Chapter Text
Buffy stood in front of the mirror, smoothing her golden-olive dress as if she could calm her nerves that way. The satin hugged her just enough to feel daring, with thin spaghetti straps and a dipped neckline that showed her collarbones and the barest swell of cleavage. It hit mid-thigh—short but not scandalous.
The color wasn’t random. She’d picked the green because Spike had once mentioned, offhand, almost a joke, that it was his favorite. He hadn’t looked at her when he said it, but she’d felt the words like a spark under her skin. She didn’t ask why. She filed it away. When she found the dress last week on an impulse trip with Willow, she bought it before trying it on.
She didn’t know that for Spike, green had nothing to do with fashion. Green was her eyes—an impossible shade that looked gold in sunlight and moss-dark in shadows. It always caught him off guard when she looked at him too directly.
Buffy told herself it was a coincidence. That she just liked the color and that she looked good in it.
The butterflies in her stomach said otherwise.
She turned sideways, adjusting her hair. Soft waves brushed her shoulders, parted just off-center the way she thought made it look fuller. Her lashes were thick with mascara, a subtle cat-eye drawn after three practice runs. No eyeshadow, just a touch of shimmer to catch the light. Her lips, after much debate, wore a slick of sheer pink gloss that tasted faintly of strawberries.
Not too much. Not too eager. Just enough. Enough for him to notice.
If he showed.
She tugged a curl, then sat on the bed, legs dangling over the edge. Her heart was beating too fast for no reason—or for one very specific reason with platinum hair and a smirk that made her want to either punch or kiss him, depending on the day.
Spike.
Her trainer, according to her Watcher. Her handler, according to the Council. Her not-quite-just-a-sparring-partner, not-quite-friend, not-quite-something-else. He hadn’t sent a word since he left three weeks ago for Council business. No calls. No texts. No wisecracks about her sloppy footwork because of her stylish yet affordable boots.
She told herself she didn’t care. But now she was dressed for him. And waiting.
Need help w/ balloons, or still in staring-at-cleavage limbo? Willow had texted.
Buffy laughed, replied Almost done, and stayed exactly where she was.
Still thinking about him. She missed him. She hated that she missed him.
Her stomach buzzed—not in a Slayer sense, but the kind of nervous thrill that usually preceded a kiss. Or the hope of one. Well so she’s heard anyway.
⸻
One year earlier
The first time she saw him, she almost quit.
He stood in the middle of the gym like he owned the place: black boots, long leather duster, arrogant smirk. Arms crossed, fangs tucked away, but unmistakably a vampire.
“A vampire?” she’d shouted, whirling on Giles. “You brought me a vampire to train with?”
“He’s… contracted,” Giles said weakly. “Council-approved and magically restrained. Spike comes highly recommended. He won’t hurt you.”
Spike smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”
She nearly quit then and there. But he wasn’t like other vamps. He fought like one—hard, fast, brutal—but there was something else underneath it. He gave as good as he got and never crossed a line.
Over the next few months, she learned to read him: the gleam in his eye that meant he was about to sweep her leg, the near-smile that meant he was going easy, the tilt of his head when she surprised him.
They trained. Argued. Mocked each other. They fought side by side on messy cemetery sweeps, and afterward he walked her home without being asked. She tried to hate him.
Then she dreamed about him.
And then she got really good at pretending she didn’t.
⸻
Present Day
Downstairs, laughter rose: Willow’s voice, Xander’s laugh, the clink of soda cans, her mom greeting someone at the door. It all felt far away.
A car pulled up. Her heart stopped.
Not him.
Her shoulders slumped.
Willow appeared with party hats and a roll of streamers. “Still up here? Party’s been going twenty minutes.”
Buffy gave her a look.
Willow grinned. “You look amazing, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Buffy smoothed her dress again.
“You okay?”
Buffy hesitated, then shrugged.
“He’s coming,” Willow said quietly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. He said he would.”
Buffy didn’t reply as she finally made her way down the stairs. She remembered three weeks ago, her last training session with him before he left.
⸻
Three Weeks Earlier
“You’re leaving?” she’d said, heart lurching.
“Council wants me back in England,” he’d replied. “Loose ends.”
“But you’re coming back… right?”
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away. “For your birthday. Wouldn’t miss it.”
