A/N: Not late until the bell rings.
"Shit," says Spike, "I think I did something wrong."
Angel looks over at him, a scolding for pouring ingredients in without bothering to actually measure any of them (again) already forming on his tongue, but it dies there when he actually gets a look at Spike and he has to pause his reprimand while his brain catches up to his disbelief. "How could you get that much butter on you?"
"I don't know!" says Spike, defensively. "It just… happened." He's still staring at his hands like he's not quite sure what to do with them, then he reaches out like he actually plans to try wiping them off on Angel's (very nice) new shirt.
Angel shoves him into the edge of the sink.
"You guys," Andrew whines from the archway where he stands, nervously wringing the oven mitts in his hands. Angel's not sure why he hasn't put them on yet. The fourth batch is almost ready to come out of the oven and the sooner they pull those out, the sooner they can get the fifth one in and the more cookies will be ready when Buffy gets home. They're supposed to be ready. That's kind of the whole point. "Guys, she's gonna be back soon."
"Better hurry it up then, huh?" Spike says, struggling for a grip on the faucet handle.
Angel reaches over with a dishtowel to keep his own hands from getting covered in butter and turns the sink on for him, to Spike's obvious disapproval and sneering expression of poorly disguised injured pride.
"I was getting it!"
"Sure."
"Guys!" Andrew raises his voice, which Angel really didn't think he had in him and, judging by his expression, Spike didn't either. "I already told you she's seeing someone."
"The Immortal," Angel mutters darkly.
Spike growls in agreement as he scrubs his hands.
The amount of hate that courses through Angel's body at merely stating his name, or hearing him talked about however indirectly, is indescribable and almost enough to make him question how well-attached his soul is at the moment.
"Yeah, The Immortal, and it's one-thirty, and they're probably gonna be back soon." Andrew takes a step farther into the kitchen, even though it's small and already pretty crowded between Angel, Spike, and all their baking supplies. "So, it's cool that you guys are really into the treat-making, even if it's for some weird cookie fetish thing—"
"It's not a fetish!" Angel tells him. Seriously, why do people keep thinking that? Spike had even asked him the same thing when Angel told him the plan. "It's an analogy—"
"—But you already made almost a hundred cookies in three different kinds and Buffy's happy with The Immortal right now, so it's not really cool that you keep showing up and stuff and maybe you guys should back off a little."
"Yeah, but The Immortal's just some mysterious, possibly evil jerk with a history of violence. Just because they write about him in books doesn't mean she can really know the guy. Not like we know her."
"He's got her under a love spell, you know," Spike says. He shuts off the sink and snatches the dishtowel from Angel's hands to dry himself off. "And he's out there, right now, violating our girl."
"Yeah, that's not… possessive," says Andrew. "Um, also, is this like a package deal thing? Or are you a tag-team?"
"What?" asks Spike.
"Or are all three of you just—"
He's cut off by the simultaneous noises of the oven timer blaring (blaring is the best word for it and Angel would love to have a talk—the kind with fists—with whatever dumb Italian company created this thing) and the front door of the apartment opening.
Andrew shoves his oven mitts at Angel and bolts out of the kitchen. "Buffy!" Even his yell is whiny.
Angel takes a moment to realise he actually took the oven mitts and that he's holding them pressed against his stomach before he in turn shoves them at Spike and hurries down the hall after Andrew.
"Hey!" Spike calls after them, but he's barely audible over the sound of the oven timer.
"Buffy! Your vampyr ex-boyfriends Angel and Spike are here and they keep using the kitchen and making cookies and—" he skids to a stop and Angel, barely a step behind almost slams into him as they enter back into the front room, "—they only let me help with the frosting."
Buffy stands in the doorway, her coat over her arm and her keys still in her hand. Her hair is curled and twisted up and her dress is black, sequined, and way too short; showing more than The Immortal should be allowed to so much as try to imagine.
She stares blankly at Andrew for a moment and then looks over at Angel. She doesn't smile when she sees him. In fact, her expression barely changes. "Hi," she says.
"Buffy." He smiles at her and is still blocking the hallway when Spike appears behind him.
