Captain Peroxide And The Blue Meany Do Lunch
"This place does those little, deep fried onion blossom things," Spike says, tapping out a cigarette and letting it hang from his lower lip. "Trust me Blue, your taste buds won't regret it."
Illyria frowns, and for a second Spike thinks he sees her Fred-face start to dapple an interesting shade of forget-me-not; though it's probably just a trick of the light. "I do not understand," she says.
Spike sighs and lights up. "Well, see it's simple, they put the cut onions in cold water and--"
"No," Illyria interrupts, "I do not understand the purpose of bringing *me* to such a place." She gestures imperiously to the dim, smoky, pub. "I do not understand your continuous, aggravating attempts to persuade me that ingesting large quantities of hops based beverages, and throwing miniature arrows at an inanimate, round board are meant to give me pleasure. Once I would have rejoiced as I crushed your skull beneath my heel, for such presumption."
"Yeah," Spike grins, blowing a perfect smoke ring at the increasingly pissed off ex-god, "I knew there was a reason I liked you." Someone puts God Save the Queen on the jukebox, and he has to raise his voice above the row. "This here is part of your training. Angel's big plan for...wotsit...integration. How to become more human in five easy stages." He smirks. "I reckon you're gonna enjoy stage five."
Illyria cocks her head to one side, weird and insect-like all of a sudden. She stares at Spike until the song plays out, the kind of stare that can make a bloke droop and wither at one hundred paces. "But you ain't even human yourself," she finally says in her best, matter of fact, Texas twang.
"Too bloody right I'm not," Spike mutters, stubbing his fag out on the Thank You for Not Smoking, sign. He immerses himself in the menu, again. "Now, are you planning to order some grub sometime this millennium? I'm starved."