Sorry. I'm late again! I ignored my homework and spent all night typing this! And I got it done! Happy reading!

For disclaimers, rating, etc. see chapter 1.

AnDrEwSrObOt: Since they're not natural blondes, the bleach and the dye must have seeped into their brain at some point. (smiles) Great that you love it!

Moluvsnumber17: Yay! You like it!

spuffyfan-1: Sorry. I love spuffiness as much as the next person, but no smoochies in here. There's Spuffy friendship, though.

Gigil3: Hope you like this next one!

Mita427: (wide smile) You'll just have to read and see what happens. Dun dun DUN!

Jobe: Is this funny enough? Lol!

Lilmisscookiemonster: Read on to see what horrors befall our poor veggies next! (hehe)

DramaQueen77: I love BS romance, but this story's just for laughs. I hope you still like, though.

"Well, we don't really need the peas, do we?" Buffy reasoned as she finished dumping the unrecognizably charred mess into the trashcan. "This way, everyone will have more room for dessert."

She brightened visibly at that thought.

"Right. Keep tellin' yourself that," Spike drawled.

"Hey! Glass houses, mister!" Buffy snapped. "You're not doing any better than I am."

"I'm not the one who burned the peas, luv."

"Don't call me that! And, you didn't unburn them."

"What?! How can you unburn something?"

"Argh! Forget it! There's still a bunch of other stuff we have to make. Like . . . apple pie."

Spike shook his head. Some times, he wondered why he even bothered. Only the thoughts of Joyce and Nibblet kept him from leaving right now. Yup, that was it. There was no other reason why he wasn't already out the door.

"Helloooo! Earth to Spike."

Buffy waved her hand in front of Spike's face. She seemed calmer than before.

'Ell, Slayer's mood-swingy right now.

Spike decided to let it drop. He squared his shoulders, and prepared himself for more torture.

"'K. First, place pie crust in pie tin. Spike, did we buy any pie crust?"

"Thought you said it had to be home made."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Fine. There's some flour in that cabinet. And here's a tin."

Spike took the flour, poured some into the tin, and proceeded to smash the flour pile flat with a rolling pin.

The kitchen became enveloped in a dusty white cloud, and Buffy and Spike coughed for a good five minutes before the air cleared.

You could see that they now looked like a pair of haggard ghosts; frightening enough to even scare the most seasoned of Sunnydale residents.

But Buffy ignored her current state, busy staring at Spike's cracked "pie crust" in wonder. "I thought it's supposed to be in one solid piece."

"It melts when it baked, pet," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Really?" She looked like she was about to disagree for a moment, but then, "ok, then. Next, apples."

"They're in the bag."

Buffy pulled our a couple of apples. "Should we mash them, or cut them up."

"I remember that they were cut into slices."

"Remember?"

"From when I was human, Slayer."

"Don't tell me, I don't need to know."

Spike got the ax, and chopped apart the apples - skin, seed, and all.

While he was doing this, Buffy glanced at the clock.

"Oh, my god! They're coming in less than 2 hours!" Buffy thought fast. "Spike, you make the apple pie, and I . . ." she glanced around. "I'll finish the mashed potatoes."

"Why do I 'ave ta make the pie?" Spike whined crossly.

"Because. You remember . . . stuff about them."

Spike grumbled, but didn't argue.

By now, he had finished slicing the apples. And although they looked thoroughly mutilated, Spike figured that no one would care after he put the pieces into the pie.

He did so, and went to look for the spices to add to his pie.

"Where does your mum keep the spices, pet?"

"In that cabinet," Buffy answered distractedly, waving her had in a vague direction.

Spike glanced at her, and saw that she had resumed her potato – or, rather, yam – bashing. He stifled a laugh at the sight of the Slayer beating up those poor veggies.

"Oh, hey, what do I do about the sweet taste?" Buffy asked, referring to the yams.

"The ya --"

"Shush! Don't say it! They're potatoes!"

"They're yams, luv."

"I like living in my land of denial."

Spike gave a sigh and eye roll. "Add salt."

"Salt?"

"Salt's salty, right?"

"Of course salt's salty!"

"Right. So, it'll make the yams salty, too."

"If you say so. . ."

"'Course I'm right, pet. Hey, weren't you supposed to cook 'em before you mashed 'em?"

"Cook?" Buffy gave a puzzled frown.

"Cook," Spike said firmly. You don't eat raw yams, do you?"

"No, of course I don't eat raw potatoes." Buffy gave a meaningful glare.

Spike smirked and ignored her. "So cook 'em."

