[Zlataslawa]

CRAVE, the story formerly known as FILF, by NautiBitz
Chapter 5 (Part 2 of 2): Aching




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When Spike called her the next day, Lindsey was standing by her desk, discussing case details and where they might go for dinner. "What about that Ethiopian place on Fairfax?"

"Mmm, yummy." She picked up her ringing phone and said, "Buffy Summers."

"How are you in the kitchen?" Spike asked as if they'd been shooting the breeze all day. "Any good?"

"I-I'm sorry," she said after a stunned pause, "You have the wrong number."

She hung up and turned back to Lindsey. "We should ask Fred and Charles if they want to come with."

"I was just gonna suggest that."

"Ooh!" She raised her hand for a high five. "Simpatico five." Her phone rang again. "Buffy Sum--"

"Simple question, love. Are you a good cook, yes or no?"

"No!" She smashed the phone to its cradle, ran her hands down her face, then noticed her husband was still there.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, it was just... Some jerk conducting a survey."

Lindsey chuckled. "I never knew you felt so strongly about surveys."

"He was really obnoxious, okay?"

His cell phone chirped, and he looked at it. "Don't worry, darlin'. If it's Survey Guy, he's goin' down."

She swatted him.

"Hello?" He straightened, and Buffy looked up just in time to see his smile fall away and the blood drain out of his face. "...Dad?"

Spike was calling him? That could not be good.

"...Yeah. Um, thanks, it was..." he cleared his throat, "real thoughtful... of you." He gave Buffy a bewildered shrug, then seemed thrown by the next question. "Am I? Well, we take turns, but Buffy's much better at it."

What could they possibly be talking about? A recent dream bubbled to mind. She tried to get Lindsey's attention, but he turned away.

"Oh, yeah. She's gourmet caliber when she wants to be."

Oh, cooking. That made more sense. But why the sudden interest in her domestic skills? Didn't he want her to 'run wild'?

"Tomorrow night? I..." He hammered a fist on his forehead, berating himself in advance for saying, "No, we don't have plans."

She tugged on his pant leg, whispered, "What?"

He shook his head, eyes closed. "Yeah. --Yes. Yes, sir. Tomorrow night at eight."

Lindsey stared at the phone a moment before closing it. "He's coming over tomorrow night. You're cooking."

She scoffed. "What? I am not cooking for him."

He sighed. "Look, can you just do me this one favor?"

"Why? Lindsey, he treats you like dirt."

"I know, okay? I know."

"He's just a man. He doesn't have any power over you anymore! You can say no."

"Yeah, but..." He pulled up a chair and sat next to her. "My father is fickle, okay? He sets his mind on something for a couple weeks or months and then he moves on. This could be the last time we ever have to see him. Buffy, I want this over sooner rather than later."

A couple of months and moves on, huh? Not surprising, but it gave her an odd spurned-lover feeling. Which in turn strengthened her already bullet-proof just-say-no resolve. "Fine. I'll do it for you. But if he does anything evil I'm spitting in his soup."

"I'm fine with that."

The 'fickle' comment made her ask, carefully, "Was he always this way with your exes? Asking them to dinner and stuff?"

"He never met any of my exes. Thank god."

"Oh." And there went her theory that he'd stolen Lindsey's girlfriends before. "So I'm special."

"Of course you are. I married you, didn't I?" He nudged her with his shoulder. "And for some crazy reason, he likes you too."

"I don't get it either."

He got reflective and traced a circle on her hand. "Look, I know he sometimes makes it hard for people not to like him back..."

"You do not have to worry about that with me."

"But if you find yourself liking him, that's okay. You're allowed. I mean," he kissed her hand, "just don't like him too much."

"Like him?" She took her hand back and rearranged her desk. Moved her keyboard, straightened her mousepad, turned a plant ...a dying flower. She really needed to water that. "He's a master manipulator, Lind. I don't fall for manipulators." Her eyes widened. Manipulation. I don't fall for manipulation! She prayed he didn't catch that.

"'Sides," he teased in a deep Texan accent, "he got you that zillion dollar paintin' you like so much. Least you can do, sweet cheeks, is cook him up a nice, hot pot o' luv." He winked and clicked out of the side of his mouth as he got up and left her desk.

