Five Servings A Day

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Chapter 5: The Distraction Plan
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Buffy darts to the kitchen to catch her breath and try to steady her wildly beating heart. She can’t go back until she calms down. She is sure Spike will be able to smell her fear, her confusion coming off her in waves. Not to mention the lusty thoughts she thinks are stamped across her blushing cheeks. Eyes closed, Buffy wills herself calmer, blocking visions of Spike tied to that chair, visions of her swinging her leg over to straddle... NO straddling! Sighing, Buffy opens her eyes. Not very effective vision blocking.

With efficiency drawn from years of practice, she collects first aid gear from a drawer in the kitchen and gathers it on thenternter. She then retrieves a blood packet from the refrigerator, pours it into a mug and pops it in the microwave. Eyes glazing over as she watches the turntable take the mug around and around, the visions of shd Spd Spike in compromising positions worm their way back into her mind. Thankfully, the microwave beeps, startling her out of her dazed thoughts. Mug in one hand, she balances the other gear in her other and heads for the living room.

As she crosses the hall towards the living room, Buffy tries the hardest she ever has to look noncha. S. She chants to herself ‘He’s not that hot. Not that hot. He’s evil. A vampire. Not that hot. Not that - ‘

“Hot.” The last word slips out as she re-enters the living room to see a vision in black. Spike is sprawled out on the couch, head resting on one bent arm, his whole body laid out in front of her like a buffet. All she can think is that she was wrong: he IS that hot.

At her word, Spike cranes his neck around to meet her eyes. “What’s that, luv?”

Buffy stumbles a bit and enters the room. “Oh, this is, uh, hot. So be careful.” Nice save. Mentally, Buffy wipes her forehead in relief. She sticks her hand out with the mug of blood. Spike sits up before taking the mug and his fingers graze hers as he does.

“Hm, not that hot, pet.” He takes a sip, eyes never leaving Buffy’s over the rim of the mug. She puts the first aid equipment down on toffeoffee table.

“Oh, it’s not? Huh.ird.ird. So, anyway. Oh wait, it’s hot enough, though, right? In the 98.6 neighborhood?” Buffy wrings her hands a little, feeling very self-conscious. Her eyes dart to his injured wrists and she flinches. “And your wrists, they’re okay?”

“Whoa, Slayer. One question at a time. Temp is just right.” He takes another sip, studying her. She has the look of a cornered rabbit, ready to bolt at the slightest sudden move. His sudden move. He weighs the decision for a space of seconds before acting. “My wrists. Think they are healing already, see?” He holds one wrist out as he takes another sip from the mug. Buffy moves closer so she can inspect the wrist. She cradles his wrist in her hand lightly as she leans down. She freezes as she feels Spike’s thumb brush her pulse point. An accident, she tells herself. But then, he does it harder, circling the delicate skin covering the blood pounding there, faster and faster. Buffy hesitates. This is not flippant flirting or snappy comebacks. This is erotic. Her heart rate tripling, Buffy glances up. Spike is waiting for her, eyes dark and wanting. The lust there is dense and Buffy gasps, pulling back sharply, breaking the connection. She grabs the roll of gauze and does a quick job of wrapping each wrist, offered by Spike with the same heated look in his eyes.

Work finished, she backs toward the light of the hall...and some sense of safety. Ripping her gaze from Spike as he watches her departure, Buffy tries to remain calm, “Okay, that looks better. I’ll be going now and I’ll check on you later.” With the last word still on the air, Buffy disappears from sight. Spike smiles as he reclines on the couch with his mug in hand. The first move shows him he is not the only player in this game.

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Two hours later...

