Disclaimer: Sunnydale and its residents belong to Joss Whedon, Kuzui Enterprises, and Mutant Enemy Productions - not me.
Cooking
Spike frowned contemplatively and decided that he was, in fact, too hot to move. He wondered if his skin was going to melt, fuse itself to the cheap polyester fabric of Harris' house and only accelerated vampire healing would keep him from literally cooking in his skin until winter rolled around again. Functioning sweat glands would be nice, at least for sweltering afternoons where he was stuck in an airless basement about ready to die a second death, but then he would smell. Like Xander, who accused him of being a big icicle and laid down on him. "Mm… cold."
The End.
