Spike stared lovingly at the Weetabix. God, breakfast cereal made his undead heart want to beat.
He felt a further tightness in his extremely tight black jeans, the ones that best set off his pale tightly-muscled undead posterior. He hastily reached into his front pocket and removed his Swiss Army knife, the one with the special hole-punch attachment, in order to give himself more room.
He reached into the fruit bowl, rejected a ripe wicked plum, and chose a banana. Long, and thick, and cream-pale. Bananas had always been important to him, for reasons he couldn't quite place. Oddly, his Sire had never cared for them.
Spike held the banana in his long, slender fingers for a moment. He considered slicing it, but somehow the idea seemed distasteful. Besides, a banana would only interfere between him and the purity of the Weetabix. He realized now that they shared a bond. An eternal bond. One that would outlast all his previous eternal bonds.
Dru and Buffy had always been unworthy of him. He realized that now. He should have staked Dru when he'd had the chance, and drained the Slayer ditto ditto. Dru had never really loved him, and her insanity drove him to drink. (Never a huge task, that.) And Buffy was self-indulgent, bitchy, and oblivious to her friends. Why, the bint didn't even respect Weetabix! He'd seen her deliberately crumbling the stuff, even though it had supported her and Giles through most of the crises of the last year.
Nothing in his 300 years -- or was it 200? or 126? or 121? Arithmetic had never been his strong suit -- had compared to the depth and passion of this relationship. A bloody tear dripped, unnoticed, from his clenched jaw.The Weetabix lay in the bowl, helpless to resist him. He sniffed deeply, setting off his chiseled cheekbones. Although, being a vampire, he didn't need to breathe, sniffing remained an important part of his afterlife. The cereal was wet. And ready for him.
He paused, taken aback. Weetabix was a dry cereal, sod it! Had Harris been sprinkling his nummy treat with holy water again? He'd have to give the boy a good seeing-to. Again.
He sniffed again. Definitely wet. He pushed the bowl aside. He was too proud to take another man's leavings.
He stood and pulled his secret stash from a pocket of his capacious duster. This was untouched by any man except himself. He sniffed deeply. Dry.
Too dry, really. It needed ... something.
Slayer blood would set off Weetabix a treat. He swirled his black leather duster about him and strode off into the darkness, pale hair glowing in the moonlight.