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Chapter 1
Summary: This is a side story to From Out of Nowhere, but you do not need
to have read it as this fic works fine all by itself.
Spike and Xander live in their own apartment in LA, fighting the good
fight alongside Angel and Doyle.
It's Thanksgiving time and the bois are trying to enjoy the day peacefully
with good company and good food. Yeah, like that's gonna work out.
Xander dropped onto the couch and let his body finally relax. The pillows
around him were like little cushions of heaven made especially to fit to
his body and enfold him in an embrace of pure comfort.
“That? Was exhausting,” he said. “All of it. From start to end. From the
beginning to the…opposite of the beginning.” He felt himself spring up and
down slightly as Spike joined him on the Holy Couch.
“Bloody hell.”
Angel was the next to fall, hurtling his exhausted body into a comfy
chair. “Wow,” he said, as quietly as possible. Talking was far too
exhausting. And he really was exhausted. “I’m exhausted.”
Spike lifted his head from where it had flopped. He narrowed his eyes and
pointed at Angel. “Don’t talk to me about being exhausted,” he ordered,
sternly. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word. It was me that had
to lug that bloody great thing around the whole of LA, remember?”
Angel responded with a tired flap of his hand.
Spike wasn’t really sure what the flapping meant. Bollocks to it. He
didn’t really care. He was far too exhausted.
Doyle crawled over from where he’d dropped to the floor earlier, to lean
against Angel’s chair. “Oh, man. That thing was one demon of a
turkey. Where did you guys get it, again?” he asked, directing the
question to Xander.
“I can’t remember,” Xander answered sleepily as his eyes fought a losing
battle and slowly closed. “I can barely remember my own name. What year is
it?”
Doyle’s head tipped sideways and landed, with a surprising clunk, on
Angel’s knee. “That was the tastiest turkey I’ve ever eaten. And the
biggest. Xander, you’re a pro.”
Angel’s head nodded lazily in agreement. He kept nodding, even though
no-one was watching him.
Xander opened his eyes and tried to sit up. And when had he keeled over
and sprawled across Spike’s lap? His head felt like a bowling ball and it
was threatening to roll off at any second. “Really? It was that good?”
“Holy Mary Mother of Christ, yes. Why do you think we ate the entire
thing?”
“I thought you were just being polite.”
Doyle shook his head. Well, he tried, but the effort was just too much so
he sort of rolled his head on Angel’s knee instead. “No. ‘Was good.
Liked.”
“Well, course, it’s all in the preparation,” Spike boasted. That had been
his job. That and the, ‘stay out of my kitchen’ part. “See, you got to
give your bird a good soaking before you stuff her.” Spike smirked and
Xander hit him with a pillow.
Well, Xander would have hit him with a pillow if he’d had the strength.
Instead he just thought about hitting him and hoped that Spike would pick
up on it through the whole consort thingy.
He did. Spike thought about arching his eyebrow in response.
Xander picked up on that and stifled a sporfle.
“And those potatoes, Xander,” Angel added, lifting his hand and putting
his thumb and index finger together in a symbol for absolute perfection.
“Really?” Xander was getting quite excited now. He’d never been much of a
cook. Toast was usually about his limit and even then he’d ruined at least
six toasters before Spike finally banned him completely. But this year –
his and Spike’s first Thanksgiving together – he’d cooked his very first
full meal. He’d spent weeks researching, watching the Food Network and
buying cook books and magazines. Alton Brown was his new hero!
Spike had been allowed to participate only as far as carrying the turkey
home – vampire strength a definite bonus there - and soaking the turkey.
Then he had been sent packing so that Xander could attempt the meal
himself, still under Spike’s ever watchful eye, of course. But Spike
pretended not to watch and Xander pretended that he actually knew all
along about turkey giblets and their strange habits.
“You liked my potatoes? Which ones?”
“The roasted ones,” Angel replied.
“Which roasted ones? The herb roasted potatoes or the roasted baby
potatoes?”
Angel patted his stomach – gently – to try and help him decide. “I can’t
remember.”
“I liked the mashed ones,” Spike interrupted.
“Really?” Xander asked. “The mashed potatoes with buttermilk and dill or
the Definitive Mashed Potatoes?”
Spike patted his stomach. “…I can’t remember.”
“I liked the yams,” Doyle announced. “And that other sweet potato thing.
What was it?” he asked Xander.
Xander thought about it. “I can’t remember.” He was silent for about half
an hour, the energy needed to talk further already sucked away by too much
food. “You think I did too many potatoes?” he suddenly said, jolting
everyone from their semi-dozes.
“’Course not, luv,” Spike reassured. “It went well with the five different
types of stuffing. Reckon the Brussels sprouts might have been a mistake,
though,” he added, lifting his backside off the couch and squeezing until
an audible puff of sprout gas hit the air and turned it green.
“Oh, man, that is disgusting.” Doyle retched and covered his mouth
and nose with his hand.
Angel scrunched up his nose and glared at a giggling Xander. “Don’t
encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him. I’m challenging him,” Xander clarified with a
lift of his buttocks and a similar puff of gas that was a little more sage
and onion than it was sprout.
The resulting combined smell was enough to deter any creature from coming
close. If only they could bottle it.
Spike added to the mix with a fart that sounded similar to an automatic
rifle. It was enough to show Xander who was the king of arses. Or
something like that.
Angel heaved himself up from his chair and cracked open a window. “Parade
or football?” he asked, not really expecting much of an answer.
“Parade,” said a chorus of voices. Angel was disappointed. It was a little
known fact that he had a secret football obsession.
Xander pulled out his most powerful weapon. The puppy eyes. “Please,
Angel? My dad always made me watch the football. He always said that a
real man wouldn’t watch the parade. So, I’ve never seen it.”
“Parade it is, then,” Spike said, putting his arms around Xander and
pulling him close. His lover may be hamming it up for the camera, so to
speak, but he had genuinely never been allowed to watch the parade. He
hadn’t been allowed to do a lot of things.
Doyle flicked on the TV set as he was the closest one to it and someone
had farted on the remote control.
The parade had already started – long ago – and it wasn’t particularly
exciting, but nevertheless the four of them were completely, totally and
utterly glued to it – until Doyle had a vision.
TBC…
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