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The wet, rotting scent of leaves hits the back of her throat like a punch. She can’t breathe, and she almost gags. In the cute village main street, people give her a smattering of concerned side-eye, skeptical side-eye, and plain old, regular that’s-a-crazy-person side-eye. Buffy ignores them all and ducks around the corner into an alley. The brick at her back is slightly damp from the rain that never seems to go away in this stupid grey country, and the roughiness of it catches at her hair. She clamps her mouth shut and forces air slowly out through her mouth. Her shirt sticks to her armpits thanks to a sudden and very gross bout of flopsweat, and she generally feels grimy everywhere all of a sudden. Like she just rolled in dirt (or dug herself out of her grave).
Fuck, she hates the fall.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
She’s in the bathtub up to her chin. Spike knocks. “Been in there a while, love.”
Her hair floats around her on the surface of the water. Dawn got her a book of English folktales last Christmas. There was one about creatures that drowned men—they had hair like this, she thinks. She could lie in wait for someone to come along (Spike) and she could pull him in (drown him). He doesn’t need to breathe, though, and she doesn’t want to hurt him (not anymore, not without their safewords).
There’s a shift and a creak of wood. He’s leaning against the door. She can picture it. The way he waits for her, the tilt of his head, the pale line of his neck, how his dark brows furrow but his eyes drink the world (her) in.
“You want me to come in or leave you be?” His voice is low and soft, giving her the choice, the option. She knows he’d like to come in. Check on her, make sure she’s okay. He knows sometimes she doesn’t want to be seen like this. Even now. Still.
Buffy scrubs her face and sits up. Her throat is scratchy, and the words are wire-tight in her throat. “Come in?”
The door swings open, and then he’s there and her face is wet, and the water sloshes over the side onto his jeans as she surges up and he kneels down and they’re both soaked, but his hands are gentle in the ratty tangle of her hair.
She could pull him in with her. She doesn’t. That’s not who they are anymore. It makes her feel slightly less awful.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
He sleeps in sweatpants that night, and she’s grateful. All he does is hold her. Not tightly, not like she’s being held down by dirt (so much dirt, it’s in her throat, in her guts; even then she got it, what it was like to drown on dry land). But held. Held up, held aloft. Out of the dirt and the dead leaves. He holds her and he reads to her. A folktale from the book. It’s about a shapeshifting cow?
She’s seen weirder, but it’s enough. It gets her to sleep
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
She’s fine. It’s fine. One bad day, and she’s back to it. Her usual morning run (Spike left to sleep under several pillows piled around him like a fort; she did that, she made the fort, it’s fun), then to the cafe for a coffee and a pastry (or three), and then back to the house to shower before she’s out for the day.
Perks of the whole no longer being one girl in all the world (and learning to let go of being The Slayer), she gets to do some things that are real-life adjacent. Like teaching gymnastics to a small group of girls who have balance beams in their eyes. She teaches the advanced classes, the girls who might move on to the Olympics, and she finds it rewarding. The girls are driven and ambitious and they practice until they almost break themselves. Buffy doesn’t have to do much motivating. If anything, after practice, she makes sure they eat (even if she’s leaving more pasta on her plate than usual these days) and go to the movies (she can’t pay attention to them right now, all the wrong ones are on TV this time of year) and get to be kids.
The parents like her (Buffy) for that. They tell her they appreciate how she makes sure they don’t lose sight of the little things.
Buffy’s world is built on little things right now. The gym, the classes, some minor slayage when a (very stupid) vampire thinks a sleepy village in the rolling hills of England would make a good place for a nest. Waking up next to Spike, making love with Spike, fucking Spike. There’s a lot of Spike, but he’s far from little.
The thought makes her snort to herself as she’s walking back home.
She had one bad day yesterday, that’s all. That’s it. She did really well today, too. She was perky and uplifting and Abby finally stuck the landing off the vault.
Her feet drag along the brick-work sidewalks, her toes occasionally catching on the unevenness of it all. There’s a phantom weight across her shoulders. Weight enough to drive her through the bricks, through to the ground again, and she has to press her fingers hard over her breastbone to make it home without having another freak out. She doesn’t need or want that. These people trust her with their kids! She can’t be the crazy lady (again). With small, shallow breaths (don’t breathe too deep), she makes it home.
