The Year of Living Dangerously
by Desire

Chapters1. May Games (pt. 1)




May 23, 1997
6:57 pm.


“Oh. My. Gawd...!”

For the briefest of moments, Buffy squeezed her eyes shut. It was the only defense – only mental preparation she had against the font of nothing sitting under the hair dryer beside her.

“...You're so gonna freak when I tell you who Tyler's dating.”

Casually turning a page of the copy of Elle in her hand, the blonde strained to hear above the dryer noise, actually paying attention to the former friend she'd been mentally tuning out all day. It wasn't Chris's fault she was so vapid and shallow she made Cordelia look a Greek Philosopher; her life was all about boys, Prada bags, and candy-apple-red lipsticks – the dominant trifecta in every normal sixteen-year-old girl's life.

Every sixteen-year-old girl, not currently Buffy.

Chris's time and energy was never concentrated on things like vampires and demons. Chris didn't have to get up two hours early on school days to make sure she covered up the trickiest of bruises. The biggest secret Chris had to keep from her mother had more to do with nonexistent virginity than the fate of the world, and most of all, she got the privilege of living without the constant reminder of her own mortality.

Yep, being unbelievably boring wasn't her fault at all.

“Denise Wallace.” The name was said with a formidable amount of disdain that could only be managed by the evil that is a teenage girl.

“Denise Wallace?!” Fighting a yawn Buffy feigned shock.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“My shadow with bad acne?!”

“In the pimply flesh.”

“That ho bag?!”

“Totally waited on you and your mom to up and leave La-La Land before sliding her repulsive mitts in Tyler's direction.” Chris shook her head. “Can't believe he fell for her entire lack of charms.”

The blonde teen quirked a brow. “Is Denise breathing? Full use of her mouth and appendages?” A beat, “Believe it.”

“I so would've told you sooner, Buffy,” she began, turning a page in her own magazine, “but I didn't have your number. And it's not like my caller-id exploded from all of those phone calls you made.”

Genuine regret settled on her features, the most emotion Buffy had managed to show in weeks. “I meant to – things have been really busy.”

And suddenly, she wanted to tell this girl whom she'd had no connection with for an entire year exactly the kind of busy she meant. Pictured herself going on an endless rant about bug ladies, hyena people, the reason why she'd never cheer lead again, her kinda, maybe, possible, not-quite-human boyfriend, and her death – all three minutes of it. But just as quickly as the need to unload all of these things from her psyche had come, it disappeared in favor for the false sense that everything was peachy keen.

“Hey, no big.”

“The thought of Tyler touching her just gave me a major wiggens...”

A snicker. “He should get a medal. Penis of iron will or something.”

“I hope he falls in a pore.”


**


“The baby's your's, you stupid sod! It's got your beady, little eyes, for fuck's sake!”

The moment Spike found himself ready to hurl a perfectly good bottle of Jack at the rundown television currently broadcasting a scrambled episode of Sally he officially knew he was in a rut.

Stuck in the basement of a hotel that was one more building code violation away from being declared a shit hole, in the middle of LA for almost a month and a half, he could feel his very essence being sucked right out of him. He had a reputation after all – one that defined him as the most ruthless, cruel, blood-thirsty, diabolical...

“Ahh! Ahh!”

Nursemaid you'd ever seen.

Taking one last swig from the liquor bottle in hand, Spike climbed to his feet and reluctantly made his way toward her.

Sometimes, mostly when he could catch a moment on his own (and therefor feel a little less like a wanker) he found himself wanting to take off – just leave her there to fend for herself, hop in a car and never look back. He loved Dru with all of his being, and fully believed her current state was his punishment for suggesting they paint Prague red in the first place, but having to take constant care of his black beauty was stifling him.

And yeah, he knew he was a right bastard for even thinking that.

“What is it, luv?” his voice was calm as he slid next to her on the bed.

One long, slender finger pointed toward the makeshift bookcase facing them. “She's not supposed to see me! Naughty girl needs to be punished...”