“What’s that saying? Is it don’t drink while cooking? ook ook while drinking? Oh, pffft. What-EVER.” Buffy takes another swig from the bottle of wine in her hand. She squints into the pot on the stove in front of her. “Hmm. You look thirsty, too! Some for me.” Another gulp. “Some for you!” Buffy lifts the bottle up high, splashing red wine over the roast beef. “Oh poo. Got some on my shirt.” She frowns down at her blouse, now speckled with dark red spots. Shrugging, she pulls the shirt off over her head and slings it across the room. Dressed only in a skimpy tank top, Buffy bops over to the fridge, humming to herself as she opens the door. “See, I don’t need any stinkin’ friends to have fun. Havin’ big fun all by myself. Now where did I put the salad?” Frowning, Buffy puts her hands on her hips and stands up. The salad seems to be missing.

She spins around, slightly unsteady. “Whoa. Wine is doing funny things to me. Good thing there are no vamps around. Well, except Spike. But THAT is another story...Ah, there you are!” She spies the salad bowl on the kitchen island and grabs it, walking into the dining room. One place is set at the head of the table, and she sits the large salad bowl nearby. Noise from the television drifts into the room. Buffy shakes her head and goes back to the kitchen. “Ignore him. Ignore him. He is to be ignored.” Head slightly buzzing from the wine, Buffy gathers up the rest of her meal - vegetables, more wine, and finally the pot roast. When it is all set up on the table, she smiles at the food. “And they say I can’t cook. I can freakin’ cook. Lookit this! OH, bread! Forgot the bread.” Buffy darts back into the kitchen and returns with sliced French bread and some butter. “There. Perfect.”

She takes a seat at the table, spreads a napkin in her lap and serves herself. A few bites in, she sighs. Putting her fork down, she rests her head on her chin, looking towards the mostly dark living room. She can just see the blue glow of the television and the murmur of voices coming from it. Otherwise, nothing. Not a peep from Spike since she basically ran from the room after bringing him some blood. Her big distraction plan was ruined when nobody could come for dinner because of previous plans - not even Giles - so she had thrown herself into cooking the big meal for herself. But it certainly lacked something. Glancing down the empty table, she knows what is missing. “Company.” She sips from her glass, having actually poured wine into it rather than chugging straight from the bottle, and thinks. And thinks of a very stupid idea. “Stupid. Stupid. Don’t do it, Buffy. It will only end badly. Why are you standing up?” Buffy puts her napkin on the table and stands up. Self-consciously, she straightens her clothes and runs her hands through her hair. “Oh, for crap’s sake, don’t primp.”

Frustrated with herself, Buffy stomps towards the living room, announcing her approach with every step. few few feet from the opening, a low voice greets her. “Slayer. I’d know that delicate stomp anywhere.” As she comes fully to the door, Spike cranes his neck towards her and stops talking. Her silhouette is captured in the hall light and he momentarily has his breath taken away, well, as much as he can have something taken away he doesn’t have. She is all curves and perfection and Spike catches himself thinking some thoughts that would get him dusty in a heartbeat.

Moments pass and Spike knits his eyebrows together in confusion. Buffy, meanwhile, is trying to will her heart out of her throat so she can talk. She didn’t expect seeing Spike to still affect her. She decides the wine has definitely gone to her head. That and the serious lack of male companionship. It’s the only reasonable explanation for having lewd thoughts about the undead annoying one. That and the positively indecent way he is again sprawled all over her Mom’s couch. She’s not sure she’ll ever look at that piece of furniture the same again.

“Um, Slayer. You going to stand there all night or...?” Spike bites back a little extra dose of snark, realizing he doesn’t want her to turn and stomp away. Though the rear view would be nice... He sits up slightly, raising himself up on his elbow.

“No, of course not.” Her voice is slightly strangled, higher than usual. “I have all this extra food. And I know you don’t eat, but I can’t eat it allnd ynd you sometimes eat. It’s all warm now and no one is coming because they all made plans without me and...” Buffy cuts off her ramble before it gets really embarrassing. She flinches, waiting for Spike to say something obnoxious. Nothing. “Soooo...maybe you would like to come sit in there and maybe eat something?” Buffy reels off the last words very quickly, half hoping, well, truth be told, she’s not quite sure what she is hoping. In some ways, she is hoping the Earth will open up and swallow her quickly. She resolves that drinking wine is a dumb thing. Makes her much too vulnerable. It’s definitely not Spike’s lickable cheekbones - it’s obviously the Zinfandel talking.