"Spike! You didn't turn the oven off!" Andrew scolds, emphasizing the vampire's name enough that he looks briefly away from trying to shove past Angel, which isn't going to happen because neither of them is going to get to her first and if one of them does it's going to be him because he was there first before.
Angel elbows Spike, trying to keep him back, and accidentally catches him in the face.
Spike steps back, cursing and sputtering.
Angel reaches out to steady him, but as he does Buffy takes a step towards him, so he leaves Spike, turns, and takes a step towards her.
"They won't stop making cookies," whines Andrew.
"Shut up," Spike tells him, hand over his nose and blood pouring down his face.
Angel takes another step, lowers his head to meet her eyes, and turns on the dark and mysterious charm, since she seems extra into that these days. "Buffy."
She takes another step. Then another and another and walks straight past him. No 'hello' kiss or anything. Her expression is blank, but maybe she's just in shock. She'll check on Spike first and then—no, she walks straight past him too.
"Hello, Buffy," Spike says as she passes. He's going for the darker, lower voice thing too. Can they both do that? Spike should have his own thing. Why can't he ever just let Angel have his own thing? He's always copying him, taking his things.
Buffy doesn't even hesitate when she walks by them, just brushes past and marches down the hall.
Andrew scrambles after her. "I told them to turn it off!"
Spike holds his bleeding face and looks to Angel. "She's mad, isn't she?"
"I don't—I don't know," Angel admits. There's something… new about her. Or off about her. Different. Whatever it is, he can't quite get a read on her. He heads back into the hall, grabbing Spike by the shoulder and pushing the younger vampire back towards the kitchen in front of him. "Buffy?"
She's turning off the oven when they reach the kitchen and beside her Andrew is fidgeting with the oven mitts once more. "See?" he says, flapping the mitt in the direction of the cookie piles on the table and the splattered ingredients all over everything. "See? They won't stop."
Okay. Maybe they've been overdoing it a little bit. But the cookies—it's an analogy. Andrew wouldn't understand. But Buffy will. She'll get it because… the cookies… and they're done, even if she isn't even if she has to… bake in The Immortal's oven for a little while. But they, he and Spike, are the ones who are going to be eating her.
Not literally.
Except maybe in the sexual way. But still not in the evil, soulless way. And not in the sexual way that leads to the evil, soulless way later either.
But Buffy just stares blankly at the cookie pile while Angel hands the discarded dishtowel, which is now buttery and covered in flour from sitting on the counter, back into Spike's hand to try and stanch the blood flow. Spike leaves bloody fingerprints on Angel's hand when he takes the towel.
Buffy turns her back on the cookies, doesn't even look like she's considering tasting their analogy. She leans aside so Andrew can slip by her without burning her with the latest cookie sheet from the oven. She takes one step closer, clearing the way so he can scrape the only slightly burnt cookies onto the cooling rack.
Buffy stands with her hands on her hips, one leg in front like she's either trying to intimidate someone or show off her very shiny shoes. "Spike, I thought you were dead."
"Aren't I usually?" Spike's voice is muffled by the towel pressed to his nose.
Buffy shakes her head, lips pulled tight, but she seems to fight off an eyeroll and continues on. "I don't really care. Didn't Andrew tell you I'm seeing someone?"
"Well," says Angel. He really hadn't seen this coming. They made cookies! And she's just ignoring them! "See, The Immortal, he's…"
"He's no good for you, baby," Spike puts in. He steps forward to stand at Angel's side, even though he should probably wait in the shadows until his face is actually clean instead of smeared. "Whatever he's up to, we'll save you."
Angel nods emphatically.
"Save me?" Buffy asks.
"We've run into him before," says Angel. "We know what he does. We won't let him keep violating you."
"'Violate?'" Buffy repeats. Her hands tighten towards fists, her eyebrow rises threateningly and her blue eyes go icy cold and very hard. "'Violate?' You follow me around after we've broken up, show up at my apartment, destroy my kitchen, and start throwing accusations at my boyfriend?"
"Boyfriend?" asks Angel. "Boyfriend?"