"I am so gonna hurt you for that later."

"Yee-haw!"

* * *

How do you cook for a billionaire?

Standing in the vegetable aisle of Whole Foods, a yellow pepper in each hand, Buffy was lightning-struck with insecurity. He ate in five-star restaurants regularly. He had a personal chef. How could she possibly impress Spike Pratt?

"Oh my god," she muttered, shocked at her thoughts. "I don't want to impress him."

"What's that, babe?" Lindsey asked her, holding a sweet potato.

"Nothing. That one has a bruise."

He put it down and found a better one.

* * *

"Interesting little place you have here," she heard him say, and she quickly fixed her hair before he and Lindsey and the dog arrived in the kitchen area. "Hello, Buffy."

She wiped her wet hands on her red polka-dot sweetheart apron. "Hello, Mr. Pratt."

"Did I not tell you to call me Spike?" Smirking at the apron, he strode up to her, kissed both cheeks and handed her a wrapped bottle of French champagne. "For the lady of the house. What is this dog doing?"

"He needs to go out," Buffy said, grabbing Huey's collar. Of course Spike would have no patience for animals. The self-absorbed rarely did. "I'll take him."

"At this time of night?" Spike turned to Lindsey. "You let her go out there alone at this time of night?"

"Not normally--"

"You're a block from Skid Row! Bloody bleeding hearts, you'll get yourself killed romping about in this filth."

"I can handle myself," Buffy said.

Her current position gave him a view of the black v-neck she wore under the apron. "Not in that dress, you can't."

"What are you implying? That I'd be 'asking for it' in this dress?"

"Lindsey, take the bloody dog out."

In the tense silence that followed, Lindsey gave her a resigned look that said And he just arrived. "C'mon, Huey."

Once he got his way, Spike softened. "Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

Buffy breathed in, let it out slowly. "What would you like to drink?"

The apartment door shut, and they were alone in the loft.

"That depends." He tilted his head to size up her heart-shaped pockets and ruffled apron top. "What am I eating?"

"Lindsey's favorite dish," she said, and realized the double entendre too late.

He grinned wolfishly and took full advantage of her embarrassment. "So soon? I thought I'd have to work at least another week for that."

"Texas stew," she drew out firmly. "His grandmother's recipe." She turned toward the oven, lowered the flame. "His mom must have made it for you."

She heard a snort. "Lindsey's mum did not cook. Not for me, anyway. Though she did barbecue my wife's wedding gown once..."

She frowned at him, and he nodded.

"Tossed it over a rack of lamb, drizzled it with olive oil, set it on fire and watched it burn." He got lost in the memory for a moment, and came back to her. "All the party guests said it smelled delicious." He shrugged. "Well, except my wife."

"Does Lind know about this?"

"He doesn't know a lot of things."

She considered that for a moment. "Whiskey or wine?"

"Hmm. Whiskey."

Buffy fixed him a glass.

"I hope you'll be drinking with me, love."

She poured a shot glass for herself and toasted him with a merry, "I couldn't get through a night of you without it."

Their glasses clinked. "Every time you talk, I like you more."

She put her empty shot glass down, mimed a zipper over her mouth and checked on the food.

He kept a respectful distance, watching her from the bar. "So, little Buffy Homemaker, wherever did you learn to cook?"

"I taught myself." Bending toward the oven, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Sorry I couldn't ink that onto my permanent record for you."

"I like surprises." He raised his glass. "Don't you?"

She switched off the oven. "What are you trying to accomplish here, Spike? Making me cook for you, with Lindsey around... What is this?"

"I have my parental concerns, you know." He looked into his glass, swishing it around. "Got to make sure my boy will be well taken care of for the rest of his days, and so forth."

She gave him a level gaze. "How about in the world where you're you?"

"Didn't you say no more conversations behind his back?"

"Didn't you say that wasn't my true wish?"

"Well, I'm glad you're finally being honest with yourself--"

"That's not what I meant! I want to know why you did this!"

"I don't give a damn about your cooking," he snapped. "All right? I needed to see you again, and short of clubbing you over the head and dragging you back to my cave, this seemed the only viable option."

Lindsey's key turned in the lock.

Shaking herself out of his blue-eye-vortex, Buffy got back to the food.



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A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.


Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic

@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction