He heaves a heavy sigh and she turns, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. He holds up the cereal box with a look of resigned disappointment. It's Cinnamon Toast Crunch again, because majority rules and the majority is a bunch of teenage girls. She shakes her head at him, sipping her coffee with a smile. She doesn't bother to tell him, once again, that if he would go shopping then he could pick out the cereal he wanted. He knows. She watches him as he pours the offending cereal into the last clean bowl, still frowning. He begins searching through the fridge for the milk, which was left out on the counter after the most recent wave of Potentials passed through. She hands it to him, and he smiles at her, the cereal transgression already forgotten, to be rehashed with undaunted fervor tomorrow morning. What a marvel his mind is.
They like to be in the kitchen in those rare moments when it's quiet. When they do find that luxury, they rarely speak. Silence, in this house, is truly golden. Besides, when you've known a person your entire life, voicing your thoughts isn't really necessary. They seem to know each other better than they know themselves. The fact that one or both of them might die soon is a harsh truth they like to ignore. They're good at ignoring the hard truths. They do live in Sunnydale, after all.
He thinks life would be easier if he could just have his favorite cereal. The only problem is that his favorite happens to be Count Chocula, and several people in the ever-growing household refuse to allow it. Those people being: his favorite blond, his least favorite blond, his ex-fiancée, and some potential who would be kinda cute if she would quit griping about the horrors of chocolate breakfast cereal. As if Cinnamon Toast Crunch was any healthier.
She has her own complaints about the living conditions here, but she is much more prone to keep them to herself. Even when she has to endure cold showers every day. She's not used to that, being an early riser. Certainly earlier than the nocturnal Slayer and moody teenager she's used to living with. Unfortunately, time differences and adrenaline have the potentials awake at mind-boggling hours. But then, it's not really fair to whine about cold showers when so much is going on.
He never bothers to consider that in the grand scheme of things, breakfast cereal isn't that important. The way he sees it, as he frequently tells her, if the world is gonna end, they should be living in the here and now. One day at a time. Chocolaty goodness for breakfast, dammit!
She just smiles that patient little smile, patting his arm in sympathy. She doesn't really care what they have for breakfast, but he does, and that's enough for her. It always has been. He sits at the counter, eating the cereal he hates as he tells her very seriously exactly why said cereal should be banned from all the shelves in all the stores in all the world. Hyper potentials with too much sugar in their systems is a recurring theme. She nods as he goes on, and suddenly she is struck by how much they've changed, and how much they've stayed the same. Because she knows that both are true, and the thought scares her a little.
They are alone in the kitchen for no more than ten minutes or so, but they don't really mind when their peace is disrupted. Or when he is called away to the living room to fix the leg of the coffee table, knocked out of place by some random teenage mishap. She is summoned upstairs to help with the other girls, and with the errands and work to be done, they won't see each other again until they both end up in the kitchen that evening, trying to fix some kind of dinner for everyone. Rather, she will be fixing dinner, while he sits on the counter, blissfully inhaling the box of Count Chocula she managed to sneak in for him. As they joke and tease each other, she feels an almost desperate love for him, and for a moment she can barely breathe for fear of losing him someday soon. Then he catches sight of her worried expression, and tosses a piece of his coveted cereal at her, chiding her to lighten up. His expression is not his goofy grin, but rather a sad, sweet little smile that says, to her who knows him best, what he can't say. He understands, and he loves her too. She smiles back, and ruffles his hair affectionately on her way past. They know that there are very few problems on earth that chocolate and best friends can't solve.
They like to be in the kitchen in those rare moments when it's quiet. When they do find that luxury, they rarely speak. Silence, in this house, is truly golden. Besides, when you've known a person your entire life, voicing your thoughts isn't really necessary. They seem to know each other better than they know themselves. The fact that one or both of them might die soon is a harsh truth they like to ignore. They're good at ignoring the hard truths. They do live in Sunnydale, after all.
He thinks life would be easier if he could just have his favorite cereal. The only problem is that his favorite happens to be Count Chocula, and several people in the ever-growing household refuse to allow it. Those people being: his favorite blond, his least favorite blond, his ex-fiancée, and some potential who would be kinda cute if she would quit griping about the horrors of chocolate breakfast cereal. As if Cinnamon Toast Crunch was any healthier.
She has her own complaints about the living conditions here, but she is much more prone to keep them to herself. Even when she has to endure cold showers every day. She's not used to that, being an early riser. Certainly earlier than the nocturnal Slayer and moody teenager she's used to living with. Unfortunately, time differences and adrenaline have the potentials awake at mind-boggling hours. But then, it's not really fair to whine about cold showers when so much is going on.
He never bothers to consider that in the grand scheme of things, breakfast cereal isn't that important. The way he sees it, as he frequently tells her, if the world is gonna end, they should be living in the here and now. One day at a time. Chocolaty goodness for breakfast, dammit!
She just smiles that patient little smile, patting his arm in sympathy. She doesn't really care what they have for breakfast, but he does, and that's enough for her. It always has been. He sits at the counter, eating the cereal he hates as he tells her very seriously exactly why said cereal should be banned from all the shelves in all the stores in all the world. Hyper potentials with too much sugar in their systems is a recurring theme. She nods as he goes on, and suddenly she is struck by how much they've changed, and how much they've stayed the same. Because she knows that both are true, and the thought scares her a little.
They are alone in the kitchen for no more than ten minutes or so, but they don't really mind when their peace is disrupted. Or when he is called away to the living room to fix the leg of the coffee table, knocked out of place by some random teenage mishap. She is summoned upstairs to help with the other girls, and with the errands and work to be done, they won't see each other again until they both end up in the kitchen that evening, trying to fix some kind of dinner for everyone. Rather, she will be fixing dinner, while he sits on the counter, blissfully inhaling the box of Count Chocula she managed to sneak in for him. As they joke and tease each other, she feels an almost desperate love for him, and for a moment she can barely breathe for fear of losing him someday soon. Then he catches sight of her worried expression, and tosses a piece of his coveted cereal at her, chiding her to lighten up. His expression is not his goofy grin, but rather a sad, sweet little smile that says, to her who knows him best, what he can't say. He understands, and he loves her too. She smiles back, and ruffles his hair affectionately on her way past. They know that there are very few problems on earth that chocolate and best friends can't solve.