(The previous night)

“Oh, please...” *punch* “...how can you say that...” *duck* “...with a straight face?” *kick*

Buffy and Spike had been out patrolling when they walked right into the middle of a group of vampires. They would have noticed them earlier if they hadn’t been arguing about which Hollywood actor had been the best Dracula.

“What do you mean ‘with a straight face’?” Spike slammed a fledgeling into the picket of a fence, and watched the vamp turn to dust. Unfazed, he pursued his point. “Christopher Lee was the closest thing Hollywood ever came up with. I should know, ‘cause I knew Dracula himself.”

He turned around, facing another vampire.

“Poncey and full of himself--that’s what he was. Never liked him at all, actually.” He grabbed his opponent by the throat and punched it in the face, only to have the vampire sneeze on him just before he twisted its head clear off.

“Argh! What the hell was that? Vampire with bloody allergies.”

Buffy roundhoused the vamp she was fighting, and jumped on top of the nerdy-looking fledgeling. She looked down at it: “What do *you* think? Who was the best movie Dracula?”

The young vampire shrugged and said, “I was always partial to Bela Lugosi.”

Buffy snorted, “Hmph! Figures...” and then staked him.

She stood up, dusting herself off. “I still say that Gary Oldman was the coolest Dracula ever. Anyway, we weren’t trying to figure out which one was closest to the real thing. We were talking about who the coolest one was.” She paused and looked at the blond vampire. “You knew the real Dracula? I mean, good ol’ Vlad himself?”

“Yeah, and I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you. Bugger owes me money.”

Buffy stared at him in wonder. “Does everyone owe you money? Is that the reason you’re always stealing from us?” Then she looked at his duster, and wrinkled her nose “Eww...is that snot?”

Spike’s eyes flew to his beloved leather coat. “Bloody Hell!” He scoured his pockets looking for a handkerchief, or a tissue, or anything to clean the mess up, but came up empty-handed.

“Slayer, you wouldn’t happen to have anything that I can wipe this off with, would you?” He gave her a desperate look.

The shorter blonde reached into a pocket on her jean jacket, and pulled out a wrinkled Kleenex. “I don’t think it’s used. Here -- you can have it.” She handed it to him, with an obviously amused look on her face. He snarled and took it from her with the tips of his fingers, then proceeded to nearly wear a hole in his coat trying to wipe the mucus off.

He tossed the Kleenex aside and glared at the Slayer, who was clearly having too much fun watching him. “Oh, laugh it up, Buffy, but if I get sick because of this, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Buffy pointed a finger in his face: “Listen here, fang-breath: First of all, I don’t *make* you patrol with me--you do it because you’re a loser and have nothing else to do. Second, vampires do not ‘get sick’--you should know that, being a vampire. Third, if you do get sick, I will personally be your nurse and take care of you; but that won’t happen, as it is unlikely, inconceivable, and not remotely possible for a vampire to get sick from being sneezed on, of all things.” At that she turned around and walked away.

Spike stood there, staring at her retreating silhouette. The mental image of her in a nurse’s outfit, tending to his bedside, crept into his mind. Lighting himself a cigarette, he shook the image out of his head. *What the hell was that? That’s the Slayer you’re thinking about; you should be thinking of ripping her throat out, not shagging her...*

He decided against following her and made his way back to his crypt. He’d had enough abuse for the evening. His time was better spent in front of the telly, a cold beer in his hand.