DISCLAIMER: I don't own Angel or Buffy or anything except a few excellent CDs.
TIMELINE: Entirely AU. Set in the 1970s. No vampires or anything.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: OK, it's based on the Almost Famous challenge by Mexx. Sort of. It does drift away at times. I've borrowed a few key things from the movie, like the band name. If you haven't seen the movie already, by the way, you really should, it's great.
RATING: This is about a band in the 1970s. There will be swearing and most likely references to sex and drug taking. So, bear that in mind, OK?
This is in response to Mexx's challenge 1 below, posted at the BA_Fluff mailing list. Based on the Cameron Crowe movie Almost Famous.
Buffy, Angel and Spike are in a 1970's rock band.
It can have other Scooby members or original characters in the band
Spike sings, Buffy plays the drums/ triangle (Becoming II), you decide what
Angel does (please God, don't make him sing).
Not entirely B/A fluff eg Spike and Buffy date at one part of the fic,
Jealousy between Angel and Spike about Buffy, Buffy dating someone completely different...
Willow being a groupie.
Giles as the manager
Challenge 2:Pretty much the same as the first challenge but Spike, Angel and another
character (maybe more) in a 1970's rock band, Buffy is a groupie/Band-Aid (think Penny Lane), has to have a fluffy ending.
Um that's about it for the crappiest challenges of the day:)
Luv n Skittles

Mexx

Los Angeles, California, January 2001.

"Hollywood, 1977. The Hollywood Bowl is hot tonight and full of people here for only one thing. They're here to see the farewell concert of Stillwater. This is the biggest farewell since Bowie said 'Ta ra' to Ziggy. The Stillwater story has been told time and again, but there's been one thing left out until now. The truth." The fingers paused on the computer keyboard.

Rosalie sat back and sighed. It was time to tell the world the story of Stillwater. But it was going to be a long, hard tale to tell. She wondered if she had the stomach for it anymore.

North London, England, July 1971.

Rosalie Cochran didn't think much of her life, it had to be said. She wasn't what you'd call beautiful, and she certainly wasn't a popular girl at school. She was sixteen now, and had reached her summer of discontent. School had finished, for her at least. She wouldn't be going to college like her friends. She'd be lucky if she ended up at secretarial school.

"I hate you!" She heard a voice scream downstairs. She sat up on her bed and counted.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The door flew open and her sister flew in.

"I hate them!" She yelled at Rosalie.

"You don't have to shout at me too." Rosalie said in her usual quiet way. The older girl calmed down.

"I'm sorry Rosie." She slumped down onto her bed.

"What's the matter, Ellie?" Rosalie asked her sister. Eleanor was three years older than Rosalie and had been involved in increasingly intense arguments with their parents.

"The same old stuff." She told her. Then Ellie stood up. "I'm not putting up with it anymore."

"What?"

"I'm leaving. I'm off to Hampstead." She said, referring to one of the nicer parts of London.

"Hampstead? How?"

"Well, dear girl. Two words: David and Bowie. I'm off to work for him." Ellie said.

"David Bowie?" The name didn't ring a bell with Rosalie.

"Oh, Rosie!" Ellie exclaimed. "You should listen to real music." She said.

"Eleanor Cochran!" A harsh woman's voice called up the stairs.

"This is it. See you in a couple of days, all right?" Ellie told her sister. Rosalie, a little shocked that her sister, herself just nineteen, was leaving home, merely nodded.

However, Rosalie didn't see her sister in a couple of days. Instead, she came home on her very last day of school to find a box sitting on her bed. Curious, she opened it. A note inside said: Rosie, had to leave these behind. Listen and learn, kid!. She looked inside. It was Ellie's record collection, the pieces of vinyl that she had kept hidden from their strict parents. Making sure that the bedroom door was closed, Rosalie sat down to go through the box. John Cochran, her father, hated rock n roll. He was the kind of man who thought Frank Sinatra was too much. When Ellie had begun listening to the Beatles, Mr. Cochran had hit the roof, but was calmed by his wife Florence. She reasoned that it could be worse- Eleanor could be listening to those Rolling Stones people. What they didn't know was that Eleanor was listening to them. And Dylan and Hendrix and the Who and the Animals and all the psychedelic hippie music that had been all the rage since 1967. Now she had left home to work for some up and coming rock star with a bizarre name. It had been too much for the Cochrans, and they had told her to move out. She was only too happy. It did mean, however, that Rosalie was left alone. Ellie didn't like that, but she could always leave the girl an escape clause. That escape clause was in the box. But even Ellie couldn't have overestimated the effect the records would have on Rosalie.

The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, Tommy by The Who, The Doors by The Doors, Electric Ladyland and Are You Experienced? by Jimi Hendrix, Disraeli Gears by Cream, and the list went on. Rosalie listened to all the records Ellie had left for her. Then she listened to them again and again. One day she would tell people that her life began on the 3rd July 1971, the night she listened to Ellie's records. On into the night she listened to them, keeping it turned down low enough that her parents wouldn't hear. Suddenly, it all made sense, the arguments Ellie had endured with their parents. Rosalie understood what rock n roll was and she knew she loved it.

As far as her parents knew, Rosalie was the same as she always had been. But now she was submitting articles to the local music papers and spending the money she got now working as a secretary on records. Then on September 9th 1971, her life really changed forever. Imagine by John Lennon was released and she trotted off to Mick's Record Shop on the Holloway Road to buy it that very day. When she returned home neither of her parents were home, so she turned her record player up and for forty minutes was in another world. For the first time in her life, Rosalie felt truly alive. From then she knew that she would never be satisfied with any job that didn't involve rock music.

April 1973, London, England.

Rosalie Cochran was now eighteen years old. She was still living with her family in North London, under the shadow of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. She now worked in Mick's Record Shop during the day, and wrote music articles for the local press in her spare time. Over the past two years, she had been receiving an increasing demand for her stories. But nothing could compare to what happened next.

Rosalie was having trouble concentrating on the typewriter in front of her. Last year, Spurs had installed new, powerful floodlights, and they cast an eerie glow into her bedroom. She could hear the cheering fans over the sound of the Bob Dylan album she was trying to listen to. She wasn't entirely sure if that was bad or not- Self Portrait was not one of Dylan's best. "Perhaps one of Dylan's worst." She typed. She knew that the people who read the Hackney Gazette didn't care about a three year old Bob Dylan album, but she was determined to write the best she could for anyone who'd take her. Then, the telephone rang. She leapt up from her chair and ran down the stairs to the front room.

"Hello?" She asked.

"Rosalie Cochran?"

"Yes?"

"This is Don Southall at the New Musical Express. I've been reading some of your work in the Hackney Gazette and the Evening Standard."

"Really?"

"Yes. I want you to cover a concert at the Hammersmith Odeon tomorrow night. Can you do it?"

"Who is it?"

"The Who."

"Sure I'll do it!" She said, a little over-excited.

"Great. Come down to our office tomorrow morning to pick up your press pass."

"Sure. See you tomorrow."

"Bye." She put the phone down and counted to three. Then she let out an excited shriek. The Who! She was covering The Who! For the NME!

The next morning she hopped on the tube to the NME's offices, trying to seem less excited than she really was. She was disappointed to learn that her pass and ticket had been left at reception for her and that she wouldn't meet any of the writers, but hey, this was her first go at the big time!

"Where are you off to?" Mr. Cochran demanded. She had taken the precaution of leaving much earlier than she needed to, just in case he questioned her.

"I'm off to see Mary." She told him. It wasn't entirely a lie, she was going to see her friend Mary McCormick, but she was off to see the Who at the Hammersmith Odeon afterwards.

"Don't be late." He told her gruffly. She nodded before heading out the door. Mr. Cochran then turned to his wife.

"She's turning out just like Eleanor." He told her. His wife merely nodded.

Rosalie went around the back of the Odeon to get in the stage door.

"Hi, I'm here to interview the band." She said to the rather burly doorman.

"Name?"

"Rosalie Cochran." She said with a smile. He glared at her and looked at his list.

"You're not on the list."

"But..."

"Not on the list." He repeated. She growled in frustration. She was meant to see the band. How could she see the band if she couldn't get in the building?

"Hey! Hey!" An annoyed female voice called. "Who the Hell are you?" Rosalie turned. A tall, gorgeous girl, who couldn't be more than twenty years old, was standing, glaring at her, hands on hips.

"I'm..." Rosalie paused.

"Groupies aren't allowed." The girl told her. Rosalie felt anger rising up in her.

"Really? And you'd be?"

