A/N: Based on a prompt from the revengekinkmeme community on LJ. The prompt was: "David/Victoria; He should be getting home to Amanda, but the party's just begun and the Devil's arrived, little red dress and all (Halloween party fic). Enjoy!
He leaves his daughter parked in the living room, a mindless television show capturing all her attention. She's dressed up as a princess—although Halloween is tomorrow night, she insists on wearing her costume until then. Her babysitter is in the kitchen making dinner.
'I don't have to go to this party – it's only work. Are you sure you don't want me to stay?' he asks, though his offer is halfhearted. Somehow he can't face another night in front of the television, even if it is with his daughter. Besides, there's something else that's drawing him to this party, despite his reluctance.
'Go, Daddy. You've already gotten dressed up!'
'All right,' he sighs, though it's a sigh of relief and not of disappointment. 'Don't stay up too late – we have a busy night tomorrow. And only one piece of candy! I'll be paying dentist's bills for the next year after Halloween!' She giggles and he presses a kiss to her forehead, leaving her to the television and dinner with her nanny.
They don't live close enough to the Grayson's penthouse to walk in the chill of the October evening, and besides, he would feel uncomfortable strolling up Fifth Avenue in his rather outlandish costume. He feels ridiculous—why on earth did he decide to dress up as a Scotsman, complete with kilt?—but he's already dressed and agreed to attend this party. He steps out of their apartment building and hails a cab, though several drunk people stumble into him and one of the women's roaming hands attempts to lift up his kilt. His cheeks flush and he wants to go back to his apartment to change, but the cab pulls up to the curb just as he turns back to face his apartment.
Although he is committed to this party he's still vacillating when he exits the elevator into the foyer of their penthouse. He hasn't been here before, and while he has spent some time in the splendor of Grayson Manor, the penthouse is an entirely different level of sumptuousness. It makes him realize that whatever else Grayson Manor is, it is simply their beach house.
He is out of place here, especially in his costume. The rest of the men are dressed much the way he should have expected; slick suits, well-cut clothing, and costumes that don't seem like costumes. The women's costumes are ridiculously low-cut – the perfect way to show off their latest trip to the plastic surgeon.
He could turn around now, very easily. He could recall the elevator and descend into the lobby, pretending nothing had ever happened. He should be getting home to Amanda, but he's just arrived and the party's just begun… and there's a glass of scotch calling his name across the room. At least it's in character, he thinks as he hands his coat to the maid standing ready at the door. Besides, there may be other enticements.
He's accepted his first glass of scotch from the bartender and is involved in a conversation with Bill Harmon when a flash of color catches his eye. It seems the Devil's arrived – little red dress and all.
She saunters down the staircase, accepting compliments with gracious smiles. He can't take his eyes off her, and Bill has to wave his hand in front of his face before he tears his gaze away.
He knows when she spots him; he can feel her heat-filled gaze. He won't let himself look over at her, but he can't manage to focus on the conversation. He sips his scotch and thinks of a way to extricate himself from Bill's company. He's never thought that he was boring before this evening…
'It looks like you need another drink, Mr. Clarke,' Victoria drawls. 'Another scotch. You do need something… authentic for your costume.'
'Indeed,' he replies. 'Can I get you something, Mrs. Grayson?'
'I'll come with you – I'm afraid what I want is rather… complicated. Excuse us, Bill,' she states, slipping his arm through his.
They must look an odd couple, he thinks – the Devil and the Scotsman. It sounds like a ridiculous romance novel.
Her hand increases its pressure on his arm when they spy Conrad leaning against the bar, absorbed in a conversation with a young and pretty blonde. Her nails dig into his bicep briefly before she gives his arm a tug, pulling him into an empty hallway.
The lights are off in this corridor and it's significantly darker and quieter than the dimmed rooms they've just left behind. She lets go of his arm and leads the way deeper into the gloom; he follows closely behind her.
She opens a wood paneled door and beckons him to enter; she closes the door behind him as he fumbles for the light switch.
'Don't,' she says, resting her hands against his chest, stepping closer to him. 'Don't turn on the lights.'
'What are you doing?' he whispers in her ear, her hair brushing his cheek, her hands sliding down.
'Well, you know, I've always wondered…'
'Wondered what?'
'Well, it's very cliché, but I've always wondered what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. Why don't you show me?'
The warm buzz of scotch and intoxication at her presence make him reckless. 'Why don't you find out for yourself?'
He bends down and kisses her hungrily, feels her smile against her lips.
He's been tempted by the Devil—how can he say no?