Title: Completion
Author: Helena
Email: queen_c@gmx.net
Rating: PG-13, for naughty cookie-talk *g*
Disclaimer: the characters belong to joss whedon/mutant enemy, and I’m not making any money with this :-(
Archive: issuegirls, mutualadmiration.net, everyone else, ask and i'll say yes.
Feedback: yes, please!!
Summary: although baking always seems to take longer than one likes, at some point, any cookie is done ;-) angel pov
Author’s notes: english is not my first language, please forgive any mistakes.
Angel watched with a frown while Fred stirred the batter for the chocolate chip cookies. It really wasn’t fair that even in so plain and ordinary an action he should see so much sensual promise, so much sweet female spirit. How was one supposed to stand this, after so many years of being alone? He sighed and averted his eyes, trying to focus on his book again. A satisfied moan from Fred made his eyes snap back to the smooth dough, though, just in time to see her stick her finger into the creamy mass and lick it with a contended sigh.
“God…This is good.”
Amen, Fred, he thought. Lord, but he was getting strange with his old age. Every little thing seemed to hum with possibility, with meaning, ever since…
Ever since that night in the cemetery, so familiar and so special at the same time, leaning against the cool marble, comfortably close to each other, and talking.
Of course, nothing had been ordinary that night, with the First Evil around, and The Spike Issue in the back of his mind, and the preceding killing of Caleb – but most of all it had been out of the ordinary because Buffy had spoken of the future. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, of their future. But then, maybe he was over-interpreting. Or he didn’t remember, really, the exact words she had said (as if he hadn’t repeated them to himself every hour of every day for the last couple of years), and he was shaping the memory as it suited him.
So much time had passed since that night that he almost couldn’t believe it any more…couldn’t believe that some day, she’d really feel ready. It had been shock enough to find that *he* himself was ready, in spite of all the ‘we’ll-stay-friends-I’m-no-good-for-you-I love-Cordelia’ he had so harshly reduced their relationship to before. Trusting that the same irrational, uncalled-for, *suppressed* feelings would drive her back to him, in time, was too much.
But when he saw Fred make cookies…damn if she didn’t always stir the memory of the cookie dough speech along with the dough itself.
“Maybe one day, I’ll turn around and realize I’m ready. And then, if I want someone to eat…umm…enjoy warm, delicious cookie-me…That’s fine.”
Oh, this is wrong, he chastised himself. Thinking about Buffy and eating…I shouldn’t think of her like that, really.
Who knew what Buffy was up to, nowadays. Who knew if she even still thought about him.
A door banging and heavy boots stomping down the stairs pulled him out of his reverie.
“Hey – cookies!”
He stifled a sigh. Trust Spike to always know where the good stuff was, and try to get his paws on it.
He put his book aside – it wasn’t as if he had read any in the two hours he had sat in his armchair, and now he sure wouldn’t, either – and got up to question his associate. And keep him away from the cookies.
“Spike.”
“Hey peaches.” Spike brushed past him, and strode directly into the kitchen. “Hey Fred. Do I get a cookie?”
“No,” Angel answered before Fred had a chance. Spike turned back to him and raised a scarred eyebrow. OK, so maybe the tone had been a little too aggressive, considering the subject. But Spike around cookies – it made him edgy. Talk about issues, he mocked himself. “Why are you back already, anyway?”
“Talk about a warm welcome on a cold winter day,” Spike answered dryly. “Got there, guys were gone. No trace whatsoever. Returned home. End of story. Do I get a cookie now?”
“No.” Spike gave Fred a pleading look, but she just shrugged and smiled apologetically, pushing the tray with the little puddles of dough into the oven, and left them alone.
Angel sat back down in his chair and picked up the book again, hoping against hopes that, since there obviously was no mission or new case to be talked about, Spike would go away.
But the blonde vampire just smirked and sat down on the couch across from him, pulling out a cigarette and ignoring Angel’s glare as he lit it.
“You’re thinking about Buffy, aren’t you?”
“No I’m not.” Angel lifted the book a little higher to hide his face, even while he knew that it was futile. Even if his tone hadn’t been so vehemently implying denial, Spike could still smell the lie on him. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re wearing that look.” Spike leaned forward a little to flick some ash on the polished coffee table, and Angel gave him another murderous glare.
Why had he ever agreed to not only work with this guy, but live with him too? More than a century of acquaintance with Spike should have taught him better.
