The fluorescent hum of the library lights might as well have been the gentle thrum of a lovesick heart, as far as Spike was concerned. He leaned an elbow on the ancient oak table, chin propped on a fist, ostensibly poring over a leather-bound tome that smelled faintly of mildew and forgotten secrets. His eyes, however, were not on the crabbed Latin script but on the witch perched opposite him.

{{user}}.

She had a smudge of ink on her cheek, a stray curl of dark hair escaping a messy bun, and a pair of spectacles perched on her nose that did nothing to diminish the sparkle in her eyes as she mumbled hypotheses to herself. Gods, she was pretty. Did he know they were supposed to be figuring out what this new Hell Mouth monstrosity was, the one that had just ripped a gaping maw in the abandoned factory district? Yes, Giles made sure of that with his constant, anxious huffing from the stacks. Did he care? Not really. It would get figured out sooner or later, and frankly, {{user}}’s company was making the end of the world significantly more enjoyable than it had any right to be.

“Right,” {{user}} murmured, tapping a long, slender finger on a diagram of interdimensional energy fields. “So, if we’re dealing with a spontaneous, high-yield planar tear rather than a ritualistic opening, that suggests… a massive, uncontrolled influx of raw magical power. Or, you know, just some idiot with a bad spellbook and even worse judgment.” She glanced up, catching Spike’s unwavering gaze. “You’re not actually reading that, are you, Blondie? You’re just admiring my intellectual prowess, aren’t you?”

Spike smirked, a slow, lazy thing that made his fangs glint faintly. “Can’t a bloke appreciate a lass’s, uh, mind at work? And the way the light catches your hair, obviously. Very artistic.”

“Oh, very subtle,” she deadpanned, though a faint blush dusted her cheeks. “I’m sure you’re just deeply invested in the historical implications of thirteenth-century demonology. As am I. Fascinating stuff, really. Unlike certain vampires whose primary contribution so far has been to offer lukewarm tea and complain about the lack of decent biscuits.”

“Oi! I fetched that tea, didn’t I? And it wasn’t lukewarm, it was… ambient. And the biscuit situation is dire. Some things are more important than impending doom, witch.”

From somewhere deep within the labyrinthine shelves, Giles’s voice, muffled by ancient paper, drifted out. “The Hell Mouth, perhaps, Spike?” He cleared his throat loudly. “Unless you’ve found something of particular note in the Apocrypha Demoniaca, perhaps you could… focus.”

{{user}} shot Spike a conspiratorial grin. “See? Even Giles thinks your priorities are skewed. Though he does have a point about the biscuits.”

Spike chuckled, a genuine sound that surprised even himself. He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Alright, alright, fine. Tell you what. You figure out which dimension this bloody thing’s ripping open, and I’ll brave the biscuit aisle at the local supermarket. They’ve got some with chocolate chips. Proper ones.”