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CHAPTER 8 --

Connor stumbled out of bed, untangling the sheets that were wrapped around his legs. But the aroma that met him almost had him incapacitated with shock. Pinching himself and coming to the realization that he was, in fact, awake, he warily made his way downstairs. With just him, his dad, and his Uncle Xander in the house, the smell of home cooked food was beyond foreign to him. Chinese take-out and pizza he knew. But the pleasant odor wafting upstairs from the kitchen floored him.

It smelled like . . . omelets.

Almost scared with what he might find in the next room, Connor snaked his head around the corner before entering.

Liz Phair blasted from the kitchen radio. At the counter stood his mom, bowls spread out around her, bopping her head to the song. He’d never experienced this before -- waking up with his mom cooking him breakfast in the kitchen. Connor found himself smiling, but quickly wiped it from his face. It must be commonplace for Dawn.

“Hey!” Buffy greeted brightly as he entered the room. “You’re up early. Sit,” she gestured with the spatula towards the kitchen table.

He slid into a seat and seconds later Buffy had an omelet the size of the plate itself in front of him. “Thanks . . .” he tripped over what he would call her. Labeling her “mom” seemed a little forced to him after not knowing her for thirteen of his fifteen years, even though Dawn was showing his . . . their . . . father affection like they had been one happy family since day one.

“You can call me Buffy if you want,” she told him, having been able to yet again tell what was going on in his head. She returned to the counter.

Connor nodded, now more comfortable. But he was pretty sure he’d keep calling her mom.

Buffy watched as her son scarffed down the omelet like he’d never seen one before. It made her seriously wonder what Spike and Xander had been feeding him all these years. She made a mental note to grill them about it later.

“How did you meet dad?”

The question surprised her a bit, but Buffy smiled, continuing to slice the vegetables on the cutting board in front of her. “He was an exchange student,” she answered gamely. “The British bad boy. He wore all black and a leather trench coat. And believe it or not, his hair was an even more ungodly shade of white than it is now.”

Connor let out a chuckle at the rib at his father. “And you were?”

Buffy stuck up her nose in false superiority, “The good girl cheerleader that never went out with bad boys,” she smiled, walking over to the table to set out a plate of fruit.

On her way past him, she smoothed her hand over his hair in a motherly caress.

Connor pulled away quickly at the unfamiliar touch, but it didn’t seem to faze Buffy, a grin still on her face.

Inspired, Connor pulled his notebook up onto the table next to him. Taking out some pencils he began to make some outlines on an empty page.

Buffy looked over his shoulder, “That’s really good,” she commented.

Connor hastily pulled his sketch away.

But Buffy, aware of how finicky artists are about their work, continued, “I run a gallery back in Sunnydale, I can get some of your stuff to display when I do amateur nights.”

Connor blinked, “Really?”

“Sure,” she answered. “Can I see some more?” she nodded at the sketchbook.

Connor cautiously handed over his most prized possession.

Buffy leisured over each drawing, the book being almost full, pointing out her favorites. It was like seeing the last thirteen years flashed before her as she flipped through pictures of Spike and Xander at all different points in their lives. Also were glimpses of various things Connor held dear besides his family -- soccer, friends, and various punk bands littered the pages. But Buffy stopped abruptly at the last page. The very last completed picture was one of her, but at an earlier age. It must have been copied from a picture.

“Dad gave it to me right before you came,” Connor explained, nervous how she would react to the addition he had made to her portrait.

If Buffy was shocked at finding a picture of herself inside the book where her son kept his most private of thoughts, what was drawn on the page next to her almost had her woozy.

It was Spike.

Drawn to scale to match her own was a sketch of Spike . . . from fifteen years ago.

They looked just like they had in high school. It could easily have been a snapshot of how they looked moments before they split up, with Spike taking Connor and returning to England with his father, the school librarian.

“Connor, this is beautiful,” she breathed, unable to fake calm and collectedness around her son like she could his father.

Just as remarkable as the picture was the fact that Connor had thought to draw it. Because Connor hadn’t shown any interest in her and Spike’s lives up to this point. This had proven that, before he had even met her, Connor was thinking about her, just like she had been him for the past thirteen years.

“Wait, I want to give you something,” Buffy twisted around to retrieve her purse. Pulling out a small photo album, she slid a picture out of it and handed it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked. In his hand was a photograph of a young Buffy holding a baby.

“It’s . . . it’s a picture of us. You were two.” She pointed at the picture and the stuffed pig that Connor held, “That’s Mr. Gordo,” she said, “Your dad bought him for me at the hospital when I was in labor.”

Connor looked up at his mother and smiled.