Yes, yes. Ultimate sacrifice, the soul, saving Buffy, and the others, coming back from the dead…He was a great addition to help their cause.
But still. There just was nothing more unnerving than having your own lies and denial thrown back at you on a daily basis by someone who had known you that long, and better than Angel liked to admit.
“What look?” He took out a handkerchief and wiped the surface of the table casually.
As soon as he was done, Spike flicked another small pile of ashes at the table, smirking like a child very pleased with his prank.
In fact, he kind of *was* just that, Angel realized with a faint warning growl which made the blonde man’s face contort into a broad, mocking grin.
“Why is it the cookies always trigger it? Every winter when it’s baking time, you start gazing out the window like a lost puppy…brood even more than usual…look at her pictures when you think no one notices…”
“I don’t!” Spike’s expression clearly showed that he didn’t believe the violent outburst for a second, but he just shrugged, dangling the cigarette from his lips and getting up.
“Sure. Whatever.” Half way up the stairs, he stopped, and looked back. His face was half-hidden in shadows, but Angel could have sworn he was looking as smug as he sounded.
“Maybe you’ll get what you want for Christmas this year, though.”
Angel stared at his retreating back, wondering, not for the first time, how Spike always managed to first intrude into your privacy and then made you wish he hadn’t left so suddenly. He sighed. Living with the boy was like having a spoiled teen under your roof.
But then, at least he was consistent. He had always been the rebellious son Angel didn’t have – well, or hadn’t had, then had had, but now hadn’t. Oh Lord, why did life have to be so complicated?
Upstairs, Angel could hear the front door opening and closing, and a moment later, muffled voices. A client? Unlikely. A quick look at the clock told him that it was rather late. Plus, it was almost Christmas time. Usually, people were way too busy with their shopping at this time of the year to care about anything else, even if it was strange, life-threatening phenomena.
And even if it was a client, let Spike deal with them. He sure had better things to do. With a nod, he got up to occupy himself with these, then stopped in the middle of the living room, and blinked. What, exactly, did he have to do?
A pair of twinkling hazel eyes peeked out from his book, in which he had put the photo as a bookmark. Just as a bookmark. Really.
He sighed in defeat and slumped back into the armchair. He hated Spike. He hated him especially when he was so damned perceptive.
Resigning himself resolutely to not letting his thoughts drift like the warm smell of the cookies baking in the oven, he picked up a book of Cicero’s letters – Latin had always been able to occupy him just enough to be soothing -, when the door at the top of the stairs creaked open again.
“Spike, I’m working,” he said, without turning around.
The door shut with a quiet click, but instead of disappearing, the footsteps drew nearer, approaching the living room.
“Spike…”
“I never knew I had such a heavy walk as Spike,” a female voice said.
Angel jumped up in shock and whipped around to face Buffy, who was looking down at her high-heeled boots with a frown. “Maybe I should change shoes.”
“Buffy.” Angel didn’t like the strangled pitch of his voice, but all things considered, it wasn’t too bad. At least his voice hadn’t done like any reasonable thought he had had prepared in case he should ever see Buffy again, and completely deserted him the moment he laid eyes on her.
God. She looked even better than he had remembered.
“What are you doing here?”
Meeting his eyes with her hazel ones, she raised an eyebrow. “Is this a bad time? Am I interrupting something?”
“No! I was just…” he glanced around, desperately searching for some occupation that wouldn’t make him seem like a nerd or a pervert, “…making cookies.”
“Ah.” She gave him a wry smile, and unceremoniously dropped her purse on the coffee table like she owned the place. Wriggling out of her jacket, she snuggled down into the chair he had previously used.
“Well…I came here to talk.”
“Talk. Yes.” Talking could be a good thing or a bad thing. Well, at least it meant she hadn’t just dropped in because she had been in the city, or something. “What about?”
She looked at him for a second, then glanced around the apartment, looking at everything as if she had never seen it, even though nothing had changed since she had last been here. Years ago…could it really be that long? When he looked at her, he sure felt like nothing had changed within him, either. The feelings were still the same, the pain-pleasure of his every nerve tingling with awareness of her, his stomach clenching when she moved just so.
“I like this place,” she said suddenly, slowly, as if every word had some hidden meaning he couldn’t – didn’t dare to – really discern.
“Good. I mean, thanks,” he said, for lack of anything better to say. Silence settled upon them, only interrupted by the quiet ticking of the oven’s timer.
Buffy shifted in the chair, sucking in a deep breath. “Your cookies smell good.”
