Spike knew where and when he could catch Buffy at night, and he knew he ran the risk of contending with dull rage instead of having his way with her. Anger was her constant, but sometimes it was physical and sometimes much less fun.
Tonight he finds her on her back at the cemetery’s border, unharmed but headstone-still, and he follows her gaze to the power lines crisscrossing above her. He sits beside her and reaches for her blouse.
She nearly breaks his wrist, her eyes never leaving the cables. “Fuck off, Spike. I used to be more than this.”