Key in the lock, through the door, she flings her things down as the sun careens down to the edge of the horizon, leaving red-purple-black in a curtain trail darkening the sky. Her back is against the door for support as she finally takes in a full lungful of air and—
“I wanna be anarchy / And I wanna be anarchy!”
“Spike?” Her voice cuts through clanging, frantic notes of music blaring out from the stereo in the kitchen and Spike’s own voice bouncing over the words.
“I wanna—Buffy?” He appears in the doorway to the combined kitchen and dining area, and for a moment Buffy isn’t quite sure her eyes are telling her the truth. The brilliant blue eyes and equally brilliant platinum shock of hair tell her, yup, that’s Spike. It’s the deeply cute fall-themed apron with a repeating pattern of pumpkins, autumn leaves, and the words Falling into Baking stitched across it in fine orange thread that has her thinking she’s either lost her mind (in a marginally acceptable way) or she’s stumbled into an alternate dimension where Spike is willing to wear an apron of any sort. Let alone that apron. Then her brain starts to catalogue the rest of him. She takes in how he’s in shirt sleeves and is flour from elbow to fingertips (of course there’s a lot on the apron, too, but there’s a smudge on his nose and she wants to kiss it), and has blobs of dough smeared into the fabric of his jeans.
Then a beep goes off, and Spike’s eyes go wide as he scrambles back into the kitchen with a rumbly, “Bloody hell!”
Buffy follows as if in a daze and finds her kitchen has become an entire war zone. They didn’t buy the house for its kitchen. She’s not a cook, and Spike really isn’t. But it gets the job done, and she liked that it had enough space for a big dining table so people didn’t have to choose between eating and hanging out on the rare occasion she did have friends over for dinner. But her kitchen is now absolutely covered in flour, dough, remnants of eggs, spilled milk, and smears of butter. And that’s just what she can see on a first glance.
Spike has opened up the oven to a waft of steam and he lunges for the baking tray. He flings it onto the counter with a harsh metallic clang across the marble before kicking the oven door closed. His chest rises and falls as he breathes heavily. Not from exertion. Buffy knows this Spike-mood. He’s irritated with himself, and she’s guessing about whatever he was baking, not the apron.
The apron is pretty cute, after all.
“So, what’ve you been up to today, honey?” she asks perkily, leaning on the dining table and aiming for unconcerned. Spike glances at her sidelong and raises an eyebrow before his lips twist in a wry species of grin.
“Footie practice,” he answers blandly.
“Uh huh.” Buffy pushes off the table and grabs a dish towel only for flour to fall off it like a fine dusting of snow. She chucks that one in the sink and digs through the drawer for a clean one. One turn of the taps, she’s armed with a wet cloth and starts wiping the flour off of Spike’s face and arms. “Seems like you’re not gonna make the team this year.”
“Ruddy goal keeper’s too sodding good,” he grumbles. Then he sighs. “Was trying to surprise you.”
“Oh, I am all of the surprised.”
“Was aiming for a pleasant surprise, pet.”
“I mean, the image of you in this apron? That’s going to stay with me.” She grins up at him, enjoying his glower. He doesn’t really mean it. After all, he didn’t have to wear an apron. And certainly not that apron. She knows he could have found a plain one if he really wanted to.
He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Want me in just the apron? Does it really do it for you?”
“Oh yeah, baby, bake me some questionable… uh, just what were they supposed to be anyway?”
“Scones.” The word is short and defeated in his mouth. Buffy doesn’t have to rise up on her tip toes to press her lips to his.
“I love them,” she whispers against his mouth, her fingers tugging on the apron ties.
“Haven’t even tasted them.” His voice is that low, sultry rumble that sets up in her core and warms her through.
“I will. Later.” She nips at his lip, and he growls and pounces. She flees, laughing, as he realizes she put a double knot in the ties at the back.