At the same time, Spike hurries to tell her, "Look, pet, it's not destroyed, not really—"
Buffy shakes her head sharply. "No," she says, so forcefully the both stop talking for a moment. "No." Her voice isn't really Buffy's voice anymore. It's all power and strength. Pure Slayer. "It's over. We're through. Completely. You both need to go now."
"Buy—Buffy—" Spike sounds like he might cry.
"Look, you don't understand," Angel says. He's got to convince her before she does anything stupider than snuggling. "The Immortal, he's not a good guy. He might act cool but he isn't. He's got you under some spell or something and we just need to—"
"I am not under a spell." Buffy leans her weight forward without taking another step and thrusts her neck out to meet his gaze. "Look me in the eye and tell me I'm under something. I'm clear. You two are the ones who need help."
It's true. Her eyes are sharp, bright blue and crystal clear and fuming mad.
"But…" says Spike slowly and Angel's pretty sure now that he really might start crying. At least it's not him. Spike's supposed to be the emotional one, it kind of works for him. Angel's the cool one. "We're the ones who love you."
Buffy shakes her head. "I don't care."
He should have some way of responding to that but he doesn't. He's empty. It's not a 'not now' or a 'someday later' or any sort of strangely endearing metaphor for 'in the future.' It's just… over.
"You don't love us?"
"No," says Buffy. "I don't."
"But… he's Angel," says Spike in a smallish voice. He's barely looking at her anymore. He's dropped the ruined dishtowel so it hangs limply in his hand, his shoulders have fallen dejectedly, and his head is turned down so that he has to flick his eyes up to look at her. He seems to be pressed even closer to Angel somehow, though Angel's almost certain he never moved.
"Listen closely, okay? It is over. Over. There's no us. Not in any sense or matchup you two want to make. We are over."
"I don't accept that—" Angel starts, but he pauses briefly when Spike's hand clamps down on his elbow, hard. Not to be distracted he pushes on. "You don't just suddenly not love—Ow, Spike!"
Spike's still looking away brokenly, but he says, firm though disheartened, "It's time for us to go, mate."
"It really is," says Buffy.
Andrew standing behind her with his arms folded might have been more effective if he'd taken his oven mitts off beforehand. But the comicality of Andrew seems to mostly serve at the moment to underscore Buffy's expression, making her intensity all the more... intense.
"Come on," says Spike.
With one last look at Buffy, Angel nods. "Okay," he says. "Okay."
He pushes Spike back out of the kitchen, down the hall, and through the living room to the door where they pause to get their coats. Buffy and Andrew follow them, Andrew stopping to linger by the table next to the hallway and Buffy coming to stand a few feet away from them, her hands quickly finding her hips again.
Spike pulls his coat tightly around him, even though it's hot outside even now that the sun's been down for hours. The air-conditioning (if they have any) is off and he's a vampire so it shouldn't bother him anyway.
Angel tries to think of his best way to persuade Buffy to let them stay, to see reason, to remember what they have, but he comes up blank and shuffles out the door when Spike opens it.
They stand together in the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, and Buffy closes the distance finally. She puts one hand on the doorknob.
"Goodbye, Buffy," says Spike.
She looks at him, briefly, eyes sharp, then nods. "Goodbye, Spike and Angel." Then she shuts the door.
They stare at the wood and at the 35 for a minute, until they can hear Buffy and Andrew retreat back to the deeper parts of the apartment, arguing quietly.
"She is definitely under some kind of mind control," Angel tells Spike. "He's screwed with us once again by going after Buffy and now she's so turned around that she's hardly Buffy any more and that's because that wasn't Buffy at all that was just some other Slayer with a glamour and I can't believe I actually fell for that."
"Buffy's eyes are green," says Spike. He's still staring down, but he nods as Angel's voice winds down from anger to frustrated disbelief. "And she loves you."
Angel sighs, then wonders why he's sighing. They've just been tricked and double-crossed by, somehow, once again, Andrew. They've been wasting their time for weeks.
"Dammit!" He kicks at the wall and his shoe goes right through and he's just got to hope that he was close enough to the door that that was Andrew's apartment wall he just damaged and not some random elderly woman's.
"Let's threaten him tomorrow," says Spike.
"Oh yeah," says Angel. "Let's."