Buffy’s complexion looked sallow in the colored light as she glared at her sister. “Dawn! What have you been doing?”
Dawn shrugged. “We can’t afford proper Christmas lights. I thought a little paint on the bulbs would cheer things up.”
“Did you have to pick red? The house looks like a New Orleans broth- uh, nightclub.”
“Okay, maybe not the best choice,” Dawn conceded.
“So not good,” Buffy went on. “Change all the bulbs right away and, when they’ve cooled down, wipe off every scrap of paint. I’m heading out on patrol. If it’s not done by the time I get back you’re grounded for a week.” She turned away and stormed off, slamming the door behind her as she left the house.
Dawn sighed and began to carry out her orders. She’d taken down only one bulb when the door opened and Spike walked in.
“’Lo, Bit,” he greeted her. “Passed your sis on the way here, looks like she’s in a bugger of a mood. Face like a thundercloud, didn’t even say a word, just glared at me like she was going to stake me. What’s her problem?”
“Rage,” said Dawn. “Rage against the dyeing of the light.”