“Yeah.” Damn, he cursed inwardly, why was it they were always reduced to levels of either incoherent stammering or screaming arguments when they tried to communicate?
Still, knowing about the problem wasn’t always the first step towards solving it. “I like cookies.”
“Yeah?” She leaned forward with sudden interest. “You still…I mean, you do?”
The sudden tension surrounding them grated on his nerves. He jumped up from the edge of the coffee table he had settled upon, and rubbed his hands. “Sure. Everyone does. Spike loves cookies, too.”
“Spike.” She gave him an incredulous look, just about at the same time when he wondered how, and why the hell he had brought Spike up in this context. “Well…Spike isn’t really concerned here, because this is, apparently, your cookies.”
“It is?” he croaked. “Well…”
“So, when the cookies are done baking…” she shifted again, biting her lip nervously, then suddenly jumped up and came to stand in front of him, looking at him from beneath thick, dark lashes. “What are you planning to do with them?”
His head swam from the smell of her perfume, the smell of *her*, so close, the slight, almost invisible trembling of her lower lip which he knew betrayed anxiety, her eyes for once not wavering from his, capturing him with a look close in intensity only to when she’d sent him to hell, and when he’d made love to her. He hadn’t been able to resist her then, and he couldn’t, now.
Instead of just giving in to his wishes, though, and pulling her close to never let go, he traced her soft cheek with one finger and whispered tenderly “I’ll tell you, if I can stop with the cookie analogy.”
A wide smile spread across her features, starting at her eyes and ending with her full, rosy lips. “OK.”
He had thought about this a lot. He had imagined this moment a million times, and long since prepared the words he wanted to say. But now, like it always was with truths, the words that would end years of complication, denial and anguish were ridiculously simple. “I’m ready - if you are.”
“I am,” she whispered, pressing her cheek into the gentle caress of his hand.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “No more finding yourself? I can wait.” He could. Really. But damn, he didn’t want to. And it must have showed on his face.
She chuckled. “No. I am.” In spite of her smile, a tear slipped down her cheek, and he caught it with his thumb, silently amazed at how she was always so full of ambivalence, of vibrant life and surprises. “Are you sure, though? No more I-can’t-give-you-a-future-it-won’t-work?”
“I have changed.” He grinned, knowing that *she* was in for a surprise, too, as he guided her hand to his chest where his heart was thumping madly, with joy and excitement.
She gasped. “How long?”
“Half a year,” he said with a lopsided grin, shrugging at her incredulous expression.
“Half a year? Oh my god, we lost half a year! You should have told me!” she cried.
“Nah.” He finally gave into his desire and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. For a moment, he marvelled at how perfectly she fit against him, and wondered how he could ever have thought he’d have a moment’s peace, *completion* without her. “If you’re done baking now, it was well worth it.”
She chuckled against his chest, where her face was burrowed. “I am.”
“Good.” And when he kissed her, no more words were needed.
After a few moments spent comfortably in each other’s arms, he absently noticed the timer beeping, announcing that the baking was done. The woman in his arms drew back, her eyes sparkling. “Whew.” She grinned. “Thank God I ran into Spike today. Otherwise I would never have gathered my nerve.”
He furrowed his brow. “You ran into Spike?”
She shrugged. “Yes. Checked out a nest. He came out when I went in, and I almost staked him.” She folded her arms across her chest and smiled up at him. “He told me I should come see you, because, quote, ‘Peaches is having the cookie-depression again, and it’s annoying.’”
He gave a snort of laughter. “Spike gets involved in others’ business too often for his own good.”
He had been helpful, in this case, though, Angel had to acknowledge as he gazed down at the woman he loved, beaming up at him with the incredible promise of future happiness in her eyes. Yes, to finally give all hope of that up, and pass it over to him, truly was magnanimous. Sometimes, Spike wasn’t so much of a bother after all.
He was pulled out of his musing by Buffy’s cheerful voice, and her small hand slipping into his, entwining their fingers. ”How about a walk, together? It’s a beautiful evening. Plus, I still need to do some Christmas shopping.” She tugged at his hand enthusiastically. “Your contemplative days at home are over, mister.”
He laughed, and let her drag him up the stairs, pausing only long enough on the way to pick up one of the fresh cookies.
Walking through the foyer of the hotel, his arm around Buffy’s waist, he tossed it at Spike who was sitting on the counter, legs dangling, looking very pleased with himself, and only a little, a very little bit melancholy.
“Enjoy.”