Buffy the Vampire Slayer Preferences + imagines/one shots

Spike - Carbonara

When I came out into the crypt after my lengthy, steamy shower, I did not expect to find Spike by the small stove, cooking something that smelt delicious. 

He licked the tip of a sauce-covered spoon with a thoughtful expression. "Does this need more salt?"

I shrugged, "You tell me."

"I've not cooked in decades, I don't know." He dropped the wooden spoon back into the pot, sending a splash of sauce in all directions, some of which landed on his face. He didn't notice.

The fact he hadn't cooked in decades made me feel special - he obviously wasn't cooking for himself, and no other person lived in the crypt. Part of me wanted to rationalise the tender feeling in my chest away, but, for once, I let it simmer. I let myself smile.

I tossed my freshly blow-dried hair over my shoulders. I was in my pyjamas - nice, satin ones that Buffy brought me for my birthday - and felt relaxed and ready for a chill evening. I would've worn thicker ones due it being the beginning of winter, but most of my clothes had been destroyed: I had been crashing at Spike's place since my apartment was victim to a demon attack. That was months ago and he'd never cooked me dinner in that time. 

I walked over to him and lifted myself up to sit on the counter. Before I had a chance to tell him I probably wouldn't be any help, that I never knew how much salt to put in my own cooking, he had the spoon an inch away from my lips and my breath hitched in my throat. 

I felt self conscious as I opened my mouth. However, that feeling soon faded when I tasted the creamy, cheesy goodness Spike had been able to conjure up in the time I was gone. It put my own carbonara to shame, but I couldn't inflate his ego that much.

"It's really good. No salt needed." 

I expected Spike to look smug and pleased with himself, but when my eyes met his, he was staring at me like I had something on my face. So, like anyone would, I licked around my lips in search of sauce I may have left there. 

It took me too long to realise I was staring into Spike's eyes, licking my lips like a freak. But, thankfully, if he was creeped out, he didn't show it. The spoon was hovering helplessly in the air until Spike seemed to snap out of it and plunge it back into the pot. 

"Good." he said to the pot. 

"How'd you know pasta's my favourite?" I asked, before adding, "Unless you didn't know and I'm self-centred for thinking that you -"

Spike interrupted me, "Dawn mentioned it. I thought I'd make you something nice." He didn't elaborate as he moved over to the sink and drained the pasta that was bubbling away in a separate pan. I tried not to show on my face how cute this whole thing was, but I couldn't help breaking out into a broad smile. I had to ask:

"Not that I'm not grateful, but why?"

"You've been living here for a while, made the place real nice." he gestured to the large TV I'd installed with Xander's help, and the little painting I'd hung above it. "Wanted to say thanks."

Again, there was an instinctual feeling of suspicion, like it must've been a trick, but I ignored it. Spike's eyes met mine and he reassured me lightly, "I'm serious." 

I looked around at the crypt, which I had to admit looked brighter since I moved in. The cushions from my flat that now decorated Spike's armchair and the scented candles that weren't just there for dramatic ambience, particularly stood out. 

"I should be saying thanks to you," I insisted, "You're the one who's let me crash here for months, rent free."

"It's a crypt," I could sense the eyeroll in his voice, "Not the fucking Ritz."