Love is...

Title: Love Is Hunger
Series: Love Is…
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo.com www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and UPN own Buffy the Vampire Slayer in totality. No profit is made from this piece of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: Sure, just let me know.
Rating: PG
Pairing:rew/rew/Spike
Feedback: Yes!
Dedication: My two K’s-Katie and Kaz
Author's Notes/Summary: Takes place during Touched. The Onion Blossom Scene is quoted verbatim. Andrew and Spike hit the road for onion blossoms and assorted pies. Oh, and information, too.

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This is so rad! Spike and I on our very own mission! Spike may possibly have to kill a guy and I’ll get to be lookout. And we get to ride on his hog, which is too cool for school. I hope I don’t get bugs in my teeth because I heard that that can happen without a helmet. I hope he has an extra helmet, or any helmets at all cause I guess he doesn’t really need to worry about that, being dead and all. Maybe I should ask for one.

Some of the potentials are jealous, I can tell. It’s hard having Spike for a friend because everyone wants to know him. Or kill him. Ah, yes…the circle of life… But anyway, I get to be his friend, which is so cool. Now we’re going to be buddies with a mission-to get information. We’re going to be like…like Crockett and Tubbs or Mulder and Scully.

“You ready?” he asks gruffly.

I nod. I think he’s still mad cause I haven’t put him in my presentation yet. I don’t know why it matters, though. Every time we get a new slayer and I do my presentation he’s right there. All I have to do is point. I don’t need an illustration for that. And why does he come to every single one? There’s a good question. I think he wants to see if I’ll mess up. I swear that’s the only reason Tucker came to my dance recitals. Oh, jeez Andrew! Don’t want to mention that to anyone, cause that might sound gay. I guess I could tell Spike, though, cause he already knows.

It’s so cool that I can tell him stuff and he’ll really listen. Or he’ll try to really listen. I almost had him convinced that Timothy Dalton was the greatest James Bond but then he realized what he was agreeing to and snapped out of it. I think he’d been daydreaming. He does that a lot lately but he’s over a hundred years old so I guess he has a lot of memories. It’s cool to think that in a hundred more years he could be daydreaming about right now. Maybe he’ll daydream about our road trip, which is going to be so neat. The sun is setting now, so I guess it’s time to go.

***

“You sure you don't wanna stop and pick up some burgers or something, you know, road trip food?”

“It's not a road trip. It's a covert operation.”

“Right. Right. Gotcha. I—I bet even covert operatives eat curly fries. They're really good.”

“Not as good as those onion blossom things.”

“Ooh, I love those.“
eah,eah, me, too.”

“It's an onion... and it's a flower. I—I don't understand how such a thing is possible.”

“See, the genius of it is you soak it in ice water for an hour so it holds its shape. Then you deep-fry it root-side up for about 5 minutes.“

“ Masterful.“

“Yeah... Tell anyone we had this conversation, I'll bite you.“

“Right.”

It’s kind of an inside joke now. He threatens to bite me about twice a day. Sometimes he says it like Count Dracula, only don’t actually say that to him because then he’ll pour Dr. Pepper on your Ricky Martin CD. I don’t think he likes that guy very much. Dracula, I mean. I don’t actually know his position on Ricky Martin.

We’ve been on the road for about an hour. Here are the things I’ve learned about motorcycles. They’re loud and they make my legs hurt. Um, I guess that’s it.

I didn’t know a mission would be so boring. It’s cool when Spike goes fast, though. I have to hang on really tight around his waist but no matter how hard I squeeze, he doesn’t complain. Maybe it’s cause he doesn’t need to breathe.

A half-hour later my legs still hurt and I have to pee. Plus, I’m hungry. I don’t want to tell him that, though. I don’t think vampires really need food. I mean, we have some blood in a cooler behind me, but the pizza we split in the kitchen is the last real food I remember him eating. I wonder what food he liked when he was human? Probably something gross because he was English and I heard they eat intestines. I like English muffins, though. Maybe he ate those. What does James Bond eat? I bet Spike likes chocolate, because everyone likes chocolate. And now I know he likes onion blossoms.

“What’s your *favorite* food?” I ask.

“Sorry?”

“Your favorite food.”

