Who: Buffy and Spike Where: An L.A. graveyard. When: 11 p.m.-ish What: Paying a debt. Rating: Medium
Guess who wasn't that skilled in picking out types of Whiskey? That's right. Buffy wasn't. She wasn't much of a drinker. And it wasn't like Spike would be satisfied with Margarita mix. Which, was a pity. At any rate, Buffy had bought two bottles of Tullamore Dew because it had a funny name. She didn't think Spike would really drink both bottles in one sitting and technically he should only be getting one, but ah well. He ran that Factory place, and never minded stealing - so why he requested any at all was suspect. Probably just wanted to piss her off.
She carried the goods in a paper bag with one arm, effectively cradling it. If a vamp jumped her before she could deliver them, it wouldn't be her fault that they got smashed. But a patrol wasn't the worst idea Spike'd ever had. And it made sense for them to patrol together, or it was familar at any rate. She knew the way he fought, and vice versa. She knew he'd watch her back, and vice versa. Plus, there was the added bonus of knowing he could hold his own. Working with new people meant there were lots of new dynamics to figure out. Everyone approached fighting differently. And not everyone could work out a good partnership or rhythm.
It was mostly dark in the graveyard, as one would expect. So far, there was no platinum blonde head bobbing around in her eyeline. Maybe he was gonna make her wait. That would be a very Spike thing to do. She sighed, kicking dried mud off of her shoes, wondering why she even bothered to be half-nice when Spike was probably not that different than before.