Of all the places in Sunnydale --
"Does the owner of this fine business realise you're guzzling down a pint of pig on his premises?"
Spike's eyes first widened, then narrowed, and he made frantic gestures which looked like petting a puppy, violently, but probably meant she should keep her voice down.
"Can't a bloke do anything in this town without being pestered?"
A low growl, but Spike without his duster lacked the necessary edge. Plus, hard to be threatening in a ratty Sunkist t-shirt at least two sizes too small. In the neon light of the laundromat, his skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent.
Buffy dragged her eyes away from his bare arms. "A bloke -- yes. A vampire -- no. And I can't believe you're doing laundry."
Spike scowled. "Thought all of us had a bottomless wardrobe of skimpy, ever-new outfits? What are you doing here, Slayer?"
"Skimpy? Look who's talking. But I'll be out of your over-bleached hair in a sec: just getting the soda Dawn asked for."
The tingle from Spike's gaze ceased only when the door fell shut behind her, and Buffy welcomed the chill of the diet coke lemon in her hand.