"We're not groupies." The girl said indignantly, an American accent colouring her words. "We're here for the music. We're Band-Aids." She smiled at Rosalie smugly.

"Yeah?" Rosalie countered hotly. "I'm a journalist." She waved her press pass at the girl. The girl smiled, wider this time.

"Cool." She circled Rosalie, as if checking her over. "I'm Cordelia."

"Cordelia. I'm Rosalie."

"This is Little Willow." Cordelia motioned to her red headed friend.

"And this is Anyanka." She pointed to a brunette girl wearing a long fur coat.

"Can't you get in?" Anyanka asked. Rosalie shook her head.

"Not on the list."

"Well, I'll see what I can do for you." Cordelia told her. She went up to the doorman, who let her, Little Willow and Anyanka right in. Rosalie stood around for a few minutes, before trying again to get in. No luck. And again? Still nothing.

The bus rumbled along the still crowded London streets. They were late. An hour and twenty five minutes late, to be exact. The bus finally pulled into the Hammersmith Odeon.

"Come on!" A voice yelled. A steady stream of people ran off the bus carrying all manner of instruments. Each was yelling at someone else. Seemingly, no one was prepared to take the fall for their belated arrival. They banged on the door loudly, shouting to be let in. Rosalie stood watching them curiously.

"It's Stillwater! Bloody let us in!" One of them, a blond man, yelled.

"Hey, guys, I'm with the NME, how about giving me an interview?" Rosalie called. Hey, she didn't have anything to lose. The blond turned.

"Sod off! We don't do it for the critics, we do it for the fans."

"Yeah? Well I thought that the new album was a great step forward for you. It was a good move to produce the album yourselves, by the way. Angel, your guitar playing is incendiary. Incendiary!" She told them. She'd come all this way, she was damned if she was going home empty handed. The band paused.

"Don't stop there!" The blond yelled. "I'm bloody incendiary too!" He grabbed her by the arm and led her inside, pushing aside the annoyed doorman. And that's how Rosalie met Stillwater.

The band had been founded in 1965 in New York by William James when he was fifteen and at high school. He was a British born young man who refused to be known as anything but Spike. Tall, now with peroxide blond like Bowie on the Ziggy Stardust cover, he was an imposing choice of front man. His vocal talents went only up to a certain point, but he had that something that made you watch him. The bassist, Xander Harris was a gangly young man, the kind of person you expected to collect records, not make them. He and Spike had known each other for most of their lives, and had never really dreamed that their youthful obsession would give them a career.

Then, there was Angel Flynn. Tall, dark and handsome, he was the epitome of the guitar man. He exuded charisma and intensity, but never talked much. If Spike was the founder of Stillwater, Angel was its heart and its soul. He wrote the songs that were rapidly becoming hot property, it was his electrifying riffs that had first caught Rosalie's attention. Unlike Spike and Xander, who were clearly limited in their musical abilities, Angel was fast catching up to Hendrix or Clapton or Townsend or Keef in the guitarist stakes. He was first and foremost a musician, above fame, above the fringe benefits. Above even rock n roll. All the sounds of the world, loud and quiet, were music to him. He was rarely seen without a guitar in his hands. On the tour bus, the sound of Angel strumming was always present. He never said much, but he said it all the moment his fingers touched the strings of his Les Paul.

The Stillwater drummer was a much more curious choice. For one thing, she was a girl. Buffy Summers was a petite blonde and nobody could remember exactly how she ended up being the drummer. In fact, she had been one of the original Band-Aids, but she was also an aggressive drummer firmly in the Keith Moon style. Somehow she had ended up replacing the previous drummer, Mick Shrimpton. The rumour had been that she had slept with the manager, an English man called Ripper Giles, but this was largely considered untrue. She was, in truth, an excellent drummer, but an unusual one. This was, after all, 1973. This was before Patti Smith, before Debbie Harry, before Madonna. One day, Buffy Summers would be lauded as a groundbreaking musician. For now, she was the blonde bird who drummed in Stillwater.

The group dynamic was a delicate one for Stillwater. Although Spike had started the band (Its original name was The Spike James Band) and he was the lead singer, he knew, as well as everyone else did, that the band was Angel's. He was the powerhouse that drove Stillwater on to bigger and better things. Spike, perhaps understandably, resented that. He worked hard to be what Angel seemed to be without bothering- charismatic. There was something alluring about the guitarist, whose long dark hair fell into his deep, unfathomable brown eyes and Spike knew it. There was something that drew everyone to Angel. It wasn't just that Angel was the definition of handsome, it wasn't just his guitar playing. It was something always indefinable yet always present. Star quality. Angel had it. Spike was still trying.

