her all decked out like that didn’t affect him. Tired of lying to both of them about the thing he could feel in between him and her—the thing that came just as much from her as it did from him.

“You look beautiful, luv.”

Hazel eyes widened, locking with blue. Something passed between them—a quiet acceptance of what shouldn’t, couldn’t, be—and yet was all the same. Spike took a step forward, slowly, fighting and embracing what was happening.

“Y-you think I’m beautiful?” A quiet, breathy question.

He reached out let his hand brush her shoulder—the barest whisper of a touch. “You know I do,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“I do?”

“Well, ‘f you don’t, then you’re a little dumber than ‘d given you credit for,” he teased, a smile playing about his lips.

She smiled in return—her glossy red lips just barely parting to reveal white teeth. “Guess I’m stupid, then,” she breathed, tilting her head up.

His chest was pressing against hers, his heavy suit coat was crushing the crinkly fabric that covered her breasts. How had that happened? Spike wasn’t at all sure. “’s not like I’m much smarter,” he pointed out. His other hand came up, curving round the soft globes of her shoulders.

“Oh, definitely not.” Her breath hitched; his own chest seemed to constrict in response. He squeezed her shoulders, pressing her more fully against the door. It was bad, it was wrong—and it felt so damn good.

She pressed back. If he was buried in sin, then so was she. “What’s happening?” she asked as her head tilted back, as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Nothing.” He closed his eyes, inhaled her scent—and suddenly, standing there pushing his teenaged best friend up against her door, with her parents mere feet away, he was lost. Utterly, completely lost. He had been before—but not like now. Now he was gone, thrown into the abyss, without even a map to help him find his way back. The only map, the only guide he had, was in the eyes that were flickering behind closed lids, waiting him to do what they both knew he had to.

He pulled her away from the door and into his arms, running his hands up and down her semi-bare back. His head dipped.

“Nothing at all,” he whispered…

And his lips met hers.

It was a combination of the strangest and the most incredible kiss he’d ever experienced. She was so soft, so sweet, so very right. He could taste her—tart, feisty, yet incredibly young and untried. It didn’t make him feel dirty, didn’t make him feel wrong. He couldn’t feel like that, not when he was with her. Not when his lips were crushing hers, and she was doing her damndest to crush his right back.

Neither made a move to deepen the kiss. Their lips moved against each other, their hands scrabbled for purchase on the other’s body, their heads spun as they lost all semblance of control. Lips clung, crashed together—breathing escalated—life flowed through them both, warming them with its fiery heat. And still they kissed.

It was heaven, but it was an easily shattered one. Because the second Joyce called, “Buffy? Has Spike gone yet?” Spike was jerked out of a wonderful place were the only things that existed were Buffy and the way she was making him feel, and back into reality, where the very fact that he felt such things damned him for eternity.

He lurched away from her, fighting his way back to coherency. God—no—you’ve really fucked it up this time, mate.

“Spike?”

There was hurt in those hazel eyes that usually stared at him with such happiness and pride. He should be sorry—he was sorry—but all he could think about was leaving right now, before Joyce walked into the foyer and drew some very reasonable conclusions.

“Buffy—“ he broke off, staring at her, completely at a loss for words. What could he say? What had happened between them shouldn’t have happened. It was sick, it was wrong, and it was his fault. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

“No, don’t—“

But it was too late. He heard her begin to speak, but he’d already flung open the door and fairly run out of it. Down the steps, to his car—

“Spike!”

No. Couldn’t listen to her, not now. She was an angel, and she was the only one who had the power to ensure he spent the rest of his days roasting in hell.

“Spike, wait!”

Keys. Where the fucking hell were his keys? His hand dove into his coat pocket, retrieving the key to his car and shoving it into the lock.

“Please—“

He could hear her heartbreak. It matched his own.

What he couldn’t hear above the roar of the motor as he peeled out of the drive were the sobs. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs that escaped the girl as she slumped down on the step, weak, confused…

Broken. The word echoed in Spike’s head as he drove frantically away. Scenery flew past, but only one bit of it reached the mess that was his brain.

Los Angeles, 75 miles.

~*~





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