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Sixth, Cook, Clean, and Eat Together


A happy family is one that cooks together.


Isn’t there a saying like that somewhere?


Dawn and I used to curl up with Mom on the couch and watch Julia Child. That’s the closest we came to actually making a meal together. Sometimes we paired up to cook breakfast or bake cookies, but never did we include all three of us. Major fights would have ensued, and we genuinely loved one other.


On the other hand, I don’t love Spike even if he does understand me. . . gotta keep reminding myself of that one.


He’s taken over in the kitchen. . . as if he owns the place. Boxes and bags are open everywhere, and ingredients cover every available surface.


“Buffy! Pay attention to the bloody pot!” Spike’s voice shakes me out of my reverie.


Crap! The liquid in the saucepan in front of me is boiling over, making sizzling noises on the stove. Grabbing the oven mitt from the counter, I grasp the pot handle with both hands and move the spewing mess to a non-flamey part of the stove.


Dawn has rushed over from her chopping position at the kitchen island, and the smell of onion follows her as she hovers over my shoulder. “Buffy, you made a mess.”


I scoot back from the stove a little, attempting to reach a semi-wet rag on the side of the sink. “Gee, Sherlock, what makes you say that?”


Rubbing her nose and sniffling, Dawn shrugs, waving the butcher knife she’s been using around to underscore her point. “The mess. . . and the *stench* of burning cheese.”


“Very observant.” I swat at her with the rag and attempt to wipe up the still bubbling fluid without burning myself. “Aren’t you supposed to be chopping onion or something with that thing?” I push the knife down, so the point’s not likely to puncture my skin.


Dawn gives me a watery smile. “Yep. I do whatever Spike tells me.” She gives Spike a mock bow and sneezes as she heads back to the work of awkwardly chopping food with a broken arm.


“What is this stuff anyway?” I ask Spike who has his nose buried in a dusty cookbook that he found at the top of a kitchen cabinet.


Spike doesn’t even bother to look up.


So I study him.


Somewhere, he’s found a little pair of glasses that he’s propped up on his nose to help him read the tiny print in the thick tome. He turns a page and runs a hand through his hair. Damn. He looks. . . cute. Who knew that a man with platinum-colored hair dressed in black could look cute wearing glasses.


“You’ll see, pet,” he says in an offhanded fashion.


“Wish I knew what we were making.” I sidle up to him and try to catch a glimpse of the text on the page.


Spike’s head jerks up, and I almost giggle because for a moment with those glasses, he reminds me of Giles with the glasses. “Pay attention to your pot!” he growls.


I glance at the lackluster little saucepan on the stove. “It’s not going anywhere.”


He buries his head in the book again. “Then, you can put stuff in the measuring cups for me.”


I roll my eyes; he’s taking this domestic diva thing a bit far for me. “Aye, aye.” Picking up a giant measuring cup, I glance at the plethora of supplies and don’t even know where to begin. I turn back to face him; he’s still lost in thought with one finger running over lines in the book. Part of me wonders if he’s treating me this way because we just shared something excruciatingly intimate on the porch. Or maybe I’m just projecting my own discomfort onto him.


Something’s definitely different between us, and I find myself in desperate need to cover that difference up. After all, we’re posing for the cameras. Why not have a little fun with the process?


So, suppressing an inane giggle that’s sprung up in my throat, I immerse my fingers deep into the bag of flour and sling a handful at the back of Spike’s head.


Upon impact, he jumps, spreading the shower of flour through the air. “What the f-. . .”


In that second where time stands still, he glares at me with fire in his eyes, the glasses askew on his nose. I’m hyper aware that Dawn has stopped chopping vegetables and is staring at both of us with undisguised shock.


I’ve never wanted a man. . . vampire. . . so much in my life.


And he responds exactly as I want him to. . . by flinging the glasses aside, lunging at me, and seizing a handful of flour from the nearby bag. For another second, we’re breathing heavily in each other’s faces, and then. . .


Spike whirls and hurls the flour at the still dumbfounded Dawn who raises her cast in a futile attempt at shielding herself.


There’s so much white powder in the air that I can’t see anything, and I know Dawnie can’t either. . . much less the cameras.


So I seize the moment and kiss Spike hard on the mouth, pressing my body up against his so tightly that I can feel my heart pounding against his silent chest. The fire between us sparks and sizzles, boiling over all my senses like the cheese in that stupid saucepan.


The moment lasts a mere heartbeat, and I barely catch the second shockwave in Spike’s eyes before I’m caught up in the food fight again.