The Band-Aids were legendary in musical circles. Not groupies in the literal sense, they were much more. Cordelia, whose surname remained a mystery to all but Cordelia, was the original Band-Aid. She had first hung out with the Rolling Stones and met Buffy when she turned up at the door in Los Angeles one day. Together, they made a pact to dispense with sex with the rock stars, thus elevating themselves above the level of mere groupies. They were there for the music, they were there to look after their idols. OK, if that meant sex, they might on occasion, but that wasn't the reason. The Band-Aids increased in size over the years. Little Willow had joined when they toured with Derek & The Dominoes in 1972. Anyanka had joined them more recently when they toured with Black Sabbath. Their mission statement was to have fun and to be with the music. They did both, and they did them well.

"We don't play for the critics, most of whom are failed musicians anyway." Spike told the captive audience he found in Rosalie.

"We play for the fans. The fans are what made us. They give us the buzz, not some smart-alec in a magazine." Spike paused to swig from a bottle of beer.

"Rock and roll is a way of life, a style, an attitude and it's not about the money." He paused for a moment.

"Although some money would be nice." He added. "And the chicks are great." He paused again, lost in thought. "It's all about... What do I mean?" He paused again.

"The buzz?" Rosalie prompted.

"Yes! The buzz! And we do it because rock and roll can save the world!" He announced grandly. As Spike continued talking Rosalie watched Angel intently as he stood silently, smoothing the strings of his guitar with a cloth from his guitar case. He stood deep in concentration as he tuned the guitar, unaware of the girl watching his every move.

"From New York City, please welcome...." Ripper yelled into the microphone importantly. "STILLWATER!" The screams in the audience grew louder as the band made their way onto the stage. Spike went straight for the front microphone, grabbing it forcefully, marking out his territory. He didn't care if the audience were here for Roger Daltrey and his maniac mates, this was Spike's time. Then of course, the song "Time Pieces" started, with its blistering guitar intro. No, he realised, this was Angel's time, and Spike hated that.

Angel on the other hand, never felt better than when he was on stage playing. He stood legs bent, huddled over the guitar, the classic intense guitar man's pose. He concentrated only on the music. He didn't hear the fans, nor did he care. He didn't need their love like Spike did. He just needed to play. He looked up for one moment and caught the eye of Rosalie the journalist. He continued playing, but went on auto-pilot for a minute. She was a strange girl. For a start, she was a rock journalist. He didn't think girls did that. She was also pretty young and not your average rock journo. After all, she'd called his guitar playing incendiary. Not many rock journos would be so nice, even if they thought it privately.

"How old are you, kid?" Angel asked Rosalie. The show was over, a success in every sense, and this was the first thing Angel had said to Rosalie.

"Twenty." She said. What was a couple of years?

"Are you really the Enemy?"

"I'm a rock writer, yes." She said purposely. "I wouldn't call myself your enemy."

"I would!" Spike called, only partly joking.

"I won't lie, I like your music. I think it's really good. I think this band has great potential. And that's what I'll write."

"Still young enough to be honest." Angel said, smiling slightly. Rosalie handed him a towel and he wiped the sweat from his face.

"Thanks."

"Anytime." Rosalie turned to go.

"Hey, kid!" She turned back.

"Yeah?"

"Come to Knebworth next weekend."

"Knebworth?"

"It's a country house."

"I know where Knebworth is. I just didn't know you were playing."

"Sure. Come along." Angel said, his guitar back in its case. The band were ready to leave.

"OK."

"See ya." Angel told her as he walked to the bus.

"Hey, Enemy! Come to Knebworth and we'll talk some more!" Spike called as he too got onto the bus.

"Sure! See ya Spike! Xander! Buff! See ya Ripper!" She called, overcome suddenly.

"Calm down, girl." A voice said. She turned to see Cordelia standing there.

"You going to Knebworth?" She asked. Rosalie nodded.

"Looks like it."

"See you there." Cordelia said smoothly, getting onto the bus, followed by Little Willow and Anyanka.