Holding in a sigh, Spike swiftly corrected the problem by re-tieing Miss Edith's blindfold – with double knots.

“There,” he began with a smile, “Miss Edith will keep her bleeding eyes to herself.”

Drusilla clapped excitedly. “Yay!” she paused thoughtfully before saying, “Now, what to do about the faeries.”


8:30 pm.


“Hey, Pumpkin Belly. Love the hair.”

Buffy forced a smile (something she seemed to do a lot of lately) as she walked in the kitchen.

Hank looked odd – okay amend that – downright, fucking weird standing there surrounded by pizza boxes and grinning from ear to ear. He was so dad-like; it was a scene Buffy didn't have too many memories of seeing and normally would've sent her bouncing around eager to be daddy's little girl. But after playing the normal friend all day, she was far to exhausted to be the doting daughter.

“I've got the food – sausage and onion for me...” he pulled a face, “and pepperoni and pineapple for you. So, what videos did you pick out? Nothing too chick-flick-y, I hope. My masculinity's still recovering from the Love Story/When Harry Met Sally weekend,” Hank teased good-naturedly.

She gave him a rueful smile. “I kinda forgot about video night.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “Well, that's okay, there's plenty around here we can watch...”

“Actually, dad, I'm really tired. I think I'm just gonna eat and turn in early.”

Hank nodded. “Tomorrow night, no backing out and I pick the vids.”

“Definitely.” Pausing, Buffy's eyes widened in horror. “Wait, you pick?!”

Turning around to open the cabinet behind him, he called over his shoulder with a wicked grin, “You'd be amazed at how many cars one can blow up in an hour and thirty minute time span.

“Oh, god.” Maneuvering around her dad, Buffy flipped the top on the Dominoes box and grabbed a couple of slices.

“And wait until you meet The Outlaw Josey Wells...”

“Thanks for the pizza,” she said cutting him off abruptly thus ending the light, playful tone that'd settled between the two. And without another word or so much as another glance in her father's direction, Buffy strolled out of the room.

**

“Next on Entertainment Tonight: Brad and Gweneth, have they called it quits...?”

That was it.

“No, Vicar, there are no more lemon squares for the choir!”

He had to get out of here.

Climbing to his feet, Spike grabbed his duster and quickly threw it on as he headed for the stairs.

“I'm goin' out, Dru!”

**

Surprisingly enough, she'd hurt her dad's feelings. The evidence was written all over his face and on a certain level she felt bad. The kind of bad where she should stay up in her room all night flogging herself -

A perfectly arched brow quirked at the thought.

Alright, so maybe 'flogging herself' wasn't the best choice of phrases.

Buffy eyed her figure in the mirror, straightening out the halter top here and there and did a quick makeup check before prying open her bedroom window.



10:10 pm.


“Pays to have friends at the door, huh?”

This was exactly the kind of place her mother always warned her about – filled with all sorts of dark corners, achingly bad trance music, and roofies as far as the eye could see. It held an air of desperation that could only come from a mass of fashionable twenty-somethings and somehow managed to be just as soulless as any demon she'd ever come across.

“Didn't even have to use those i.d.'s; which is good 'cause I think mine said I was born in 1948. And that my name was 'Lee Chang'.”

Chris grinned from ear to ear as she led Buffy through the veritable sea of sweaty bodies that packed the club and eventually found an empty table for the two of them to slip into.

Yep, definitely the kind of place Buffy would've avoided like a Payless just a few weeks ago.

“Do you wanna drink? I know a guy at the bar...”

“Anything in margarita.”

Funny how dying changes a few things.

**

Normally, Spike wouldn't be caught dead – well, any deader than he happened to be, in a place like this. All shiny and glitzy, it was terribly eighties – he half expected Men Without Hats to be next on the mix. It was the kind of club that spelled out in laser lights why people hated L.A., but it had a posh setup for its pool tables and decent enough chicken wings so he dealt with it.

“...Eighty, ninety, a hundred.”

