Breaktime
Buffy sat on the steps behind the restaurant, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She lit one with a plastic Bic and took a long drag.
“Those things’ll kill ya, pet,” said a familiar voice.
“Hey, Spike,” she replied.
“No angry words? Now what are you doin’ hangin’ around my place of employment? And what’s with the fags?”
She blew smoke into the evening air. “Too tired to fight. Too tired for anything, so don’t get your hopes up.” She raised the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. “Face the apocalypse, no problem. Save my sister from certain death, all in a days’ work. Claw my way out of my own grave, no sweat. But,” she raised the cigarette in the air, “one week in a fast food restaurant, and I’m a chain smoker.” He took the cigarette from her hand, took a puff, and put it back between her fingers. Their hands touched, and she smiled. “Maybe not that tired.” She pulled Spike’s face down to meet hers and kissed him.
A gruff voice called from the back door. “Break’s over, Summers. Back to work. See your boyfriend on your own time.”
“Coming,” she cried, throwing the butt to the ground and crushing it with her foot. “See you later.”
“Uh, Slayer, before you go,” Spike said. “He called me your boyfriend. You didn’t correct him.”
“No,” she replied. “I didn’t, did I?” She disappeared through the back door.
Spike smiled. One tiny, hopeful smile.