Xander's making waffles. The scent drizzles slowly into Spike's cocoon of covers; he lies there baking in it. Warm blankets, warm bread, warm oil on the waffle iron. Xander's voice mangling what used to be a Rodgers and Hammerstein tune. Spike could -- should -- go out and join him. Juice and coffee and maple syrup poured into each little square. He should. Getting up in the morning; it's what people do.
But just another minute, just another chorus. Just waiting for--
Dip in the bed, arms round his waist. Warm, sweet breath on his cheek. "Breakfast is getting cold."