⸻
Present Day
A knock sounded. The front door creaked open.
Willow squeezed her arm. “Go. I’ll guard the cake.”
The door opened behind her.
Buffy turned, heart thudding, and froze.
He stood there like he’d never left—leaning in the doorway, rumpled and smug, curls more unruly than usual. His coat hung open, catching the faint hallway breeze.
But it wasn’t the posture or the smirk that hit her.
It was his eyes when he saw her.
His gaze swept down and back up, slow and deliberate. The dress shimmered in the warm light, hugging her curves like it had been made for this moment. Glossed lips. A curl tucked behind one ear.
Recognition flickered. His favorite color. He knew she hadn’t picked it by accident.
And she looked bloody radiant.
Then she was moving—three quick steps—and her arms were around his neck.
“You made it,” she whispered.
He hugged her back, one arm firm at her waist, the other stroking her hair once. The room had gone quiet. Xander’s mouth was open. Willow was grinning into her cup. Joyce wore that polite, tight-lipped smile that meant she had questions she wouldn’t ask.
Buffy cleared her throat and stepped back, smoothing her dress like she hadn’t just launched herself at him. “You know,” she said, aiming for casual, “I was kinda hoping for a present, not just… you.”
Spike’s mouth kicked up, softer underneath. “You wound me, love. Don’t worry, I’ve got one, pet.”
He tipped his head toward the kitchen. “C’mon.”
Buffy followed. The party noise faded. The overhead light was soft, catching in her hair. Spike leaned against the counter, pulled something from his coat and hid it behind his back. “Close your eyes, Slayer. Hands out.”
She raised a brow. “Is this the part where you give me a severed demon finger? Or worse… Marmite?”
He grinned. “Trust me.”
She rolled her eyes, shut them, and held out her hands. He slipped the tickets into her palms.
Her eyes snapped open. “Shut up. Ice Capades?!”
“Starlight Express on ice,” he corrected with mock arrogance. “You said you missed skating. Figured you deserved a little sparkle, what with your regular evenings being all doom and gloom.”
She squealed, bounced on her toes, and flung her arms around him. “You remembered—I love it. I love it.”
For the second time that night, he froze.
Her perfume was soft—vanilla, maybe—and her cheek brushed his. She pulled back a fraction, aiming for his cheek.
He turned his head without thinking.
Their mouths met. Barely more than a kiss. A startled breath. The faint taste of strawberries when they pulled apart.
Her hands were still on his shoulders. His hands were on her waist.
Neither moved.
Then she stepped back, heat flooding her face. “I… I was going for your cheek.”
He blinked. “Well. That wasn’t part of the surprise.”
Buffy let out a nervous laugh. “First kiss. No big.”
His eyes snapped to hers. “First?”
“I’m not allowed to date, remember. Perks of the job. Council rules.”
He was quiet, then dry: “Thought you’d have bent that one by now. Could’ve done worse, I s’pose.”
She glanced up. The cocky smile was back, softer at the edges. He looked almost sheepish.
⸻
They drifted back to the party—Buffy glowing, Spike in his usual place like he’d never left. No one asked about London. No one asked about the hug. Xander was busy with cake, Willow tried not to smirk, and Joyce chatted with Giles in the corner.
Every time Buffy looked up, he was there leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, mouth tilted in an unreadable almost-smile. His gaze found her once across the table. Then again when she laughed too hard at something Willow said. And once more when she tucked a curl behind her ear and dared to look back.
Each time, she looked away first. Each time, her cheeks warmed.
Willow leaned closer, fussing with the punch bowl. “So… fun little friendly surprise, huh?”
“It’s not like that,” Buffy said quickly.
“Mmhmm. And you totally didn’t just stare at him for ten seconds while murdering that napkin.”
“I did not—”
Willow raised an eyebrow. Buffy shut her mouth.
She tried to play it cool, but the butterflies wouldn’t settle. He was talking to her mom now—smiling at Joyce, of all things—and it was ridiculous how much she loved that. She took a sip of soda, choked on the fizz, and when she looked up, he was watching her.
This time he held her gaze even longer, until Buffy dropped her eyes and smiled into her cup.
⸻
Outside, the night air was cooler than she expected. Fairy lights glowed soft gold against the dark. Buffy sat on the patio steps leaning against the railing, her pulse had finally slowed; her thoughts hadn’t. Every replay of the kiss flipped her stomach. Every time she told herself it didn’t mean anything, her chest hurt worse.