The next weekend, Rosalie found herself at Knebworth House, an already legendary open air rock venue. It was half an hour outside London, and all the greats had played here. Well, most of them. This time, it was Stillwater's turn to play. Supporting The Who, a turn by the Stones, and the Faces. A mini festival of the greats. It wasn't Stillwater's time to be headlining. Not yet.

"Hey! It's the enemy!" Spike yelled when he saw Rosalie approach the band. She saw Xander turn and wave hello to her, but Angel was as usual, too busy with his guitar.

"Hello," A soft, female voice said. Rosalie turned to face Buffy Summers, the Stillwater drummer.

"Hi Buffy."

"You came."

"I wouldn't miss this for anything!" Rosalie told her. "You all ready?"

"I guess." Buffy looked over to where the Band-Aids were sitting with Ron Wood from the Faces.

"Do you miss that?" Rosalie asked. Buffy looked at her.

"Do you think I'd tell you? You're the Enemy." Buffy said bitterly.

"I don't have to be." Rosalie smiled. It struck her that Buffy wasn't all that happy.

"But you are. That's why you're here, to get your story." Buffy said a little frostily.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Look, I've seen it before. Journalists try to become friends with the band. They either end up betraying their friends in the band or they betray themselves." Buffy said. "You seem like a nice enough kid. I just thought I'd warn you." Then the drummer walked away.

Rosalie didn't really have time to ponder Buffy's words. Firstly, she was whisked away by Spike to listen to him continue talking about rock and roll and 'The Buzz'. Then it was show time and then afterwards, she got the opportunity to talk to Angel. She realised that Angel wasn't a big talker right before a gig, but right afterwards, the adrenaline got to him.

"Great show, man," She told him. He grimaced.

"I didn't think so."

"You're a perfectionist."

"I am. How did your article go? Did the magazine like it?"

"I haven't heard yet."

"You should call. Take the initiative. You have to make things happen." He advised her.

"OK. So, Angel, what music do you actually like? I mean, who do you listen to?"

"Everyone. The Beatles, the Stones, Cream, Zeppelin, Bowie. Old stuff too, like John Coltrane and Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington." Rosalie noticed how Angel's face lit up as he spoke of the music he loved.

"You just love music?" She asked. He nodded. "I know what that's like." She told him. He smiled.

"You should come on tour with us."

"What?" She seemed shocked and surprised. He smiled.

"We start our American tour in a few weeks. You should come along. What am I saying? I'm inviting the Enemy to come and watch our every move." He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh.

"I'd really like to..." Rosalie started.

"But?"

"Well, I'm not a real reporter. I'm an eighteen year old who the NME asked once to write for them."

"You love music?" She nodded. "You like what we do?" She nodded fervently. "You love to write?" She nodded again. Angel stood.

"I don't see the problem. Go to your magazine and pitch the story. Tell them that we think it's a good idea."

"You do?"

"Sure. I mean, it can't hurt for us to get lots of publicity here, can it? You know, I get recognised sometimes when I'm at home. Here, nobody knows who I am. I like that." Angel paused. "But it's good for the band if I do get recognised." He began to walk away.

"Think about it. Call Ripper when you decide to come along." He winked at her charmingly and then disappeared around the corner.

"You invited a journalist on tour with us? Are you insane?" Spike yelled at Angel.

"No I am not insane! Come on Spike, you know that a ton of magazines have been asking us! This is a young girl who really loves our music!"

"We've got a whole load of them already." Xander quipped, nodding his head towards the Band-Aids.

"Look, we need the publicity in Britain, right? We can trust this girl. You liked her, didn't you Spike?" Spike nodded reluctantly.

"She'll probably be so star struck to be on tour with a band that she won't dare notice anything... Uh... Unsavoury?" Ripper mused. Spike jumped up from his seat.

"Fine. I just think we should have discussed this before jumping into anything." He glared at Angel and then stalked out of the room.

"Not on your life!" The voice ripped through the house. Rosalie had just asked her father if she could go off to America with Stillwater.

"Why not?"

"We don't have the money." Her mother chipped in. Rosalie sighed, exasperated.

"I've already told you. NME are paying all my expenses and I have money saved from working at the record shop."

"It's a disgrace, a daughter of mine going off like some... Some..."

"Groupie?" Rosalie shot back angrily. "I'm not a groupie, I'm a writer! If you paid me any attention at all, you'd know that!"

