Chapter Text
The night before Buffy finds out Spike’s dead, she’s standing in front of her mirror, clicking an earring closed, when she hears a knock on the window. In the mirror she sees only her own reflection—nothing outside where the sound’s coming from—but when she turns around, there’s a pale, hazy figure peering in at her from the dark.
A vampire at her bedroom window's hardly new. A Buffy Summers special, really. But it’s been years. It’s almost nostalgic, except that everything’s changed, and it feels different now, missing the heady teenage thrill of sneaking a boy in. Now there’s mostly shame, prickling at her like poison arrows, and a sinking sense of inevitability, one she seems to drown in faster and faster these days.
He’s actually never tried to come in this way before. At least not that she knows of.
Usually she goes to his crypt. He’s been de facto banned from the house since they started having sex. She never said so or anything, but he’s been weirdly respectful of the unspoken rule, at least by his standards, until now. But it’s Spike. Of course he’s gonna end up pushing his luck.
She pulls up the window before he can knock again. She sighs and says firmly, “No, Spike.”
He just grins at her. It’s like she says one thing, and he hears something else completely.
“Mind reader now, are we?” he teases. “Actually only popping in to borrow some sugar.”
Buffy ignores him and continues, “Not here, okay? Dawn’s asleep.”
But Spike’s unfazed, and already ducking under the window to climb inside. Buffy grumbles with disapproval, but doesn’t try to stop him.
“Thought I was doing you a favour,” he says as he straightens up. “Savin’ you a trip.”
Buffy’s rolling her eyes, about to complain that she had no intention of seeing him tonight, but he zeroes in on her and speaks again first. “Getting dolled up for me, were you?” he asks lowly, his fingers tickling up her waist. “Like it when you make the effort.”
Buffy pushes him back by the chest. Lightly, not enough to hurt, but not playfully either. “Stop it. You’re not—supposed to be here.”
She palms her forehead. She hates him even more when he’s right.
She told herself she was going patrolling. That she was just freshening up first, after her shift, to strip away the grease and scent of burger. To—feel better about herself. For her own sake. And… it’s true, right? Yeah. It’s true. Two things can be true at the same time. More than two, probably.
She wasn’t even outright planning on going to Spike’s. She knew it was possible she’d end up at his, but she hadn’t decided on it or anything.
Except that she had.
Obviously.
She doesn’t even know who she’s trying to kid. Not like Spike buys it, and she’s becoming more wise to her own tricks too.
How pathetic is it, that she dresses up for him? For Spike. He was trying to get a rise out of her, but she knows it’s true. She’s been doing it more and more lately. She doesn’t go nuts or anything—doesn’t want it to look like she’s trying too hard. Natural make-up, hair styled casually, and usually wearing something she’d put on for a night at the Bronze. But even that’s a calculated effort.
Not like he deserves it. She doesn’t even know why she does it.
“Come on,” Spike’s saying, drawing closer again and picking up both her hands this time. “Why not?”
Buffy’s distracted, her gaze drifting somewhere far away, so she doesn’t drop his hands or pull back when he kisses her. She kisses back, but only on reflex, and it’s over by the time she realises it’s happening. It’s soft and gentle, which is weird, but he just continues talking, like he barely noticed. “I’ll go easy on you,” he promises, smirking straight into her eyes, his face way too close to hers. “Make sure you don’t wake anyone.”
She meets his gaze with a final sigh of resignation.
She doesn’t want him here. Doesn’t want him in her house, in her room, in her bed. She doesn’t want to fuck him on her real, actual sheets, doesn’t want him to touch her while she’s lying on them and staring up at her own ceiling, and she’s scared she’ll be too exhausted to remember to kick him out after, and then when she wakes up later, he’ll still be there, asleep, beside her, holding her, in the dark.
The thought makes her feel sick.
* * *
The next day, Riley shows up out of nowhere, a freshly baked wife and a couple of military boys in tow. They swarm around town, saying codewords into walkie-talkies, just like old times.
Except for everything else being different, again. Nothing’s ever as it was.
Once the big secret mission’s complete, Riley comes to say goodbye.
“We’re done here,” he says, but there’s an unexpected tremble in his voice, and he hesitates. “But Buffy, I gotta tell you. We were—given orders.”
Something about the look in his face makes Buffy’s heart beat faster.
“What orders?”
“We were told to—take the doctor out, once we were finished.” Riley swallows hard. “So… they did. They got him. Spike’s dead.”