Xander tripped over a bump of absolutely nothing in his haste to back away from Spike and wound up ass to the wall in alarm. "Whoa! Excuse me! What the hell makes you think I'd want to *kiss* you? Let's not forget me, with the hate of you. I hate you, Spike."It's a tiny seedlet of story just waiting to shoot up all wet and sprouty from the filthy soil! From hate flowers slash fiction!
"Yeah, so? You hate sauerkraut too as I recall, but I don't see you sprinting about on a holy jihad against the cabbage."
"Do you see me *kissing* the cabbage? No. But okay, on a spectrum of hate, sauerkraut is a one and you're a perfect ten. Satisfied?"
"Yeah, oka--mmm, no." Spike dashed Xander's hopes and stepped closer, resting his hands on the wall on either side of Xander's head. "You've been slinging that word around pretty loosely, Harris. I think you'll need to prove that ten."
Hee hee h--oh hey. My manager just came to my desk and gave me a bottle of wine. I realize of course that this was her Christmas gift to me, but even so. What is the subtext when your boss brings alcohol to your desk? And can I drink this now, I wonder?