“I’ll get you for this!” The yell reverberates through the house, and Buffy’s pulse kicks up another notch. He does get her. Today’s a good day after all.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
For some reason, she hadn’t counted on Spike wanting to keep baking. It isn’t like he picked up hobbies and set them down all the time. He has his guitar and his video games and, of course, his absolutely astounding amount of TV shows to watch. (And the fanfic he writes based on said shows that he thinks she doesn’t know about, but like, his username is literally Spike everywhere, and she hasn’t read any yet only because he doesn’t know she knows. She wants him to admit it and maybe show her one he’s proud of? It would be nice, maybe. If it isn’t too weird. Oh who’s she kidding, it’s Spike. It’s probably going to be weird.) Anyway, the point is Spike has his usual rotation of hobbies, along with killing occasional demons, but baking? Not really in what she thinks of as his wheelhouse. There is a lot he can do, sure. Cleaning, he’s good at cleaning. Vampire sight and smell help there. And he can cook a mean plate of bacon and eggs, but he typically lacks the care required for pancakes. Pancakes are usually Buffy-duty, and she’s assumed that pancakes being easier than scones means that Spike would give up on the entire project.
God, she really is all over the place. Anyway, Spike. Baking scones. It’s becoming less a hobby and more a singular obsession in the way only vampires can generally achieve. He’s learned to make them without turning the kitchen into a biohazard zone, and then he’s learned not to burn them or underbake them. Now he’s moved onto flavors. Every evening Buffy comes home, before dinner and then patrol, Spike is ready at the doorway with a plate and a scone held out for her to take a bite out of.
Her teeth sink into a tender, flaky pasty, crumbs falling to the entryway floor. It’s not chewy or dense, but it is moist and—her eyes widen as her mouth feels suddenly earthy and burny at the same time.
Spike sighs and holds out a napkin for her to spit out the overly cinnamony bite.
“Damn it,” he mutters and stalks back to the kitchen. Buffy kicks off her boots and follows him.
“You know, recipes have measurements for a reason,” she reminds him, not an ounce (or gram, seeing as they’re in England and she should convert her thinking right?) of judgment in her voice. Spike grunts and wraps up the batch to take down to the pub. The late night crowd will try anything at least once.
“Yeah, but last time you said you really like a cinnamon punch, and I thought, well, a tablespoon is better than a teaspoon yeah?”
“Dare I ask how many tablespoons?”
“Probably better if you don’t know.”
“We have achieved agreement.” Her smile is bright and wide, and almost true. Spike rolls his shoulders. Even with the apron (there are more aprons now, each of them overly cutesy and insipid, not a single skull or crow to be seen; he’s doing this entirely on purpose, and it makes her think of how he would once upon a time have flayed himself open if she’d demanded it. Would he still? Ugh, no, bad thoughts. Apron, cute apron), doesn’t detract from the gorgeous set of his shoulders or how his tight t-shirt shows it all off for her eye.
Spike glares at the offending scones from their plastic-wrapped plate as if they were a demon out on Halloween. Buffy steps behind him and wraps her arms around his middle. He sighs and eases his weight against her. She’s strong, she can bear him up. It isn’t really him who needs bearing up anyway, but sometimes it’s easier for her to be the strong one. To be strong. Letting herself be weak, cracking open her own wounds, parting flesh and finding the girl underneath—that’s the thing that stymies her.
“I had a good day today, though,” she tells his back. His head tilts. She can’t see it, but she can feel it in the shift of his muscles.
“Yeah? Girls doing well on the, what’s it? Uneven bars now, right?”
“Yup. Hebe is doing great, but Mariam could use some work.”
“Good lot, your girls.”
“They really are.”
Her fingers work underneath the heavy canvas apron and the thin cotton of his shirt to trace the lines of his stomach. Still beautiful as a Grecian statue, her vampire. She dots kisses along his spine, and he mewls in his throat, and Buffy takes him on the floor of the (mostly) clean kitchen and she reaches the stars to the scent of cinnamon and Spike.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The leaves are gone from the trees and the scent of rot has been overwhelmed by the oddly damp bite of snow on the air. Frost rimes the brown-green grass, and Buffy is more bundled up than ever. Southern California girl yes, but there’s something about the dampness of the incoming winter that makes the cold sink into her bones. She doesn’t mind, exactly, because hey, cute jackets and adorable hats! Even Spike wears a black beanie to keep his ears from getting too cold. (It’s endearing, and one day she will get a picture of him wearing it.)
