Instant Replay
Buffy groaned and rolled over again, scrunching up her pillow and hugging it tightly to her chest. The events of the night kept playing through her head on repeat. It was like a bad in-flight movie, only it was featured on the inside of her eyelids.
She'd kissed Spike. The words flitted through her brain again and again until they almost ceased to have meaning. She'd kissed Spike.
She'd kissed Spike.
It wasn't like she hadn't had a reason, she rationalized. He'd done a good thing, and she'd—what? Wanted to reward him, thank him? What happened to good, old-fashioned words? "Thank you, Spike" should have sufficed. Maybe even a hug, if he had been less bloody. Not that blood usually bothered her.
But lip-to-lip contact?
Nausea rose in her stomach, accompanied by a strong urge to let loose with the sort of language that, well, Spike would use. Only less British. She felt like puking or punching someone or passing out. Possibly even all three.
Ohgodohgodohgod.
She hadn't even brushed her teeth that night. Not on purpose; she just forgot. She'd come back all off-kilter and given Dawn and the Scoobies the edited-for-TV version of her little visit to Spike's crypt. Everyone was breathing easy, except for her. She might have been hyperventilating.
Buffy turned again, skin still unpleasantly tingly. If she brushed her tongue over her teeth, she could almost taste him. It wasn't the first time, of course—she still vividly remembered Willow's will-be-done spell. That night, she'd fervently scrubbed her mouth and still hadn't been able to rid herself of it. The taste of Spike.
Okay, those were words she hadn't been expecting to think again.
Not that she'd thought about it back then (maybe once? Twice? Certainly not more), but before Willow's spell, she definitely would have expected more smoke taste, maybe even a hint of blood. Now she knew what to expect. It was almost comforting, in a weird, nausea-inducing kind of way. Her stomach did that flippy thing again.
She'd kissed Spike. No spell. Her own free will. Just Buffy, making dumb decisions. As per usual. She deserved some kind of award for it, maybe a plaque. Or a trophy.
Buffy ran her tongue over her teeth again and squeezed her eyelids shut. The images weren't fading anytime soon, it seemed, so she might as well enjoy the show.
Notes: As it stands, I am marking this drabbley story as complete, but I may very well add another chapter. We'll see.