Disclaimer: Sunnydale and its residents belong to Joss Whedon, Kuzui Enterprises, and Mutant Enemy Productions - not me.
Allergies
Xander sneezed and reached for another tissue, blowing into it miserably while Spike looked on with a superior smirk. Birds chirped, flowers bloomed, the trashcan over flowed with tissues and scraps of toilet paper courtesy of Xander's uncomfortable nose.
He sneezed again, and Spike smirked louder. "Don't say it."
"I might be dead, mate, but at least I don't have springtime allergies."
"Or body temperature. Ass."
The End.