Winter is creeping over the rim of the world, and Buffy’s breathing out white puffs like a happy steam engine. Her step is lighter even as the sun sinks low earlier and earlier. People pull up the collars of their coats and complain in the pub while Buffy feels herself brightening. Spike burrows under the covers next to her, his body warm from either a hot shower or wrapping himself in an electric blanket, and she sweats deliciously as he moves over her and under her and in her.
The door shuts behind her one day, however, and there’s no Spike to greet her with a scone. She inhales, and there’s a lingering scent of cinnamon and ginger, with an undercurrent of nutmeg and clove, but it’s not filling the house like it has for the past six weeks. There’s a sense of whiplash, of the rug being pulled out from underneath her.
Where the hell is her scone?
She stalks through the house. First stop is the kitchen, and it's so clean it sparkles. The sight of it stuns her. Spike hasn’t baked today. Even with his now-trained habit of cleaning after baking, it wouldn’t be this clean. This level of cleanliness speaks of a Spike deep-clean.
Uncertain, she makes a circuit of the lower level of the house and only finds him when she ventures out to the back patio. Not a porch. Nothing so American would be found attached to a proper cottage, but Buffy wanted a porch and a porch swing, and so they actually got permits and built a covered patio with a built-in bench swing not far from the fire pit. Spike’s on the swing, a mug in his hands and a blanket around his shoulders.
There’s a cloth-covered plate next to him.
Buffy cautiously approaches. “Save a seat for me?”
“Well, been waiting around for this girl. If she doesn’t show, all yours, ducks.”
“I dunno, maybe this girl gets jealous. I wouldn’t want to presume.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t get fussed about me,” he demurs with zero sincerity. The sly look he flings her way from underneath those way-too-pretty eyelashes tells her everything she needs to know. Buffy kicks his boot. Gently.
“Don’t be a dope,” she says, plonking herself down. Spike twitches away the cloth, and there they are, the last of the scones. They’re a good batch, these ones. The last ones. Buffy takes a bite and the warm rush of spices fills her mouth. Just the right amounts. More the recipe calls for but not too much. It’s all balanced well against the pumpkin that she wasn’t totally sure about, but Spike went down an internet rabbit hole (oh Anya, she can’t help thinking every time) and assured her these would be the winners.
They really are winners, because they taste of autumn and changing seasons and have nothing to do with rotting leaves and dirt in her mouth and the weight of the earth bearing down on her chest and her fingernails breaking or hands scraping raw as she dug and dug and dug up.
“Here,” he says softly, passing her a steaming mug of cocoa. Buffy gleefully dips the scone into the mug of hot chocolate, making Spike mutter something about Americans, but she knows it just means he loves her more. Then she takes a sip and doesn’t care that she has a cocoa mustache. Spike licks it off for her.
“You still make a mean cup of cocoa, Mr. the Bloody,” she teases. Spike grins, one hand playing with the hair not hidden up under her warm hat.
“Learned from the best,” he replies softly. They don’t say who taught him. There’s a lot they don’t say, though sometimes the words come out anyway. It’s times like this, though, when she can remember without turning her insides to her outsides, that it’s okay. Better than okay. It’s safe.
“So this was a bad fall, I guess,” she says eventually into the night, breath steaming.
“Seems like,” Spike agrees. His words don’t become white curls. He’ll be chilled through despite the fire and the blanket and the cuddles. She’ll warm him up later.
“I liked the baking, though. I was thinking, maybe next time, we could try together?”
“Didn’t know if the kitchen could survive the both of us, love.”
“Think of the savings on the demolition fees.”
He snorts and then drops a kiss onto her temple. “Didn’t know you fancied a renovation.”
“Not exactly, but I did like the scones. They helped.”
“Yeah?” His voice catches on the bob of the apple in his throat. Buffy nips at it. He’s not terribly sneaky or subtle, and she kind of loves him even more for it.
“Yeah. It was good to have something to look forward to, even if it was a mess.”
“Well, that’s something, then.”
Buffy hums her agreement, pushing the swing to swinging with a lazy kick of her feet. She drinks her cocoa, she takes another bite of scone. Spike wraps an arm around her and holds her close. The fall is being left behind and winter is on the horizon, but she doesn’t think she’ll dread the season again. There’s more than rot and resurrection for her now—and the scent of pumpkin spice scones will always bring her home.