Part 7: Just Peachy
When Cordelia woke up, it was noon. Sunlight streamed through the shades on her window, but that wasn’t what had roused her from sleep. Spike was talking to someone in the living room. She got out of bed and moved closer to the door, trying to figure out who else was in her apartment.
“No, evil Charity, don’t kill lil’ Timmy,” she heard Spike yell and giggled quietly to herself, realizing he was talking to the television. Poor Dennis, he hates “Passions”. Confident that she didn’t have any uninvited guests, Cordy shrugged out of the t-shirt she had slept in and jumped in the shower.
How odd is it that I hear Spike yelling at a soap opera outside my bedroom and I am totally cool with it? It’s so weird. Me and Spike. I think we might be becoming friends. Lord.
She and Spike had gotten along rather well since leaving the Hyperion in the early morning hours. How weird had that been? Cordelia still had no idea exactly why she had even offered Spike a place to stay. Her experiences with him hadn’t been altogether pleasant. And yet last night, his presence had been nice; comforting even.
She had made fun of the De Soto, Spike made the appropriate shocked noises as Cordelia told the story of Darla’s return and demise. He accepted Connor’s presence with a typically Spike attitude, remarkably blasé considering the circumstances.
By the time they reached her apartment, she was too tired to do much more than introduce him to Dennis and toss a pillow on the couch for him.
*
In the living room, Spike heard the shower come on and realized Cordelia was up. She seemed like a totally different person than the girl he had known—oops, strike that, the girl he hadn’t really known at all back in Sunnydale. She had taken him home with her, gave him all the gossip in between yawns, and even offered to heat up a cup of blood for him.
Why a 21-year-old girl has pig’s blood in her fridge is beyond me.
Looking around the living room with a more detailed eye, Spike noticed a few other things that seemed out of place in a young single girl’s apartment. There was a collapsible bassinet lying against the wall near the door. He had come across tons of books last night on raising babies (along with a surprisingly enjoyable collection of trashy romance novels).
Plus, there were pictures everywhere. A number of Wesley and Gunn, one or two from the Hellmouth, but most of them were of Connor. Actually most of them were Angel and Connor. “Christ, Peaches is all over this apartment,” Spike mumbled to himself.
Right then Cordy walked out of her bedroom in a short white terrycloth robe, toweling off her hair. “You even smell like him,” Spike said.
“I smell like who?” Cordelia asked.
“Peaches.”
“Excuse me, I don’t use some 99 cent Suave-like fruity shampoo. This is Bumble and Bumble my friend. It is an intense conditioning and moisturizing formula with extracts from all sorts of stuff, none of which are peaches.”
“Not peaches the fruit. Peaches. As in Angel…the fruit,” Spike said, smirking.
For some reason, the comment threw Cordelia. She didn’t smell Angel on herself. She would know if she smelled like Angel. Smelling like Angel, would that be a good thing or a bad thing?
“You don’t know whether to deny it or be proud of it.”
“Shut up Spike. I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t smell like peaches or like Angel. I just took a shower. I smell like Irish Spring.”
“No you smell like a certain Irish man.”
Cordelia huffed and gave up, walking into the kitchen to start coffee. Spike wasn’t going to let her win this one so it was better to just quit fighting. She knew. He was acting just like her.
“Cheerleader, I’ll take you up on that offer of blood now,” Spike said following her into the kitchen.
As she tossed a bag of blood into the microwave with a shocking degree of unconcern, Spike added, “And then we can sit down and have a nice long talk about you and my grand-sire.”
“What about us?” Cordelia asked, not looking up from the coffeemaker.
“The fact that you two are an ‘us’. You like him. No, don’t try to deny it. I’m not blind you know. Not like I’d need to be Sherlock bloody Holmes to figure it out. You’re the kind of chit who can’t hide what she feels. Not really.”
Cordelia was startled to hear the words that came out of Spike’s mouth. He’d been in town for like a total of ten minutes and he knew. Great, if I’m that obvious, I’m screwed, everyone must know by now. Okay, Cordy, play it cool. Maybe you can convince him that he’s wrong. “Please Spike. Angel and I, we’re just friends.”
“You’re not the first woman to tell me she and Angel were just friends. That was laughable the first time I heard it but it’s sounds even more ridiculous now.”
“Ughhh,” Cordy moaned as she handed Spike a cup of blood. “What’s ridiculous is the idea of me and Angel. It’s, it’s…inconceivable. It’s as crazy as saying you’re in love with the Slayer.” When she didn’t get a response, Cordelia looked up from putting Equal in her coffee. Spike appeared to be having a lot of trouble swallowing his mouthful of blood. And if it was possible, he seemed to have gone even paler.
“Oh my god. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you are here. Cause, cause you…” Cordelia trailed off. She never finished the sentence. She saw that look on his face, that pained, awful look. She wouldn’t go there.
Sensing she wasn’t going to finish that sentence, Spike opened his eyes and looked at the woman in front of him. She took a sip of her coffee but her eyes never left his, and in them, he saw something. It wasn’t pity. Understanding maybe? In that moment, in the silence, the two seemed to reach an unspoken agreement.
Things were communicated, things neither felt like talking about out loud, ever. It was very poignant, until Cordelia’s stomach growled. Loudly.
“Well,” Cordy said. “Since all I have in my fridge is a three-year-old Lean Cuisine and I am really not a fan of the pig’s blood, we better head over to the hotel.”