"How do I do that? They're already mashed."

Spike thought for a moment. "Microwave! Microwave it."

"Hmm . . ok!" Buffy opened the saltshaker cap and poured all the contents into her bowl of orange goo.

Spike, pleased with him for being the one with all the answers – for once, went back to his spice search.

After a while, he managed to pull out a small jar of red stuff, and a couple jars of brown and black stuff. Since he didn't really fancy tasting them to see if they're the right spices, he decided at least their colors were good, and poured all the jars into his pie.

Spike paused and thought about what he needed next. Deciding to add a little water (to help the crust melt faster), he did just that, and added another thick layer of flour dust to cover the top of his pie.

The end result was a magnificent . . .ly sloppy, gooey mess. Spike figured that pies were baked before they would look at least edible.

By now, Buffy had also finished her mashed potatoes. Promptly forgetting them, she came over to look at what Spike had done.

"Are you done with the pie?" Buffy wrinkled her nose.

"Eww. That looks gross. I would eat it."

"That's because you have to bake it first, luv," Spike said, as if he were explaining something to a kindergartener. "Let's leave it here for now, and start on the turkey. Your mum has a recipe for that, right?"

"Um, yeah. Here it is." Buffy held up another index card.

Spike took it, and scanned the contents. "Take tukey . . . stuffing . . . metal pan . . ." he mumbled the instructions under his breath. And then . . . " BLOODY 'ELL! FIVE HOURS!"

Like a timed bomb exploding, just as it finished the countdown.

Buffy snapped to attention immediately. "Five hours! What do you mean, five hours?! Five hours what?!" She became panicky.

"It takes five soddin' hours to cook the soddin' chicken, that's what!"

"It's a turkey!" The new monkey wrench in their plan was too much for Buffy to cope for.

"Focus on what's important 'ere, luv!"

"Ok, ok," Buffy wracked her brains for solutions. "What if . . . we turned the oven up to the highest firepower? If it's hotter, it'll cook faster!"

Spike thought about it. "Hey, that might jus' work!"

"'K. So hurry!"

Slayer and vamp had never worked faster in their lives. They rushed around the kitchen, randomly stuffing things into the turkey, and slathering it in the first wet substance they could find (which happened to be maple syrup they mistook for turkey sauce).

The pair stood back proudly to admire their handy work. Unidentifiable things were sticking out of the poor bird at odd angles, and somehow, there was a piece of broken bone poking out of the breast meat.

But, parents are blind to the faults of their children, and creators oblivious to the shortcomings of their art.

"It looks perfect, luv. Now pop it in the oven!"

"Wait, what about your pie? That has to be baked, too."

"Um, we'll put it in with the bird."

"Do you have an issue the word turkey?"

"Guess your feeling better."

"Why d'you say that?" Buffy eyed him suspiciously.

"Cause, hey, you're makin' not-so-funny comments again."

And he walked off to see to the turkey and pie before Buffy could answer.

"'K. So the pie and the turkey are in the oven, we've set up the bought cranberries and dinner rolls, the peas are dead --"

Buffy winced. "Don't remind me."

"So, what do we have left to do?"

"Um, mashed potatoes. And, someone has to set the table."

The thought of dealing with more food made Spike want to cry (yes, Spike and cry, together!) so he said, "Alright, I'll set things up, and you can finish the yams."

"Potatoes!"

All Spike did was smirk.

Buffy shook her head and grabbed the bowl of mashed taters, setting it in the microwave. "Spike, how long should I set the timing for?"

"Hmm, dunno, pet. 10 minutes?"

"Yeah, that sounds right." Buffy happily punched in the digits and started the microwave.

Suddenly, an exploding noise came from the oven, followed by a charred smell. Something that was becoming very familiar to Buffy.

"Not again!" she groaned.

Upon opening the oven door, Buffy found that the apple pie had exploded, and now the oven and the turkey were covered in apple goo.

Spike and Dawn rushed in.

"Whoa, Buff, what happened?" Dawn exclaimed.

"Spike's apple pie exploded." Buffy shot him a death glare.

"'Ey! It wasn't me who turned up the oven heat."

"Well, if --"

"Stop it! You two are adults, so stop bickering!" Dawn once again shocked the pair into silence. "Now, I'll set the table, and you and Spike figure out what to do about the exploding apple pie . . ."

The mashed yams chose that moment to burst, too, and the microwave suddenly died.

". . . and apparently whatever's in the microwave."

She left Spike and Buffy staring at the mess in the kitchen.

TBC

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le faye