In a way, this is nothing short of fitting. There were times, Buffy must admit, when her idle mind wandered as to the ways that vampires spent their time when they weren't terrorizing innocents and being a pain in her ass. Because it was always far to difficult to imagine Spike, Angelus, and Drusilla running laps in that musty old mansion, she eventually came to the conclusion that vampires must remain in the same physical shape they were in when they died, a definite perk for anyone not killed while grotesquely overweight. Suddenly being human must have been a downer for Spike, although she likes to think that being human might make up for it.
"You're doing it wrong," she calls from behind him; she's certain that it doesn't need pointing out, but she wasn't about to pass up a decent opening line. Buffy wags a finger at the cigarette in his mouth, tilting her head to say, "If you give yourself lung cancer, I'll kill you."
"Am not," Spike muttered around the filter, attempting a scowl that didn't quite break through the grin working its way onto his face simply at the sight of her. Though he continued punching halfheartedly at the bag hanging overhead, his eyes were entirely on her.
"You know, I've lost count how many times you've threatened to kill me, Slayer. Doesn't quite have me shaking in my boots anymore, eh?"
"How about the number of times I've successfully kicked your ass," inquires Buffy, "have you lost count of those?" This, unlike so many other things lately, is easy. Familiar. She is appreciative of Spike in every way, but that doesn't mean she can't tease him from time to time, preferably with little to no space between said times. Besides, she is almost wholly serious; the absolute last thing she needs is to lose him, too. (Again.)
She nods at the punching bag, grinning. "On that note, how do you feel about adding one more to that number?"
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, pet. I've been keeping a running tally, for years now. Last I recall, we were approaching the upper three hundreds. Does that sound about right, to you?"
He dropped the cigarette to the sand, crushing it out under the heel of his boot.
Comments 7
"You're doing it wrong," she calls from behind him; she's certain that it doesn't need pointing out, but she wasn't about to pass up a decent opening line. Buffy wags a finger at the cigarette in his mouth, tilting her head to say, "If you give yourself lung cancer, I'll kill you."
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"You know, I've lost count how many times you've threatened to kill me, Slayer. Doesn't quite have me shaking in my boots anymore, eh?"
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She nods at the punching bag, grinning. "On that note, how do you feel about adding one more to that number?"
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He dropped the cigarette to the sand, crushing it out under the heel of his boot.
"Honestly, do you even have to ask?"
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