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After Sunnydale collapsed into a smoking crater, Buffy didn’t follow the others to Europe with Giles or settle into Rome with Dawn the way everyone assumed she would. Instead, she drifted for a while—quietly, deliberately—until Los Angeles became the place she kept wandering back to. Angel Investigations had dissolved into Wolfram & Hart, the morally grey skyscraper she wasn’t sure she trusted, but it still felt more familiar than anywhere else. More familiar than anywhere that didn’t have him.
So she stayed. Not at his side—not exactly—but close enough.
And tonight, close enough meant attending Lorne’s mandatory company Halloween bash, which apparently required “enthusiasm, glamour, and at least three cocktails.” Buffy wasn’t sure about the cocktails, but she had definitely managed glamour.
The party had barely begun—soft music, clusters of employees negotiating their first drinks, Lorne floating between guests like a lime-green social butterfly—but already Angel looked like he wanted to hide behind a potted plant.
He stood near the edge of the room, jaw tense in a way that suggested he was counting how many minutes he had to endure. He was technically the host, but he stood like the world’s most brooding coat rack: handsome, massive, and deeply uncomfortable.
Buffy spotted him instantly. He spotted her a second later—and froze.
She wasn’t even trying, really. Just a simple dress that fit her waist and bared one shoulder, hair soft around her face, lips glossed. But the moment his eyes landed on her, Buffy saw the shift in him. The stillness. The awe he tried to hide but absolutely failed at.
Angel stared like someone had cut the background noise out of the world.
“Easy there, big guy,” Spike muttered beside him, swirling a drink he had almost certainly stolen. “Your tongue’s about to hit the floor.”
Angel shot him a murderous look, which only made Spike grin wider.
Buffy approached them, her steps light, her smile soft and uncertain in a way she rarely let people see. It melted something in Angel immediately.
“Hey,” she said, glancing between them. “Nice party.”
“Thanks,” Angel said a beat too late. “I mean—it’s not mine. I mean it is, technically, but—”
“She knows,” Spike cut in cheerfully. “And she’s being polite.”
Buffy elbowed Spike without looking away from Angel.
“You look good,” she told him quietly.
Angel went absolutely, catastrophically still again.
Spike clutched his heart dramatically. “You don’t have any compliments for the other vampires in the room, Slayer?”
“Spike,” Buffy warned, eyes narrowing.
He didn’t listen. He never listened.
Instead he leaned in, deliberately too close, his voice a purr meant to agitate exactly one tall, brooding vampire.
“Love the dress, by the way. Didn’t know you were trying to kill us tonight.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “I put on a dress, Spike. Calm down.”
“You’re stunning,” Angel blurted—then froze, horrified at himself.
Buffy blinked, surprised heat rushing to her cheeks.
Spike burst into delighted laughter.
“Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Across the room, a familiar sweep of green caught Buffy’s eye just a heartbeat before Lorne himself slid into their small circle, like he’d rolled through a Mardi Gras parade.
“Well, well, my favourite Slayer!” Lorne beamed, offering Buffy both hands as though greeting royalty. “You look absolutely radiant, sugarplum. I’m so glad you came. Tell me—what do you think of the shindig so far? Having any fun?”
Buffy froze.
Her eyes darted between Angel—still staring at her like he’d forgotten how to blink—and Spike, who was wearing the world’s smuggest smirk. She swallowed, cheeks warming.
“Um…” She hesitated. “It’s… it’s—”
“Oh, please,” Lorne said with a laugh, not noticing her discomfort. “Be honest, kitten. I can take it.”
Something subtle shifted in Buffy’s expression—like a lock clicking open.
“It’s a little tacky,” she said softly.
Angel’s eyes shot up.
Spike choked on a laugh so loud he had to cover it with a fake cough.
Lorne’s smile faltered. “Tacky,” he repeated, wounded. “Well. That’s… wonderfully direct of you.”
Buffy’s eyes widened in horror. “Lorne—I didn’t mean— I mean I did, but not like— I’m so sorry—”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Lorne said quickly, though it clearly wasn’t. His shoulders drooped as he patted her arm. “You just enjoy yourselves. I’ll… mingle.”
And with the air of a deflated party balloon, he drifted away.
Spike was still chuckling. “Tacky. Brilliant.”
“Spike,” Buffy snapped, mortified as she buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god. Why did I say that?”
Angel stepped closer, voice low and gentle despite the embarrassment twisting in his own features.
“It’s okay, Buffy. Really. He’ll… get over it.”
But Buffy wasn’t convinced. And neither of them noticed that something in Lorne’s departing words had already begun to ripple outward… starting with her.
The party had gone from mildly awkward to fully unhinged in under an hour.
Wesley and Fred—who had split half a beer “just to be polite”—were now giggling on the edge of a catering table, legs swinging like college freshmen who’d pre-gamed too hard. Fred was trying to poke Wesley’s nose. Wesley kept missing his mouth with his drink.
Across the room, Knox whispered, “Are they drunk?”
And another intern whispered back, “They shared six ounces.”
Meanwhile, Gunn had declared himself “King of the Office Jungle” and was aggressively marking random objects as his territory. Angel personally tackled him away from his own chair three times.
In the middle of this chaos, Buffy had said:
”I would have probably left already but I’m liking all the flirty looks I’m getting.”
Directly to Angel.
Then.
