Buffy’s shoulders slumped as she spied a familiar platinum head near the store’s entrance.  It was getting to the point where you couldn’t go to the 7-Eleven after midnight for some emergency stain remover—what the hell was this purple demon goo anyway?—without running into a mortal enemy.

Spike smirked at her, eyeing the slimy mess spattered on her shirt, and Buffy stared fixedly at his over-red, ever-so-slightly swollen lips.

In a heartbeat she pinned him against the wall.  “So, Spike, drink anyone good lately?” 

“Easy, Slayer.  Chip, remember?”  He held up a previously-concealed Styrofoam cup.  “Cherry Slurpee.  Honest.”