Spike stepped out quietly and shut the door. He crouched down to sit beside her, a few inches of polite space between them.
“Didn’t think you’d sneak out,” he said, voice light, softer than usual. “’S your party, innit.”
“Too many college questions,” she said, eyes on the yard. “And my mom keeps trying to make me eat more cake.”
He huffed a laugh. “Could be worse. Ice cream cake. Bloody teeth killers.”
“She actually thought about it. Willow talked her down.”
They sat like that for a while, quiet and almost peaceful. The hum of the house faded to the chirp of crickets. A breeze lifted her hair, carrying a faint lilac scent from the garden.
“He hasn’t come to a birthday since I was fifteen,” she said suddenly.
“Your dad?”
She nodded. “Calls get shorter. Visits get canceled.”
Spike glanced over, something softer in those distracting blue eyes of his. “His loss.”
Buffy looked down at the railing, eyes stinging. “I tried to be easier to deal with. Better. Make him proud.”
“He should be proud,” Spike said. “You’re bloody brilliant. Strong. Got fire in you and more heart than half the world. And you’re—” He hesitated. “You’re beautiful, Buffy.”
She turned her head slowly.
Their eyes met.
She leaned in first. Rested her head against his shoulder.
He stilled for a second. Then—slowly—wrapped an arm around her. His thumb brushed her bare skin.
Buffy wasn’t sure when her breathing slowed. Or when the ache dulled. After a moment, she said, “You really remembered. The skating.”
“You mentioned it once.”
“Once,” she echoed, almost smiling. “You don’t seem like the type to pay attention.”
“Maybe not to everyone.”
That made her look at him. The patio lights warmed the blue in his eyes. He looked the same—smirking, steady—but the way he watched her was different.
“You’re a good man, Spike,” she said, surprising herself.
He let out a short laugh. “Someone spike your drink, love? No one’s ever called me that.”
“Then maybe they weren’t paying attention.”
He stared at her a second too long. “You don’t know what I am, love.”
“Well, I do know that I’m glad you came back,” she whispered.
Spike looked out at the stars. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Me too.”
Eventually, the soft hum of party chatter drifted out through the cracked patio door.
“We should go back in,” she said quietly, not moving.
Spike tilted his head, resting it lightly against hers. “S’pose we should. Don’t want the Watcher thinking I’ve made off with his precious Slayer.”
Buffy smiled despite herself. “You wouldn’t get far.”
He stood first and held out a hand. She took it. Let him pull her to her feet. For a second, she thought he might keep holding it, but he didn’t. Just gave her fingers a quick squeeze and nodded toward the house.
Footsteps creaked behind them. Giles slid the door open, tense and apologetic.
“Buffy,” he said gently. “May I speak with you?”
Her stomach dipped. “Now?”
“Now,” he said, glancing at Spike. “It’s important.”
Spike’s jaw tightened. “Right. I’ll give you two a minute.”
Giles stopped him with a look. “You should stay, actually.”
Every alarm in her head went off. “Okay, why does that sound bad?”
“Inside,” Giles said softly.
They followed him in. The party ended in a slow fizzle. People trickled out. Willow hugged her twice. Xander gave a cheesy toast. Even Cordelia said happy birthday like she meant it, kind of.
Her mom kissed her goodnight and headed upstairs. Giles led her to the dining table and sat. Spike stayed in the archway, arms folded, silent. His jaw worked once, like he wanted to speak and didn’t.
Giles took a thick cream envelope from his coat and set it between them. He didn’t open it.
“Buffy, now you’ve turned eighteen,” he said. “The Council now considers you eligible for full activation of the Slayer’s contract.”
“Okay,” Buffy said. “Ooh, does that come with dental?”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Who said I was joking? You know how many knocks to the teeth I get? A toothless Slayer is a cranky Slayer.”
“Do you know what the Cruciamentum is?” he asked quietly.
She blinked. “The cruci-what-now?”
“It’s an old Council ritual,” he explained. “On a Slayers eighteenth birthday, the Council strips her powers… and lock her in a house with a vampire. Meant to test resourcefulness. Tradition.”
“Wow. Happy Birthday to me. Yeah, hard pass on the whole powerless-birthday-vampire thing.”
