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[a/n]—to clear things up, Buffy was 19 when she and Spike went on their pseudo date.
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“Oh, Spikey boy,” called Angel as he entered the hotel room. “Get up.”

The mass of comforters on the bed groaned, and said, “Go away, Angel.”

“Whoa there,” said the older man, raising his hands. “Must be bad for you to not show up for three days AND to call me ‘Angel’.”

He turned on the light and heard Spike groan again as he crawled out of the blankets. “Light…bad. Must repel light…”

“Whoa!” said Angel, getting a good look at the actor for the first time. “Damn, did you get hit by a truck?”

“No. But,” he added, pressing his palm against his eye. “Sure fucking feels like it.”

His hair was disheveled and the roots showing through. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, large dark bags under each of them. He looked thin, as though he hadn’t eaten in days. He was wearing the same shirt and jeans that Angel had last seen him in, telling the man that Spike hadn’t been out of the hotel in days.

“Well, get your ass out of bed.”

“No,” Spike said, trying to smirk.

It had been three days since he had seen the girl at the mall with the man he could only assume was her fiancé. The two had walked away, both having a hand on the stroller. Tears had rolled down his face; he had found her, finally found the girl he had been waiting for, and it turned out she was getting married and had a child.

Life was fucking with his head at the worst times possible.

Like right now.

“You have to, Captain Peroxide. You’ve got a meeting with B. Summers in forty-five minutes.”

---

“So, G-Man,” Buffy said, walking into her bosses office. “Whatcha got for me?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Buffy. And you have an interview with Spike in about an hour.” Buffy’s face hardened and her eyes darkened considerably. Giles sighed, knowing what was going through her brain. “Buffy, I know that my nephew is…well, an ass, but I’m sorry. I don’t choose who you interview.”

Buffy sat down on Giles’ desk. She had nothing against Spike’s Uncle, nothing at all. He was a sweet, kind old man who had the misfortune to be related to Spike. But she had met him after she had graduated college, and William was around two years old, and she had come to him looking for a job.

---
1 year ago…

“Come in,” Giles called as someone knocked on his door. A young blonde woman entered, looking around nervously.

“Uh, hi,” she said, giving him a small wave. “I-I’m Buffy Summers. I had a two o clock appointment?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, smiling. “Do sit down.”

She did so, nervously. He glanced up from his paper work and smiled at her again. “So you have a major in writing. What kind of writing would you like to do?”

“Well…nothing political. I don’t understand, um, politics. Also, I don’t want to be a gossip columnist person because I don’t want to get my information wrong. But I would like anything that gets me to go to cool places! L-Like the travel section…or the food critic. I don’t really mind.”

Giles smiled, and looked over at the chart of positions. “Well, both our Travel and Food sections are taken up, but there seems to be an opening in the Movie section.” He glanced up at her. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Yes, Mr. Giles.”

“Please, just Giles.”

“OK, Gi…” she stopped, her eyes growing wide. “W-wait. ‘Giles’?”

“Yes,” he said, beginning to frown. “Is something wrong.”

“As in, related to Spike Giles?”

The British man sighed. “Yes, he is my nephew.”

“Oh god,” she said, pushing her chair away from his desk and burying her face in her small hands. “Oh, god, Ohgod, Ohgod, Ohgod…”

“Ms. Summers?” he asked, getting out of his chair and walking over to her. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up at him, tears making their way down her face. “About three years ago, Sp…your nephew had a contest. ‘Win a Date With Spike Giles’. Well,” she laughed bitterly. “I won. And he…I…we…” She buried her face in her hands again. “And he left…”

“Ms. Summers, what are you…” he trailed off, what was happening hitting him. “No…did you two…”

“Yes…I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be sorry, dear girl. Don’t be sorry.”

---

“So, Buffy,” Giles said, breaking her away from Memory Lane. “Are you ready to face him?”

She sighed, “Do I have a choice?”

---

“So?”

“Spike, I don’t think you’re hearing this. B. Summers is going to be interviewing you. This person is the meanest, rudest, bluntest, hardest critic in the whole goddamned USA. B. Summers’ thought is the one that counts. Not only does this interview get posted in the Sunnydale Times, but also in the NEW YORK TIMES. People everywhere base their opinions on this column, so you better get your ass out of bed.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll go bloody wash up.” As he walked towards the bathroom, he turned around and pointed at Angel. “I blame you if this interview is shit.”

“Oh, trust me, Spikey. It’ll be one hell of an interview.”

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