"A writer? What have you written?" Her father shot back. Glaring, she ran upstairs, returning a minute later with a sheaf of newspaper articles. Everything she'd written, including last week's piece in the New Musical Express. She threw them into her father's lap and stood in stony silence while he read through them quickly. He turned to his wife.

"Did you know about this?" He asked her weakly. She shook her head. He turned to Rosalie.

"I still don't want you going." He said.

"So? I got a passport yesterday. You can't stop me, old man." She stopped for a moment. She looked at him sadly.

"When are you going to understand? You drove Ellie away and now you're trying to do the same thing to me. Well, I am going, but I don't want to leave on bad terms. Please, daddy." She pleaded. He visibly softened. She hadn't called him daddy in years.

"I don't want to leave after an argument." She said softly.

"I don't want to be like Ellie. I don't want to be an embarrassment to you." She paused. Her parents were silent.

"But I am going." She said quietly, but forcefully. She then left them alone to decide.

"Be careful. Don't let them take advantage of you. Don't drink. Don't take drugs. Don't..." They were standing in Heathrow airport, Rosalie holding a ticket to New York.

"Daddy," She teased gently. "I'll be good."

"I..." He stopped. She nodded.

"I know." She kissed him on the cheek. She then picked up her bag and turned to go through the gate.

"Bye!" She called, running to the plane. Her father's bottom lip quivered in a rare moment of emotion. Then, he turned and walked away.

"The Enemy! Hey!" Spike yelled. Rosalie smiled as she came into the lobby of the Plaza hotel in New York City.

"Hi Spike, how's life?"

"All right I guess." He told her. He took her bag for her as she checked in. She smiled uncertainly at him. She knew that he didn't really want a writer on the tour with them. Well, she would just have to prove herself somehow. The elevator deposited Spike and Rosalie on their floor, and she found her room. It was beautiful, as she had thought the Plaza would be. But this was something else entirely. It was luxury, pure unadulterated luxury. And it was her room. The girl from Tottenham was staying at the Plaza hotel, New York, with a view of Central Park from her window. Just as she was about to unpack, there was a loud knock on the door, persistent and unrelenting.

"Wait a minute!" She yelled, putting her stuff down and going to the door. Standing there was Cordelia.

"Heard you'd gotten here. Welcome to New York!" She said grandly, sweeping into the room like she was born royalty.

"How are you, Cordelia?" Rosalie asked.

"I'm cool, like always," The girl said, swaying a little on her large platform heels. "We're all congregating in Angel's suite. Wanna come?" She smiled winningly. Rosalie nodded. She hoped to get her interviews as soon as possible.

Angel's suite was in a state of chaos and anarchy. In fact, only Angel himself seemed calm as he sat on the sofa in the centre of the room, strumming the opening chords to 'Something In The Air' by Thunderclap Newton. Spike and Little Willow were crammed onto an armchair sharing a bottle of champagne.

"Cordelia!" A voice screeched, and the Band-Aid disappeared in the direction of the voice, leaving Rosalie to people-watch. It was an interesting scene. She had imagined it to be a bacchanal of drink and drugs, but she saw only bottles of beer, no drug paraphernalia. Perhaps Stillwater weren't as stupid as most other bands. Xander was sitting with Anyanka on his lap, talking in her ear about something highly interesting, Rosalie imagined from the enraptured expression on her face. There were a large number of miscellaneous hangers-on, there simply to be near famous people. Indeed, Ripper was attempting to get rid of some of them, but not having much luck. Somebody put on Aladdin Sane, the new Bowie album. The sound merged with Angel's guitar playing in an unusual but not entirely discordant sound. Rosalie watched, smiling. They all seemed happy. Then, she noticed that Buffy wasn't present. Immediately, her inquisitive mind began wondering why the drummer wasn't there.

Buffy was with her boyfriend. Tom Ferry was from her hometown of Sunnydale, California. He wasn't the kind of boyfriend you'd expect a rock drummer/former Band-Aid to have. First off, he wasn't famous. Second, he was boring. He was an accountant for a big firm in LA. If he knew what kind of life Buffy led when he wasn't around, he didn't let on. Perhaps he really loved her so much that he wanted to stay with her regardless. Or perhaps he really had no idea what went on when bands toured. Perhaps he thought that groupies only came in female versions. Perhaps he thought that Buffy was clever enough to not take drugs. Who knew what Tom thought?

