Feeding Buffy
Author's Note: This story was born out of a conversation my lil sis and I had about Buffy and how skinny she had gotten. I think one of us made a comment about feeding her and this vomited right out of my brain. Enjoy!
She stumbled into her apartment, the keys flying to an approximate spot on the floor. She idly waved her hand at the light switch but couldn't be bothered to actually raise it high enough to turn it. Stupid demons really took a lot of her and all she could think about was a really big, really cold glass of something non alcoholic and bed... sweet, sweet bed...
Her boots thumped as she dragged herself to the kitchen and she blinked when she opened the door, light spilling from inside the room and almost blinding her darkness accustomed eyes.
"Would you prefer the sandwich or the pasta?" a low voice slid across the room and hit her right in the solar-plexis. Pow. She really wished she had paid attention to that tingly feeling she got when she unlocked the front door but she was tired. Wait... what?
"Angel…"
It was neither a question nor a statement. She said it in the same weird way they always said each other's names. Almost like a christening.
"Sandwich or pasta? The sandwich has roast beef and mozzarella but the pasta has good Italian sausage," he continued.
On befuddled autopilot she opened her fridge, got a bottle of juice, grabbed a glass and poured it full. She downed half of it before flopping into one of the rickety, faux antique chairs, and staring at him like a rabbit at a fox.
"What are you doing here?"
He rose from his seat and moved to the stove. "Feeding you actually." A moment later he placed a bowl of pasta and a plate with the sandwich in front of her. "Now personally I'd go with the pasta but feel free to eat both."
Blankly she took a fork and slowly began to nibble at the rotini. "Shouldn't you be... killing dragons or something...?"
"No. We're finished with that and now my mission is far more arduous. Feeding the Original Slayer is apparently no easy task or so Dawn tells me." He lounged in front of her all relaxed and insolent and she was just a moment too late in stopping her impulse and he was a moment too late in ducking. Sauce dripped down his face and a slice of sausage flopped merrily from his nose to his shirt.
Calmly he took a dish towel and wiped himself off as best he could. Then he refilled her bowl.
She ate in silence. "It's... pretty good."
"I'm glad you like it," he said and he still looked relaxed and insolent but she didn't see the point in wasting her dinner.
"When are you leaving?" she asked as she wiped up the sauce with a hunk of bread.
"Leaving?" he asked but the surprise was fake and the amusement soared in his eyes though not at all in his face. "Actually I do have to leave to pick up my luggage. Should be arriving in a few hours. Dawn said I could have her room now that she's going to England."
She sputtered. "Dawn said what?"
"If you want, I could use some help decorating. Cordy always said my taste was too... Gothic."
It was a little like being caught in a hurricane. No matter what you did it was still going to pick you up in your damn house and drop the whole thing on top of a witch in some weird foreign land where you had to go on a ridiculous quest just to get back home. Oh and there were flying monkeys of course.
Buffy surrendered.
"Fine. You can take her room. But you better pay half the rent and everything. And I don't cook. Or clean." There. She laid down the law but good.
He didn't smile but she could swear he somehow looked more amused and superior. Damn it.
"I can cook just fine and we can always get a cleaning service. And don't forget, I'm good backup," he said.
"So that's it?" she said throwing her hands in the air. Italy was rubbing off on her just a bit. "You just waltz in here, ply me with pasta and sandwiches and somehow you get to stay and we play house?"
"Pretty much," he said calmly. "Though I think for playing house we'd have to share a room. The second bedroom would make a nice library and weapons room though..."
She threw a napkin at him. "Stupid Dawn. This is all her fault."
"I'm sort of fond of your sister actually," he replied. "Now on to important matters. How are the cookies coming along?"
She stared at him long and hard while the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds. Then she launched her fork at the wall, lunged to her feet and stormed out of the room, leaving the words behind her like timed detonations. "Just... freaking... fine..."
He gave her a moment, put the dirty dishes in the sink, wrapped up the leftovers and followed her. Vampire or not, he liked cookies after all.