For the next fifteen minutes they talked about Buffy’s gallery and Connor’s art until they heard the pounding of Dawn running down the stairs.

“Hey sweetie, want an omelet?” Buffy asked as she entered the room.

“Totally,” Dawn replied, plopping down in the seat across from her brother. She nodded at Connor’s shirt, “Who’s on your t-shirt?”

Connor looked down at the shirt he had slept in before looking back up at his sister, “The Damned,” he answered.

She looked at him skeptically, “The who?”

“The Damned,” he emphasized, “English punk band formed in 1976. Their debut album Damned Damned Damned was released six months before The Sex Pistols’ debut Never Mind the Bollocks.”

Dawn scrunched up her nose, “Ever heard of normal music?”

“What, you mean like the stuff you listen to?” He leaned across the table, “Ever heard of Generation X?” he challenged.

“How about Jennifer Lopez?” she replied.

Connor rolled his eyes, “Patti Smith?” he shot back.

“Good Charlotte?” Dawn offered.

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “X?”

“N’Sync?”

Connor looked at his sister, disgusted, “I’m not even going to justify that with an answer.”

Buffy put down the knife she was using to turn around and lean against the counter, watching her son and daughter bicker about musical tastes.

His eyes on the newspaper he held in front of him, Spike entered the kitchen, blindly making his way to the coffee maker and retrieving a cup. It wasn’t until his mug was full that he acknowledged the noise in the room.

Dropping his paper and situating himself next to Buffy against the counter, he nodded at their kids, “I’m slightly disappointed in the way you raised our daughter,” he commented in mock seriousness.

Buffy spun to face her ex-husband, “What!?” a smile playing across her lips.

“I would have thought you would’ve given her better taste in music. Do you not own an album made before 1985? Did I teach you nothing in the four years we were together?”

Buffy laughed, “So that’s all I was to you? A music charity case?”

Spike shrugged, “Someone had to take you under their wing,” he replied. Smiling, he nudged her and she turned to him with a beautiful smile before turning back to watch their kids.

He could have this every day, he thought, before letting his mind lead him to another:

He should have had this every day.

Spike smirked, picking up two plates with omelets on them. With a tilt of his head he motioned for Buffy to follow him to the table.

She silently followed him as he set their plates at the end of the table across from each other’s -- Buffy’s next to Connor and himself next to Dawn.

Seeing this as a rare opportunity to have her parents in the same room in a seemingly relaxed mood, Dawn folded her hands in her lap. “So,” she began, boring her eyes into her parents, “who went after who?”

Dawn’s inquisitiveness and her ever unending quest to get the entire history of Spike and Buffy’s relationship, her parents learned, was relentless. They had expected some curiosity into how they came to be, but Dawn revealed herself to be borderline obsessive.

Both adults were more than ready to brush her questions off, not wanting to encourage her, but even Connor had put down his fork, his breakfast forgotten for the moment.

“He ‘went after’ me,” Buffy answered.

“She ‘went after’ me,” Spike replied instantaneously.

Buffy gasped, whipping around to face him, “I most certainly did not chase you, William Giles.”

“Yes you did,” he said nonchalantly, “in those ridiculously short skirts of yours,” he did a quick lift of his eyebrows while popping a blueberry in his mouth, making their kids giggle.

“I wore those skirts all the time!” she objected. “Not just for you,” she grumbled audibly.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Spike shook his head, “Your mum could’ve had any man she wanted she was such a tease.”

“And what about you? All you did for weeks was follow me around making moon eyes. You practically stalked me!”

“He what?” Connor objected, never having known his father as anything but the stern, unfoolish man he was now. The idea of his father chasing a girl, the same thing he was on Connor’s case about constantly, was worthy of blackmail.

Buffy’s voice softened, “When grandma was sick,” she began, referring to her mother’s successful bout with a brain tumor, “he was constantly around. Not pressuring me, just being there. He was the only one I could be alone with. And I fell in love with him.”

‘And you still are,’ a quiet internal voice whispered.

“What about you, Dad?”

“When I fell in love with her, you mean?” He turned his soft eyes on his ex, “The minute I saw her. That was it. It was my first day in Sunnydale. I didn’t know a soul. I stopped in at the Bronze to check it out and I saw her dancing, but she was surrounded by half the football team. I was drawn to her but knew I didn’t have a chance. Besides,” he joked, “she was a vapid cheerleader whose only interests were makeup and the mirror,” Buffy leaned her chin on her hand, enthralled by his voice and eyes. “I tried to hate her, I put on the front, but I couldn’t fool myself. I was in love with her.”

‘And you still are,’ his heart told him.

‘And they still are,’ Dawn thought.


A/N: The Damned info gotten from “Your Guide to Gilmore-isms”

TBC





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