“Don’t know, Andrew. I’m just trying to watch the road.”

“My favorite food is probably pizza.”

Spike doesn’t say anything. He just speeds up a little. I think he’s annoyed at my talking, but I can’t help it. With that preacher guy in Sunnydale, it really feels like something is going to blow in a Waterworld kind of way really soon.

“Have you ever noticed how garbonzo beans kinda look like little tiny butts?” Okay, I think he’s ignoring me on purpose, now. “I like pumpkin pie. Where do you stand on the whole pumpkin pie controversy?"

“I wasn’t aware there was a controversy.” Finally, he speaks. Yes!

“Oh, yeah. I mean, some people love it, some hate it, and some will only eat if it’s Thanksgiving.”

“Don’t know. Last one I guess.”

“Which one?"

“The ‘on Thanksgiving’ one.”

“What about meringues?”

“Huh?”

“Meringues. Those puffy-fluffy pie top things. What’s your position on them? Pro or con?”

“I don’t know, Andrew. I don’t believe I have an opinion on all baked desserts. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

His voice sounds really irritated so I just say, “They’re gross,” and shut up. Damn! This mission is really boring so far! Cutthroat Island boring. We keep riding for several miles. I want to ask if we’re getting closer, but I think he might turn around and make me go back if I do.

I really don’t want to go back. There’s more to do at Buffy’s, but I don’t want to be there without Spike. My place is here, by his side. Protecting his back and, um, his front if he needs it. That’s what friends are for. I don’t have a lot of those. Friends, I mean. Just Jonathan. And Warren was my friend, I guess. Can you be friends with a killer? I hope so, cause Spike is my friend and he’s killed people. Oh, and I killed Jonathan. I keep forgetting that. Why do I forget that? So, that makes me a killer, too, I guess. Hum…so lets review, shall we? The only friend I’ve had that didn’t try to kill people was, um, Jonathan…who I killed.

I feel sick to my stomach.

Jonathan was a good friend. He was tiny but he could eat twenty-seven Twinkies before throwing up. We tried it once. I bet that’s a record or something. He had a shy bladder, but a stomach of iron. Warren used to dare him to eat things and he would. He once won a dollar for eating a french fry with Windex on it. I don’t think Warren ever gave him the dollar, though.
rrenrren was kind of evil that way.

It’s getting really cold and even though Spike’s body is dead and stuff, I feel warm when I press behind it. The road is rougher here and we’re bumping a lot. Gosh, have I mentioned that I have to pee? I have a really small bladder. I can’t even get a drink at the movies. I’m not kidding. There’s a seat in the front row of the Sunnydale Cinema that has a really interesting stain since the day “The Fellowship of the Ring” was released. It was over three hours long, though. I feel Peter Jackson should bear some responsibility for that stain.

We hit a kinda large pothole and the motorcycle bumps hard. I tighten my hold on Spike and brace myself behind him. I fit really good back here. If I turn my head, the helmet rests right between his shoulder blades and I can press right against his jacket. He doesn’t say anything but he does kind oowl owl in his throat and he doesn’t make me move. Or maybe it was his stomach growling.

Maybe he’s hungry, too.

“So you don’t have a favorite food at all?”

I think maybe that he doesn’t hear me, so I ask again. Finally, he answers.

“Apple tarts.”

“What?” For a minute, I thought he’d said something about farts.

“Apple tarts. But only the ones my mum used to make. Melt in your mouth, they did.” Spike sounds wistful. Sort of. It’s hard to tell on a motorcycle.

“My mom makes good macaroni and cheese. Not the kind from the box, though. She bakes it in the oven."

“Sounds right tasty.”

“It is. Um, did your dad like to cook?”

“Men didn’t cook. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Not even pies or a little—“

“What is it with you and pie?”

“My dad can barbecue,” I go on. “He barbecues everything…meat…and corn…and bread…”

“He barbecue pie?”

“Shut up!” I laugh and he joins me a little. Spike doesn’t really joke around that much. It’s really cool to hear him laugh. Cool. I say that all the time. Spike is more than that. It’s really…special…when he laughs. That’s better.

A few more miles slide by before Spike speaks again.

“We’ll be there in an hour.”

“Good,” I say. One hour.

I really have to urinate.