“Ya know I could probably slay half the people in this room and I wouldn’t feel bad about it.”
Right beside the VP of Operations.
Then.
“If Harmony’s hair were any blonder, she could use it as a lantern.”
Harmony had gasped, then preened because she thought it was a compliment.
Something was very, very wrong.
Spike finally caught on. He grabbed Buffy’s shoulder and spun her toward him.
“Say something insulting about me,” he demanded. “Go on.”
Buffy blinked. “Spike, that’s not hard. You’re annoying, you smell like smoke, and you talk like a drunk pirate.”
Spike looked triumphant. “Ha! It’s the truth. That’s her thing. She has to tell the truth. Whatever Lorne said to her earlier—he triggered honesty mojo.”
Buffy groaned, covering her face. “I knew staying here tonight was a mistake. I should just go home before I say anything else humiliating.”
Harmony darted forward like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire unlife.
“Ooo! Ooo! I have a question!”
Angel instantly looked murderous.
“Harmony.”
She ignored him.
“Who’s better in bed—Angel or Spike?”
Angel exploded: “HARMONY!”
Spike leaned back, delighted. “Oh ho, this’ll be good. Angelus over there looks nervous. Scared of the ans—”
“Angel,” Buffy said.
Silence. Pure, stunned silence.
Every head turned. Slowly. Like a horror movie.
Spike broke first.
“There is NO way. NO way!” he sputtered. “Buffy! All those times—ALL those times—versus your one time with him? One! Time! Your first time! There is no universe where that math… mathes!”
Buffy looked tortured, wringing her hands.
“I’m sorry! I have to tell the truth!”
Angel said nothing. Because Angel was smug. Not even subtle. He had the look of a vampire who wanted to lean back in a leather chair and steeple his fingers.
Spike was not done.
“I don’t buy it! Magic’s making you honest, right? Fine! So be honest—remember that time when you were invisible? That was literally magic! And that—YOU SAID—”
Buffy snapped.
“You don’t buy it?! SPIKE, imagine the first time you ever have sex is the best time of your entire life, and then you NEVER GET TO HAVE IT AGAIN!”
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
Harmony perked up brightly. “Sounds like Angel doesn’t need more than once to leave an impression.”
Angel opened his mouth, “Maybe we should change the subj—”
Buffy kept going.
“I don’t know why everyone’s obsessed with us not having sex. It’s not like we didn’t do stuff. Really good stuff. You’ve gotta appreciate a guy who doesn’t need to breathe, right ladies?”
Fred and Harmony's eyes went wide.
“I mean, he would go down and make camp.” Buffy finished with while gesturing at her crotch.
It was a nuclear explosion.
If Angel could blush, he would be glowing. Instead he just stared at the floor, jaw tight, utterly mortified.
Spike sat down, dropped his head into his hands, and muttered something that sounded like, “Bloody hell, this is worse than being burned alive.”
Angel cleared his throat—twice, unnecessarily—and forced himself to look at the group.
“Okay,” he said tightly, voice rough. “We need to… focus. There is clearly a spell affecting everyone. We need to find Lorne, help him, and break this. Before anything else gets said.”
Buffy opened her mouth.
Angel held up a hand. “Buffy. Please. No more honesty right now.”
She shut her mouth. Tight.
Spike whimpered.
And the party—already a disaster—lurched further into chaos.
By the time everything was fixed—Lorne stabilized, his subconscious reabsorbed, the office no longer a drunk-demon playground—the party had thinned into exhausted stragglers and apologetic employees. One by one, everyone drifted out with muttered goodnights and promises never to speak about anything that happened that evening.
Wesley and Fred were still giggling as they walked toward the elevators.
Gunn refused to make eye contact with anyone.
Harmony waved cheerfully at Buffy like the whole night had been an episode of The Love Boat.
Eventually, even Spike took off, giving Buffy a pointed, wounded look on his way out.
When the last of them disappeared, the building finally exhaled.
Angel’s office was quiet again—dim, warm, a bubble of stillness above the chaos of the night. Buffy stood near the door, arms folded loosely across her stomach, her cheeks still pink with residual humiliation.
“Well,” she said, sighing. “I should go home too.”
Angel walked to her. “Yeah. It’s late.”
“I…” She winced. “I’m probably never showing my face here again. I mean it. The embarrassment is… eternal. Mythic. People will tell stories.”
Angel smiled, slow and warm. “I could offer you some of the good stuff you mentioned earlier to make you feel better.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped. “Angel!”
She shoved his shoulder lightly. “Shut up. My night has been mortifying enough.”
He let out a small, hushed laugh—one of those rare ones, the ones he only ever gave her. But then he sobered, stepping just a little closer, enough that Buffy felt the shift in the air.
“Buffy,” he said quietly.
She looked up.
“That night… was the best time for me too.”
The room seemed to still, to narrow until it was just him and her and the weight of years between them.
Buffy tried for levity. “I wish you had some of that truth magic on you right now. Then I could believe you.”
Angel didn’t blink.
Her breath caught—just for a second.
She held his gaze, something soft and aching flickering behind her eyes, and then nodded.
“Goodnight, Angel.”
He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper.
“Goodnight, Buffy.”
She left the office slowly, quietly, the door clicking shut behind her.
And Angel stood there for a long moment afterward, staring at the space where she’d been, wishing the magic had lasted a little bit longer so they could really tell each other how they were feeling.