"Damn… soddin'… bloody…," Spike gave the kitchen counter a frustrated kick, accompanied by a suppressed growl as he pushed the cake pan away from him. How hard could it possibly be? Half the damn ingredients came with the box. He'd had his ass kicked on more than one occasion, but he didn't remember ever feeling this incompetent—he'd been beaten by bloody Betty Crocker.
He walked back to the counter and hovered over what should have been a chocolate cake. It was sunken in near the further left corner, shriveled all around, and mushy near the middle. A hundred and thirty years on God's green earth and he could even make instant cake. Maybe it was size, maybe he'd attempted something to large for a beginner. Maybe instant cupcakes would have been a better idea. On the other hand he couldn't imagine fitting all eighteen candles on a single cupcake without creating a serious fire hazard, and he'd always thought that having just the one candle was pathetic on an epic scale.
Three years. Jesus… it didn't seem that long sometimes. It seemed like it had all gone so fast…Not that he was getting sentimental, mind you, he was just indulging in the occasional bought of nostalgia. He liked to think that despite his soul he had still retained a little of his badass nature. However, he had to admit (as much as it pained him) that over the last three years he'd become more than a little domesticated.
He'd never really had to take care of someone in this way before. With Drusilla it was different—she was only weak for that short period, and it hadn't been as if she wasn't deadly despite it. But with Dawn… to tell the truth she was really helpless. She didn't have super-strength or magic powers—she was just a girl. He wasn't ever going to have kids—he couldn't and he didn't want them so that worked out nicely—but Dawn had still become like his own flesh and blood over the last few years, a fact that confused him in various fashions. He really cared for her. He had been willing to live and die for her at various points over the last three years—hell, he'd attempted to cook for her— and he had never had something like that.
But now it was going to be over. She was eighteen. The government couldn't touch her, the trouble had died down… They were going back. Despite every inch of his being standing firmly against it, they were going back to that bloody little town.
He attempted to frost over the cake's deformities as he could see the sun getting lower behind the blinds. They'd only been in Mexico for a week now, having worked their way up from South America after the first of the year. They'd been quite the world travelers considering they'd had nothing else to do since they'd left. She'd liked Italy the best. She said it was the fashion but he was sure it was all those churches she made him go into so she could watch him squirm in discomfort. He was a London man himself, of course. He'd always harbored affection for his home town, even if it had changed immensely since he'd died.
At this point, however, he'd have been willing to sunbathe on the African coast rather than return to the hell that was Sunnydale, California.
"I don't know why you're all mopey, it doesn't look that bad."
Spike looked up from the cake and found Buffy sitting on the counter next to him. "I've seen better looking intestines," Spike replied. He walked past the apparition to get more frosting out of the cupboard. Most of the voices in his head had gone away since he'd first gotten his soul, but from some reason she wouldn't join them. He had tried to kid himself into thinking she was really Buffy's ghost—but the fact was that he was still just a little bit crazy in the head, and she was just a reminder. However, that hadn't really stopped him from basking in glow of his own insanity and continuing to talk to her as if she wasn't a figment of his imagination. "What do you think? The red or the blue?" He asked her.
"The red. Brown and blue is just plain ugly... What are you going to write anyway?"
"I wasn't sure—I was thinking either Happy Birthday Niblet or –"
"She's eighteen, Spike. Terms of endearment are probably not a good idea."
For some reason his features seemed to droop, "So just Dawn then."
Buffy nodded.
"Spike?"
Spiked turned to look at Dawn, who was standing in her pajamas at the base of the stairs.
"Who were you talking too?" She asked, though she didn't seem to care at what the answer might be.
Spike turned back to where Buffy had been, but the space was empty. "No one, just myself," he replied.
Dawn gave him a little smirk. "What is that?" she said, pointing at the cake pan as she walked into the kitchen.
Spike tried to hide the disastrous confection, but Dawn was already standing next to him. "It was supposed to be a cake," he conceded.
She laughed lightly. "I guess it's the thought that counts, right?"
Spike looked at her and smiled, "You don't have to eat it."
"No, I'm sure it's fine…" she looked back down at the cake. "Uh…maybe we could just get some ice cream tonight. Besides, it's the big one-eight for me, I'm too old for cake."
"Come on, you're never too old for cake." He jested, offering a fork to her and mockingly presenting the cake.
"I think I'm definitely too old for that cake."
He gave her a look, setting the fork down. She laughed and hugged him as he kissed the top of her head.
Spike leaned forward to the kitchen window and lifted the shade enough to see outside—the sun was nearly set. "You packed?" he asked solemnly.
"Yah," she answered, echoing his tone.
Spike let out what amounted to a long exhale—a biological habit that, despite his lack of breath, he had never been able to shake. He didn't miss that place. Maybe he missed what it had been, but he sure as hell didn't want to return to what it was now. Sunnydale had only ever brought him pain, even if, on occasion, it came in the form of affection.