Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters in this fanfic. Joss Whedon owns them all.
The song lyrics found in the song are from “Anarchy in the
Authors Notes: This originally started out as being an answer to a challenge, but since it did not end up being a crossover, it didn’t really answer the challenge. But, nonetheless, I like the story.
He drew the curtains, careful to stay out of the bright sunlight that flowed through the open window. As the curtains closed, darkness engulfed the room. He smiled at the darkness, feeling right at home. He could stay in the darkness for a long time. Just to stand there, enjoy the quite and comfort of the dark. But he had things to do. Important things to do.
He walked over to the light switch and flicked them on, filling the room with artificial light. But unlike the sunlight of moments before, he did not flinch away from it. He paid no heed to the light, walking around the room to continue with is task.
The paper bags on the table rustled loudly as he pulled things out of it, carefully setting them down beside the bag. Soon, the bags were empty of their burdens and were crumbled unceremoniously into little round balls and thrown into a trash bin. He stood there for a moment, contemplating what to do next. Suddenly, as if a light had dawned in his head, he walked away from the table and over to a small group of cupboards, pulling out an array of pots, pans, and other such cooking utensils.
He walked back over to the table, picking up a small rectangular box. He muttered to himself as he read the directions. He walked back over to where he had placed the pots, carrying the small box over with him.
He quickly filled one of the pots all the way with water and carried it to the stove. He placed it onto the stovetop, turning the burners on as he did. Still holding the pot with one hand, he looked over at the box and read more of the directions. He paid no heed to the pot as it slowly grew warmer and warmer until…
“Bloody hell!” Spike yelled, pulling his hand away from the slowly boiling pot. He glared at the pot as he nursed his slightly burnt hand, hurrying over to the sink.
When he saw that the burn did not even raise a blister he walked back over to the stove, still glaring at the pot. “Pillock.”
Drawing his attention away from the stove, he walked back over to the table. He grabbed a package of meat and walked back over to a small counter. As he opened the package up, he sighed almost in longing.
“Trust humans to ruin meat like this,” he said to himself as he put the meat in a microwavable bowl and put it in the microwave. “They cook the meat! Takes away the best part of it.”
He set the time on the microwave and turned it on, waiting as the numbers clocked down.
He sighed in impatience as he watched the seconds go by, tapping his foot impatiently. He looked up at the ceiling, sighing once again just for good measure. “It’s just too bloody quiet in here. It needs some noise.”
He turned on the radio, flipping stations. He grimaced as he heard the popular music of the day.
“They’re all a bunch of nancy-boys,” he muttered to himself. “Isn’t anyone good anymore, not like there used to be…now THIS is more like it!”
He grinned as he recognized the song, singing along loudly with the music. As the song continued, he got more and more into it as he started randomly jumping around the room.
“Don't know what I want
‘Cause I wanna be Anarchy
No dogs body.”
“Anarchy for the
Because of his singing he had completely forgotten what he was doing and because of that, forgot to watch the now boiling pot. In his haste to fill the pot, he had filled it almost to the top which caused some of the water to boil over. Some of the spilled water had dripped onto the floor, causing a wet spot in front of the stove. A wet spot that he had stepped onto during the course of his jumping.
Spike flew head over heels and crashed into one of the cupboard, a plastic bowl falling off of the counter and onto his head. He growled as it hit him before picking it up and throwing it across the room.
He stood up and stomped back over to the stove. He grabbed the rectangular box he had held earlier and dumped the contents in the pot, muttering a string of curses to himself.
“Whoever said cooking was easy deserves to be tortured with a railroad spike.”
Suddenly, the microwave beeped, telling him that the meat he had put in there a few minutes earlier was done. He opened the door and, without thinking, grabbed the bowl with his bare hands. One of the hands the same one that he had burnt earlier. He grimaced as he dropped the bowl onto the counter, shaking out his burnt hand. He stalked over to the table and grabbed a glass jar, growling as his hand started throbbing.
He walked back over and opened the jar. He dumped the contents of the jar over the cooked meat and put the bowl back into the microwave – sans top.
As he watched the boiling pot and the stove and the cooking bowl in the microwave he began to pace, thinking of what else he had to do in order to get everything ready. He mentally checked off things in his head as he paced, not paying attention to the cooking meal.
He stopped pacing suddenly, as if he had made up his mind on a course of action. He walked over to the cupboards and opened one after another, shaking his head as he closed them back up without pulling anything out. Finally, after opening one of the last cupboards, he smiled as he eyed his prize.
“Can’t have a proper meal without dishes,” he said to himself, smiling as he pulled the dishes down. In a matter of minutes, he had pulled out dishes, cups, and silverware. He took them all over to the table and quickly set it. As he finished, he frowned at the table. “I have the feeling I’m forgotting…”
His eyes widened as he turned back to the kitchen. “The spaghetti!”
He ran back into the kitchen and raced to the stove. He turned the stove off and pulled a colinder out from under the sink. He quickly dumped the pot of spaghetti into the colinder, hot steam pouring into his eyes.
He cursed, dropping the now empty pot on the ground, rubbing his eyes as if to wipe the steam out. Once he could see again, he looked at the colinder of spaghetti. He grabbed a fork and stuck it into the spaghetti.
It stuck into it.
Spike frowned as he poked at the spaghetti. It was as hard as a rock. As he sat there, contemplating what to do, the microwave went off. Spike walked over and opened it, smiling as he saw the cooked bowl of spaghetti sauce.
“At least something went ri – “
His words were cut off as he once again skidded on the wet spot in front of the stove, spaghetti sauce flying everywhere. Spike’s back hit the ground and he groaned in pain. He sat up again and looked around at the remains of the meal he had made. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the mess surrounding him, almost mocking him.
“That’s it!” He stood up and stomped over to the phone, dialing a number that was very familiar to him. A slight smile crossed his face as he heard the familiar greeting.
“”Won’s Garden! Carry-out or Delivery?”
Spike jumped nervously as the front door creaked open. He took an unneeded deep breath and walked towards it, smiling warmly at the person who entered. The person turned around, a smile lighting up her face.
“Spike!” Joyce Summers exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
He looked at her bashfully, her smile reminding him so much of his own mother’s. “Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And since I knew everyone was out of town, I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone to celebrate it.”
“Oh Spike, that’s so sweet,” Joyce said as she walked over and hugged him. As she did, her eyes widened as she looked over his shoulder into the dining room. She pulled away, shock written on her features as she walked towards the steaming dinner that awaited her.
“Chinese!” she exclaimed. “My favorite.”
She turned back to Spike, smiling at him. “What do you say? Think we should have something to eat?”
“Sure mum,” he answered as he followed her to the table. “Say, think we can have hot chocolate with this? With the little marshmallows?”