With a smirk, Spike tucked the wad of money in the pocket of his duster. “Another round, mate.”

Putting the cue-stick on the table, his opponent backed away.

“I don't think so.”

“Oh, come on! Double or nothing! I'll even spot you five!” With a sigh he mumbled, “Fucking Nance...”

And thus endth his nightly plans. Sadly enough.

**

“I was thinking about getting highlights. I mean, I know we just did the beauty thing today, but I dunno, I feel like I should be a blonde. Like, there was some huge mix up with my genes or with god or something...”

It was like an itch. It crept up her spine and tickled the back of her neck and Buffy had been working damn hard to ignore the feeling since she arrived in LA ,but tonight she couldn't shake her essence, her oh-so sacred duty as the one girl in all the world...

“Buffy? Are you listening to me?!”

Vibes wafting from the pool table area. Vampire.

Goddammit.

“Huh? Buffy asked off of the teen's frown.

“Did you hear one word I said?”

She smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, uh, god - totally mixed up...”

“You're such a tard,” Chris snorted. Casually sipping her strawberry daiquiri she twirled around in her chair. “Ooh, hello.”

Both her friend's leer and her eye line were traced directly to the source making her slayer senses work overtime. White blonde hair, of the seriously out-of-date variety, he was short – probably topped out at 5'8 at the most, but there was a lot of power and confidence there, she could tell by the way he stalked around the table. And from here, appeared to have some serious cheekbones.

“I swear if I were single, I'd be all over that.”

Buffy laughed. “When has that ever stopped you.”

“Shut up.” Chris scowled, giving her a playful kick in the leg. “Hey, you're not seeing anybody, right?”

Name's Angel; has a total of five pages currently devoted to him in my diary. “Yep; living the carefree, single life.”

“You should go over and introduce yourself.” she grinned.

Two perfectly arched brows shot upward. “Are you damaged?!”

“What? I don't see the big.” Chris shrugged with a giggle.

“Chris, the guy's probably old enough to be my father.” Pausing she added under her breath, “Or ancestor.”

“So what?” Chris began as she slid out of her chair. “Every girl needs a 'daddy' complex.”

**

“I'm already outta fifty bucks, man. I think I'm gonna call it a night.”

Spike's tongue curled behind his teeth – it was his only defense against the overwhelming impulse to snap this pillock's neck. All he had wanted was a decent night filled with a few rounds of nine-ball decidedly violence free (really, he was on his best behavior) and now his patience had been pushed to the limit. Something or someone in this club was going to die bloody if he didn't get a decent fucking opponent in five...

“Hey! My friend wants to play you!”

Head slowly cocking to the side, he studied the two obviously teenage girls standing at his right. The one – who had done the shouting – typical teenybopper who's overly makeup ed face and sparkly, low-cut top practically screamed trying hard to play a grown up. But, the other one, despite looking just as young, if not more so, seemed to have a wealth of knowledge far beyond her years locked in her eyes.

“Isn't it past your bedtimes, sweets?”

The tiny blonde scoffed, “Wow, aren't you clever.”

And Spike smiled. “I try.”

“She's really good; been dying to play you all night,” Chris lied through her teeth earning rather pointed looks from Buffy.

He casually chalked his cue,

“Is that so?”

“Very so.” she nodded.

“Listen, this isn't the kiddie table and I don't like having my time wasted...”

“We're not!” Buffy spoke up so suddenly, she startled herself. “Uh, wasting your time, I mean. How about we play a game?” she smiled, making sure to throw a suggestive hip wiggle his way as she picked up the other cue.

A scarred brow raised in curiosity. “A game?”

“Uh, huh,” Buffy chirped. “Any game you want.”

His pouty lips curled into a smirk. “And what, luv, are we playin for?”

Buffy took a moment to think – vampire = evil = can't let him out of her sight,

“You... show me your's, and I'll show you mine.”
Desperate times called for...

Flashing a lecherous smile, Spike gestured toward the pool table,

“You rack.”

To Be Cont.