Dawn has found her bearings, and I join her in pelting chopped food and other ingredients at the vampire in our house. He fights back with the same grace and effort that he uses in demon fighting, creating an earnestness to the kitchen battle that strengthens our resolve against him.


The food skirmish ends as dramatically as it began. . . with a giggle. This time, I can’t stop the sound from pushing past my lips and hanging in mid-air.


I can’t help myself.


Spike and Dawn look too funny covered in a conglomerate of food stuffs, and I’m certain that I look no better.


My laugh elicits mirth from Dawn who laughs so hard at Spike and me that she bends over, clutching her ribs. . . and slipping on the now slick floor. She lands on her butt but keeps smiling with tears streaming down her face.


Suddenly, all this playfulness feels good. I can’t remember when I last felt such joy at the thought of living. I know I don’t want to die, but feel happiness again? That’s a foreign concept of late.


“What are we making again?” I ask, brushing greasy strands of hair from my eyes with both hands and grinning at the pair before me.


“Can’t recall, love. And can’t read now either.” He nods in the direction of the cookbook’s goop-filled pages.


Dawn looks up at us with round childlike eyes, brushing food off of her cast. “Can we order a pizza?”


“That might be a good idea. Then, we should clean up in here and maybe shower,” I agree.


“Maybe shower? Sounds like a must to me,” Spike comments.


“Good plan.” I wipe my hands on a halfway clean towel and head for the phone. “What would you guys like on your pizza?”


Dawn clamors to her feet with a soft grunt. “Pepperoni!”


“Can we order one with extra rare steak? I know a couple of pizza joints in town that specialize in. . . you know. . . ” Dawn and I frown at Spike. “. . . with a little extra bl. . .”


Dawn and I respond with equal disdain and awareness of the cameras, “No!”


I knew we couldn’t cook a meal together.


Does that mean we’re not happy?


I believe that the jury is still out on that one, and that’s hard for me to admit.


Picking up the receiver, I dial the familiar number of the pizza delivery place. Knowing the number by heart has to be a bad sign.


* * *


Feeling quite fresh from the hot shower I just took, I skip downstairs and hear a distinct grumbling of the masculine variety coming from the direction of the kitchen.


Somehow, I can’t resist.


I lean on the doorframe and cross my arms, just watching. Spike is still covered in congealing goop and is struggling with rinsing off the mop in the cracked bucket Dawn must have produced from under the sink. His hair is a disheveled mess, and the scowl covering his face is classic Spike. He curses as the mop handle catches on something. Extricating the handle from its unseen trap, he raises up the water-laden mop and plops the wet tendrils onto the linoleum.


For some reason, the plop makes me giggle.


His head shoots up at the sound. “What are *you* staring at?”


“You. *Mopping.*” He gives me his most ferocious glare, and his eyes glow yellow-gold. “William the Bloody a-swabbing the deck,” I add in my best fake pirate voice.


“Being the resident maid is *not* what I signed up for.” Spike props the mop against the cabinet. “I’m not doing it anymore.”


“Awww. Didn’t you read the fine print in your contract? It was there. . . the whole mopping and cleaning and dusting bit. . . in detail.”


Spike smirks at me, sucking in his cheeks a little as he saunters over to me in the manner that makes me want him. “Oh really. And I thought you wanted me here for other reasons.”


I can’t help myself, “*Practical* reasons.”


He snorts. “Right.”


“Go shower,” I say, feeling amicable. “Dawn’s in her room drying her hair. I’ll finish up in here.”


To my surprise, he kisses the tip of my nose, ignoring my verbal attempt to push him back again. “Will do.”


In two words, he’s somehow manages to convey that things between us are not resolved. . . are most definitely unfinished.


And with one small sign of affection, he conveys that the chasm we crossed earlier has returned.


Sighing, I cross the room on tiptoe, grip the broom handle, and tackle the mess.


* * *


After Dawn prances downstairs with her hair still damp, I put her to work with me, and we finish cleaning the kitchen in no time. Then, Dawn pops a movie into the DVD player, and we snuggle up on the couch like two kittens, smelling fresh and feeling warm from our baths.


Spike takes an inordinate amount of time in the shower, and I’m beginning to wonder if he went down the drain when he appears on the stairs. Engrossed in the movie, Dawn ignores him, but I can’t help but stare. I’ve never seen Spike with uncombed damp hair, and I’ve certainly never seen him descending my stairs with such comfort. . . as if he belongs here. . . in my house. He locks eyes with me only briefly, and I feel the almost icy distance between us.


I’m not certain I like the hollow feeling that accompanies that distance.


