A/N: This was supposed to be an ode to the badness that is McDonald's foot and turned into something else entirely. My psyche is funny that way. Be warned, this one's short and weird. And sad.
“Erm, mustard?” Dean interrupted the fierce argument between Buffy and Sam, plonking down heavily on the bed between them. The TV was on mute, a McDonald’s commercial flickering across the screen. It was probably the cause of their fight.
Buffy elbowed Dean for daring to encroach on her private space and snapped, “Sam thinks fries are better with mayo. That’s crap.”
“Whoa,” Sam interrupted, aiming The Finger Of Doom at her, “Ketchup? Seriously? That stuff is mostly sugar!”
“And mayo is all
fat, Mister Health Freak.”
“At least it has taste!”
“Yeah, the taste of old shoes.”
“Whoa. Girls!” Dean called, waving a hand in each of their faces as they seemed to go from harmless bantering to an actual fight. About condiments
. And not even real ones. Hypothetical condiments. Next they’d go for the guns on the nightstand and he’d have a halluva time explaining the blood spattered walls to the motel manager. “Relax.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam snapped, trying to twist around his brother so he could get back in Buffy’s face. Over nothing.
“Are you like, both on the rag or something, bitches?”
Finally. Sam transferred his glare to Dean and bit out, “Very funny. I don’t have the parts for it, Dean, no matter how much you seem to think I do.”
Whoa, bitch face!
Buffy’s expression was curiously bland as she added, “Neither do I.”
Dean, just glad they were shutting up, ignored the tone and asked, “Something you’re not tellin’ us, princess?”
She tilted her head slightly, pulling the pillow in her lap closer to her chest. “The resurrection spell Willow did to bring me back was very specific. One life restored. No potential lives included.”
That… huh… what? Somewhere at the back of Dean’s mind, long past biology lessons reared their head. Potential lives. Potential babies. Eggs. Chicks were born with them, weren’t they? And Buffy hadn’t…
“Shit,” he cursed, heartfelt, “I’m sorry.”
She smiled but it looked generic and fake. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
“Still,” Sam hedged, his eyes big and sincere. He’d obviously switched to Compassion Mode.
The blonde cut him off. “Not like I was gonna raise kids in this life anyway. It doesn’t matter. Drop it.”
Dean twisted back around to look at his brother, waiting for the kid to start in on the emo because children were a sore point for Sammy, too. Somewhere inside that noggin of his, little kids with his eyes and Jessica’s hair were tumbling through a garden in the suburbs. But all Sam said was, “Sorry for pickin’ a fight with you.”
The smile grew more real. “Yeah,” Buffy returned. “Me, too.”
“Ketchup’s still better, though.”