Age Six

Ponies! There are ponies in the back yard!

One of 'em is a pinto pony like they had in the Old West and I get to ride him. Did I show you my spurs? They go with my cowboy hat and my gun belt. These are my six-shooters. Cool, huh?

Naw, I'm a good guy - see my white hat? Bad guys wear black hats. How'd you get to be so old without knowing this stuff, anyway?

I'm six. Six is big. I get to go to school now. Me and Willow and Jesse get to go to first grade. Kiddy-garden was OK, but there are too many little kids there. You know, five-year-olds. Don't say that too loud, 'cuz Willow's still five for a few more weeks, and she cries if you call her a baby.

This is the best party ever - way better than last year. Last year was scary; there was a...clown. With balloon animals. I don't wanna talk about it.

Cake? Yeah, there's cake! Chocolate. I love chocolate cake. And chocolate ice cream and chocolate pudding and just regular chocolate, too. Willow had a carrot cake for her fifth birthday. It was yucky, but I ate some and told her mom it was good. I know I'm not supposed to lie, but my mom says you have to be polite. I still get confused sometimes about when it's lying and when it's polite, but I try to remember.

Hey, don't laugh at me! My mom laughs at me, too, when I say stuff like that. Then she tells me I'm smart. She's silly - how can you be smart and confused at the same time?

Anyway, there's ice cream, too! All three kinds, but I'm just having chocolate. Is that present for me? Really? Cool! Oh, yeah - thank you very much for the present. Can I open it now?

Hey, mom! I got another present!

Age 14

There's a brown paper bag waiting for him in the treehouse - just sitting on the table that the made from a crate. It's crooked - the table, not the bag - and Xander thinks that someday he'd like to learn how to make a real table; sturdy and strong, with nice turned legs and maybe a beveled edge. That would be cool.

Inside the bag is a comic book and a pack of Hostess cupcakes. Xander laughs when he sees those. All that's missing is a candle. Well, that and a party and friends and parents who give a rat's ass that it's his birthday. Yeah, those things are missing, too.

He's got the package open when he hears someone coming up the ladder. Dark hair pokes up through the trap door, followed by Jesse's bright smile.

"What's the password?" Xander demands, grinning.

Jesse sighs and pulls himself up to sit on the floor. "Xander is super-cool," he intones, sounding bored. "And also doesn't ever get to pick the password again." He dodges a playful nudge from Xander's foot and bounces to his feet. "Hey, hey - step away from the chocolaty goodness!" He crowds Xander away from the table, digging in his jacket pocket.

When he turns back, he's got a cupcake in either hand, each one topped with a glowing birthday candle.

"Happy birthday, Xan."

Xander feels like his smile might split his face, and he makes a quick wish before blowing out both candles. The cupcake is moist and rich, the filling sweet on his tongue and he closes his eyes in ecstasy. When he opens them again, Jesse is closer, reaching out to touch his bottom lip. His finger is warm and a little rough as it brushes Xander's skin, and he finds that he's holding his breath, heart pounding loud in the still early-evening air.

Jesse pulls back a finger decorated with a smudge of frosting and pops it into his mouth. "So," he says. "What did you wish for?"

Age 16

Some days he doesn't believe that this is his life. Not the demons and vampires and Slayers and Watchers part. No, he's long ago made peace with that. What he can't believe is himself. Tenth-grade loser turning into a pretty cool guy will throw ya.

It's pretty much all about her, he thinks, watching the sway of hips and hair as Buffy crosses the quad. She's smiling, and it's beautiful - all white teeth and glossy lips, and the way her dimples show when she smiles even more broadly as she sees him watching. Her hair is long and blonde and shiny, and there's never been a shampoo-commercial girl with more body and bounce. Her skin is flawless in the morning sun - smooth and tanned, and he knows for a fact that is feels silky under his fingers.

