Spike stirred groggily. "Oh. Morning to you too."
Buffy lunged away from him, repeating the move until her feet reached the floor. "Where are my clothes?" she demanded.
"I think I swallowed your panties," Spike advised unhelpfully.
Buffy swore at him, and Spike rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, mumbling unintelligibly.
Buffy found her jeans. "What're you saying?"
He lifted his face. "I said it's always the same with you – hot and cold … no, rather steaming hot then frigid. Icy … subarctic."
"We're through, Spike. You hear me?" she snapped her jeans and looked for her bra. Giving up, she slipped into her top without it.
"Going commando, eh?"
"How do you know?"
He rolled over and pulled Buffy's bra taut between his hands, biting one of the cups. "I'm psychic," he taunted.
Buffy reached for it in a frenzy. Spike grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on top of him.
But Buffy also pulled away and went to ascend the ladder to the crypt above. "I never want to see you again, Spike. I want you out of Sunnydale - permanently."
Spike and Buffy both looked up with alarm at Buffy. "What the hell?" they shrilled in unison.
Buffy sank down the ladder's rungs until she sat on the chamber's floor, her breast heaving.
From atop Spike Buffy's twin gaped at her. "Sp-Spike,' she quavered. "Wh-what's happening? What'd you do to me?"
Spike scrambled to a sitting position, dropping twin Buffy to the bed. "Bloody hell," he gasped. "I didn't do anything. There's two of you – but which is the real Buffy, eh? One of you have to be a Buffybot. Warren built one of you birds!"
Each Buffy felt of her own flesh, and they both agreed they were human, and the same stricken expression overtook their identical faces.
"Both of us are Buffy," they told Spike.
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