Spike tries to study Buffy, but he can’t really see her face with the hall light behind her. He can smell her. A healthy dose of nervousness covering, but not completely, a definite musky scent of arousal. Slayer wants something. Someone. Spike smiles slowly. This weekend could still turn out to be very interesting despite the false start earlier. “Sure, luv.” Slowly, Spike unfolds himself from the couch and stands up. “I’d love to eat...with you.” Buffy blushes a fierce crimson at the look Spike gives her to go with these words. Who turned up the thermostat? Before Buffy can make a quick escape, Spike swaggers by her, just brushing against her bare arm enough to make her jump. God, his skin is so cool and delicious...

As Buffy turns to watch him walk to the dining room, she finds her eyes dropping lower....and lower. Tracing the sinewy muscles of his back and slipping right onto his tight little... “Anywhere I should sit, Slayer?” Crappity crap, he turns around quickly.

The red in her cheeks burns a bit brighter as she tries to clue in to what Spike said over the thumping of her heart. Sit, where should he sit on that tight little... “Anywhere you like!” Buffy says it a bit too loud with a smile a bit too tight and darts by to re-take her seat at the head of the table. Spike slides into the seat adjacent to hers, his eyes never leaving hers as he does. He smirks at her, watching her cheeks flare pink all over again. Finally, she breaks, looking down at her plate. And then the blank spot in front of Spike.

“Oh! A plate! I’ll be right back.” Buffy scrambles to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over. Once she reaches the safety of the kitchen, she puts her hands on the edge of the kitchen island and leans there, deep breaths coursing through her. She tries to talk herself through the strange feeling grabbing at her chest. Whispering aloud, she can barely hear herself over the thumping of her heart. “Okay. He’s cute. A fact. Annoying. Big fact. Vampire. Fact fact fact. Totally hot? Damn fact-y. Someone I should stay away from. Fact of the year. E-vil. Factapalooza.” Buffy glances in the general direction of Spike, seeing him through solid walls in her mind’s eye. Her heart rate accelerates. “Do I want him more than I should?” She shakes her head, fighting off the question with the sloshy effects of red wine in her system. Grabbing a plate, she walks back to the dining room, fake smile firmly plastered. Turning the corner, she finds Spike looking right at her as she enters the room. Blue eyes, cool and piercing, go right into her.

The answer to her last questions rises to the front of her mind quickly. Oh, now that’s a fact, jack.

With a businesslike efficiency that fools no one in the room, Buffy puts the plate down in front of Spike. “There you go!” Settling back in her chair, Buffy starts to serve more food onto her own plate. Moments later, when she notices no such movement from her companion, she looks up. Spike is sitting still, a bemused smile pointed in her direction. “Uh, what?”

“I’m eating with my hands then, luv?” Eywinkwinkling, he gestures to the sides of his plate. No utensils. Buffy pauses, the serving fork from the pot roast in mid-air. Eyebrows knit together as she looks down, double-checking. Definitely no utensils. And the cheeks flood with color once again.

Buffy stammers as Spike reaches over, pulling a piece of meat off the pot roast. Buffy watches his fingers, mesmerized as he opens his mouth and takes a bite. He tosses the last piece into his mouth and then progresses to licking the juices off his fingers, very very slowly. Buffy swallows hard, finding herself unable to turn away. Spike meets her eyes, a smirk on his face still. “Delicious, Slayer.”

Her voice is soft, nearly a whisper, “Do you want a fork?”

“I’ll get it.” Spike pulls himself from his chair and heads toward the kitchen. His voice carries over his shoulder, “Any more wine in here?”

Swallowing, fighting with her composure, Buffy calls back, “Yes, there’s another bottle on the counter. Glasses are in the cupboard...” She puts her head in her hands as she hears him opening the door. “Great. More wine. That’ll help...”

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Author’s Note: Sorry for the long long gap between chapters! I will try to be faster when RL cuts me some slack. Enjoy! -Tiana