She's wearing a light sweater that has a deep scoop neck edged in ribbon. The ribbon comes together in a small bow that rides just above the tantalizing curves of her breasts. The top hugs her curves, and Xander is fleetingly jealous. She's got on a short denim skirt and her legs are bare. They are lean and muscled, long for such a petite girl. She really is tiny, and Xander feels like a giant next to her sometimes. He knows her strength, has seen it time and time again, but when she's in his arms, she's as delicate as a bird.

She crosses the last bit of grass and rises up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and he gives into the whim to grab her in a bear hug and spin her around. Her laugh is like wind chimes. He puts her down and claims a better kiss, tasting lip gloss and the cinnamon gum in her mouth. She pulls back with a smile that's sunny and sly at the same time, lightly fingering the bow on her sweater.

"Do you know what this is, Xander?" she teases, all big eyes and innocence.

"It's a ribbon," he answers, happy for the excuse to ogle her chest.

"Got it in one," she says. "So, tonight, you get to untie the ribbon and unwrap your present."

He knows he must look like a moron with his mouth hanging open, but there's a high-speed, Surround-sound, porno-vision movie running through his head.

She closes his mouth with gentle fingers on his chin. "Happy birthday, Xander."

Age 29 Years, 364 Days

The time has come. He'll never be any better than he is on this day. He's spent the last two years working toward perfection, or as close as Xander Harris will ever get. He's trained hard - running and lifting weights, martial arts and street fighting, swimming through the ocean for miles at a stretch. He's eased up on the junk food and grown his hair out long. He's at his peak in every way.

He knows he looks good. His body is strong - layered with muscle, chiseled and tanned. His shoulders and chest are broad, waist and hips narrow; his arms and thighs are powerful and well-shaped. His face is angular; his cheekbones slash down to his full lips, accentuated by the dark hair that falls past his shoulders.

He is decorated - a slim silver hoop in his earlobe, and a small silver stake twice through the cartilage of the same ear. His nipples are pierced, too - thick titanium rings with captured beads, Both biceps are circled with thick, black tribal tattoos. He has several others - a row of Chinese characters along his lower back - the symbols for truth and love and friendship and forgiveness. There's another character on the back of his neck, under the long hair - the symbol for eternity.

The sun is setting, the last streaks of orange and purple and red fading from the sky. He watches it closely, committing it to memory. As the sky darkens, he hears the metallic flick and scrape of Spike's Zippo lighter, listens as air and smoke are drawn into dead lungs and thin paper and tobacco crackle and burn.

"Ready, love?"

Age 72

"Daddy? Do you want to hold her?"

Xander hates hospitals, always has, but it's worth it for this. He's there for his daughter - his Lily. She's Daddy's girl - always has been. It used to annoy Willow; offended her Earth Mother sensibilities that their daughter would prefer her father so much. Xander spent a lot of time early on explaining that it wasn't a commentary on her mothering, it was just that he and Lily had a special connection - one beyond words, something primal. She never really understood until they had Christopher, and it turned out that the two of them had the same bond. Five years after her death, and Chris still hadn't fully recovered, though Xander himself had adjusted, just like always.

He lets his son-in-law guide him to a chair, understanding the fear inherent in handing a minutes-old infant to a shaky old guy standing on his own - just not understanding when exactly he became the shaky old guy. And then she's there. Warm - almost hot, really. Wrapped in a pink blanket, wearing a tiny stocking hat like a miniature bank robber and looking at him with hazy, blue-grey eyes that seem to bore into his soul.

He feels it then, the connection - same as he'd had with his Lily the first time he'd held her. Willow had insisted on a home birth, and he has to admit that it was nicer to hold her in their own bed than it is to hold another baby in this squeaky vinyl chair. But he'll take it, and he'll take her, this new little one that has stolen his heart in five seconds flat.

In the bed, Lily looks joyful and exhausted and proud, watching her father and her daughter. She catches him staring and smiles.

"I followed the tradition, Daddy," she says. "Her name is Rowan."

"Happy birthday, Rowan," Xander tells his granddaughter.