“I thought you’d say that.” He cleared his throat. “The Council instituted something else. A Companion Program. It’s designed to provide the Slayer with structured support and—” another throat clear—“a sanctioned outlet for tension. Physical or otherwise.”
Her expression went flat. “You mean sex.”
“Not necessarily,” he said quickly. “It’s optional. You have full autonomy. As you are already aware, part of being a Slayer means no romantic relationships or anything that might come of a romantic relationship that may become… a distraction. But past Slayers have been isolated. Their needs neglected. The Companion is meant to prevent that. Survival rates improve.”
The air seemed to drain out of the room. Her stomach turned. Her eyes snapped to Spike.
“No. This is a joke, right? Some kind of traditional ‘haze the Slayer on her eighteenth birthday’? Somebody make with the punchline, because I could really use a laugh right about now.”
“Buffy,” Giles began, “he was vetted. Chosen. He’s one of the few who’s done this successfully. And he was clear—he wouldn’t have accepted if—”
“You’re talking about Spike,” she said. “You’re saying his job is to be my… what? Council-issued boyfriend?”
“Only if you choose it,” Giles said. “Nothing happens without your consent.”
She stood. “You knew. Both of you.”
Spike’s voice came quiet. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Since… before I met you.”
“So all this time—training, helping, being my friend—you knew?”
He looked at her then, regret stark in his face. “Didn’t think you needed it laid on until you were of age. One of my rules when I got this gig.”
“Your rules.” She let out a short, brittle laugh. “So you decide when I get told my ‘friend’ was assigned to me like… like some gigalo?”
Giles winced. “It’s meant to anchor you. Keep you focused. Safe. Sane.”
“You should’ve told me,” she said, voice shaking. “Both of you. I thought you—” She stopped, breath hitching. “I thought you actually cared.”
“I do,” Spike said quickly. “I made the deal ’cause I was sick of running. They gave me a choice, I took the job. But I never—” His jaw tightened. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“You lied.”
“Didn’t lie, exactly. Just… didn’t tell.”
“That’s the same thing.”
He didn’t argue.
She swallowed hard. “Was any of it real? The tickets? The way you looked at me tonight? Or is that part of the package?”
He shook his head. “Told ’em I wouldn’t lay a finger on a Slayer—on you—’til you were grown. Not before. And even then, not ever without your say-so. But the way I feel—”
“That makes it better?” she shot back. “You were just waiting?”
Buffy put a hand to her ear as if the sound itself was a blade. “I can’t… I can’t hear this,” she whispered, voice breaking.
“Buffy, please,” Giles said, the plea thin and urgent.
She pushed her chin up and forced herself to look at him. “Who are you?” she demanded, then let her hands fall away from her face. “How could you do this to me?”
Giles’ face collapsed with apology. “I am deeply sorry for not telling you earlier, Buffy,” he began, and reached toward her as if to close the space between them.
She recoiled, palm held up like a barrier. Her body trembled with something colder than fear. “If you touch me,” she said, each word raw and small with hatred, “I’ll kill you.”
Giles’ hand faltered in midair and sank slowly to his side.
No one spoke.
“This was supposed to be my night,” she said quietly. “You both ruined it.”
She turned before they could see her eyes and headed for the stairs.
Spike didn’t move. Giles stayed seated, rubbing his temple. The envelope lay between them, untouched. Accusing.
⸻
Upstairs, Buffy shut her door and leaned against it. Her tears that had been brimming finally spilling over onto her dress. The dress that made her feel beautiful an hour ago made her skin crawl. She tugged it off, pulled on pajamas, and sat on the edge of her bed with her hands clenched in her lap.
Murmurs drifted up from downstairs, indistinct. It didn’t matter what they were saying.
Her reflection stared back—eyes red, gloss smudged. She grabbed a tissue and wiped her mouth until the shine was gone.
Her phone buzzed. Ok spill! was there any kissage? more than kissage?? from Willow. Another from Xander about leftover cake.
She didn’t reply.
Buffy opened Spike’s contact and hovered. Betrayal twisted in her gut. She deleted it and turned off her phone.
“Happy birthday, Buffy,” she told the girl in the mirror—the one whose eyes looked duller now, the spark in that sea of gold-green muted, Spike’s favorite color, gone.