Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And Rembrandt died a few centuries ago.
(Psychotically inspired by a recent reply JoeHundredaire put in the forum topic “Look at my Totally Original Fanfic” . And trust me when I say, I wouldn’t do this when fully awake.)
Willow yawned and stood up from the bed. As she walked toward the restroom, she saw something out of the corner of her eye.
She blinked then snarled.
- - -
Xander stumbled out of his room and down the stairs to get some coffee. “I used to be a morning person, what happened?” Then he heard yelling.
“I got here first!”
“No I did!”
”Shut up all of you and get out of my way!”
Xander sighed. “Now I remember.” He snuck past the group of squabbling slayers in front of the main bathroom.
As he continued on his way, a hand grabbed him and dragged him into a room. Then he was slammed against the wall.
“Good morning Willow.” Xander said uneasily.
“What’s the meaning of that!” She yelled while pointing toward her dresser.
He looked over and his eyes got wide. “I thought I dreamed that! Don’t tell me I slept walked.” Then he flinched at Willow’s growl.
“Now Willow…. You know I wouldn’t do that consciously.”
She glared at him. “This is yet another reason why I wished you had dressed up as a soldier on Halloween! I still don’t know why you chose Rembrandt!”
On the dresser, while Willow continued to berate Xander, the painting sat.
In it was a picture of a scantily clad Tara with one breast exposed and an even less clothed Willow behind her. Her arms were wrapped around Tara who had one hand laid across Willow’s left arm.