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Rome is Perfect (Almost)

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Buffy swirls her wine around in a glass. Rome is great. Rome is better than great. There's no Thanksgiving in Rome. She's a little drunk. Mostly there are no Indians, scratch that, Native Americans trying to kill her.

Rome is perfect.

Until she sees peas defrosting on the counter when she refills her glass. "What's this?" She points at the package.

"It's Thanksgiving," Gunn answers her. "Turkey's already in the oven." He's dumping steaming hot water out of a kettle.

Buffy frowns, confused. She sips her wine. "Italians don't celebrate Thanksgiving, silly. They didn't massacre the Native Americans. That was us and the Spanish."

Gunn shakes his head. "Your people, not my people, killed the Indians."

"Native Americans," Buffy says. Her balcony with the fluffy chair becomes even more inviting. Then she can look at Rome. Rome, city without yams or gravy or fucking turkey.

"Still, my people were enslaved and picking cotton while your people lived out some Gone With the Wind fantasy." Gunn pours milk into the lumpy potatoes and starts to stir, smiling at her. "You're drunk."

"You're cooking." Buffy seats herself across from him on a barstool. She picks up a dried cranberry and eats it. "Good one, Mr. Observant Pants." Making a sour face, she spits the cranberry into a napkin. "Yuck."

"Nice one, Ms. Drunk Face."

Buffy giggles and drinks some more. The glass taps down on the counter. "I love you."

Gunn looks down at his potatoes and goes back to whipping. "I know." He watches her pour more wine. "I called my Aunt Clara just to get her stuffing recipe so you'd better not drink so much that you'll be barfing."

"Got it." Buffy downs half her glass. Rome is still perfect (almost).