As soon as he reaches the bottom of the staircase, Dawn disentangles her legs from mine and picks up her brush from the coffee table. “’Bout time.”


Spike grins at her with such genuineness that my heart sinks. How can I possibly feel jealous of my own sister when I’m the one sleeping with him? And yet, for some unfathomable reason, I do.


Spike accepts the brush from Dawn’s extended arm and settles on the couch. . . careful to stay apart from me. As I stare, Dawn kneels at his feet, places one hand in her lap, cradles her broken arm against her stomach, and continues watching the movie. Spike pulls her long brown hair from in front of her shoulders and arranges the strands artfully along her back. With the ease of having brushed hair in the past, he watches the movie and works the instrument through Dawn’s tangles, careful not to pull too hard on her scalp.


He’s so tender with her that my heart hurts, and I wonder just how many times he’s shared such an intimate moment with my sister. . . something I’ve been reluctant to share with him since we started having sex.


For some reason, I have to disturb the comfortable image of my sister being parented by my lover. “How long have you been doing that, Spike?”


As if broken out of a trance, Spike glances at me, stopping brush in mid-stroke. He shrugs and returns to his motions. “Always knew how, I guess. Brushed my mum’s hair. . . and Dru’s.”


Dawn twists her head and smiles at me, “He started doing it for me when I couldn’t sleep at night. . . after you. . . and I. . .”


“Was having nightmares,” Spike finishes, pushing her head back in place and resuming brushing. “We’d talk about you and. . .”


“It would be peaceful.” Dawn closes her eyes in memory, and I feel strangely detached as if I’m not supposed to be present.


“Oh,” my voice is smaller than I intend it to be.


Dawn peers at me from the corner of her eye. “Want a turn?”


“That’s okay. You guys go ahead. I’m watching the movie.” I try to focus on what’s unfolding on the screen. Like that’s going to work.


Dawn stands, grabs my hand with her good one, and tugs me up. “Your turn.” She pushes me toward Spike, and Spike smiles at me almost sheepishly. I lower my eyes but settle myself between his knees with as much nonchalance as I can muster.


I’m not sure I like where this is going. Surely, Dawn will suspect something is going on between Spike and me. I determine to grit my teeth and not react to his touch.


Boy, that plan is a complete and utter failure.


As soon as his fingertips graze my neck, my body tingles with a fire that I can’t deny, and I close my eyes and lean closer to him. The presence of his legs around my shoulders enshrouds me like a cocoon, and. . .


I feel safe. . . safer than I’ve felt since my return to life.


Goosebumps rise on my arms as he tucks the shorter tufts of hair on the side of my head behind my ears, and I can feel his vampire strength behind each stroke of the brush against my scalp.


Just as I’m about to lose myself completely in the brushing, the doorbell rings.


“Pizza’s here!” Dawn shouts, and my eyes fly open to witness her jumping up. “I’ll get it. You guys keep doing what you’re doing.”


I don’t even have the energy to fight her. “The money’s. . .”


“In the kitchen. I know,” Dawn interrupts. She scampers into the other room with the energy of a puppy.


Spike and I are left alone. He immediately sets the brush aside.


“What are you doing?” I protest, torn between wanting him to continue and knowing that it’s all a show for the cameras.


He leans back against the couch and away from me. “Stopping.”


“How come?”


I hear the lie in his voice, “Food’s here.”


I turn around completely to face him. “Spike. . .”


“What, pet?”


The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, “I want you to touch me.” I *need* you to touch me.


I can’t stand that he’s pulling back from me. . . and I have no idea why. Or maybe I do and admitting it to myself is too scary.


“Do you now?” he asks with such deep sincerity that my insides melt.


I decide to show him, and I touch his thighs with my hands, running them all the way back to his hips. “Yes. Please.”


He says nothing and doesn’t move to make contact, but the depths of his eyes say everything. He tries to hide his feelings, but I see them clear as day. He understands me. . . perhaps more than anyone in this world right now.


How can a soulless demon have so much empathy? If a vampire can show empathy without a soul, what does that mean about the rest of his feelings? Can he actually love me like he claims?


Or does the living arrangement make me project my feelings onto him. . . similar to the way we project feelings onto pets? Do pets have feelings?


And then, my off topic thoughts are disrupted.


“Buffy! What are you doing?”


My heart skips a beat as my head jerks up.

Willow stands over us holding a pizza box. Dawn is hopping up and down, doing a silent little antsy dance and making apologetic faces.

And Spike and I are. . . .

Oh, crap.





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