"Everyone asks after you." He told her. She sat beside him on the bed.

"Really?"

"Sure they do! Your mom wants you to call her as soon as you get a chance." He told her. A pang of guilt shot through Buffy. She knew she'd given her mother Hell. Joyce Summers often had no idea what city her daughter was in, let alone how she was. Tom put his arm around Buffy and began to kiss her. She wriggled away.

"What's the matter?" He asked, slightly annoyed. After all, he had travelled all the way from LA for just two days to see her off onto the biggest tour of her life. Surely he had the right to....? Surely.

"I should call her now. I might not get the chance very often once we're on the road." She went into the living room of her suite and picked up the phone.

"So, Angel, you're about to start the biggest tour of your career. How do you feel?" Rosalie sat beside the guitarist. He laughed.

"Are you ever off duty?"

"Do you want me to be?"

"Sure."

"Then I am."

"So, now we're friends?" Angel asked. Rosalie nodded.

"I'll be the journalist Rosalie another time." She told him. He visibly relaxed.

"Good. The others were somewhat... Annoyed that I'd invited you onto the tour. I guess they were worried you'd give away..." He paused. "Some of us have girlfriends, some of us have wives. The stuff that goes on when you're touring, it's not reality..." He trailed off.

"Angel, I understand. I'm not here to dig dirt. I'm here to write about music."

"Cool." Angel nodded. "So, what do you think of the music?"

"Aladdin Sane? I like it. Not as good as Ziggy."

"I know what you mean." Angel agreed. "Bowie's going to be in Cleveland same time as us."

"That's great." Rosalie said. She opened her mouth to speak again but stopped suddenly. Instead of forming words, her mouth dropped open.

"John!" Angel exclaimed happily. In a rare display of emotion, he took off his guitar and hurried to the door of his hotel room. Standing there was his old friend John. They hugged like old buddies.

"Flynn, good to see you." John said in his curious Liverpool accent, which was already becoming diluted with an American accent.

"How have you been?" Angel asked, leading his friend over to the sofa where a dumbstruck Rosalie sat.

"I've been good. Fucking immigration are still on me back." He said, venom in his voice.

"FBI?"

"Probably." John sighed. "That's what I heard anyway. They want to bust me and Yoko so they can kick me out. Fuck that, man. I like it here. New York... It's the place to be. Like fucking... Rome was when they had an empire." Then, he noticed Rosalie. Angel noticed this and rushed to introduce them.

"John, this is Rosalie Cochran. She's a writer for NME in England. She's coming to cover the tour. Rosalie, this is my good friend, John Lennon."

"Hi. Although I do know who you are." Rosalie said, trying her hardest not to be star struck. This was the man she idolised above all. Sitting next to her on a sofa.

"Cochran? Like Eddie?"

"Yeah. Except I'm from Tottenham. And I can't sing."

"Neither can I." John told her with a sly grin.

"I disagree. In fact, I don't think you should try to disguise your voice like you do sometimes. It sounds best when it's simple, pared down." She said. John scrutinised her closely. She laughed nervously.

"Sorry. That was the writer in me." Lennon smiled, understanding, if not liking it.

"Got anything to drink, Angel?" He asked, standing up.

"Sure. Over there." Angel told him. John got up and went over to the mini bar.

"Surprised?" Angel asked. Rosalie nodded dumbly.

"He's... Fuck." She said. She was so shocked. She hardly ever swore, but she couldn't find the words. She tried.

"He's the best." She managed lamely. Then she recovered. "How long have you known him?"

"Since... 1966. I was playing with one of the support acts at Candlestick Park."

"The last Beatles concert." Rosalie recalled.

"Yeah. I met him there. We talked and he told me that if I were ever in England to look him up. Well, I was in London the year after that. I spent the summer with them. I mean, all the Beatles were great, but John... He's like... He's my best friend I guess. We don't see each other much anymore, but we write. He's sarcastic as hell, but you can't help laughing."

"He's a good guy?" Rosalie asked nervously, hoping that today of all days would not be the day her vision of Lennon was destroyed.

"Yeah. He's not perfect, but he's a good guy." Angel said. "I'll see you later, OK?" He said before going off to join his friend. Rosalie sat watching the party for a little while, before she realised how utterly exhausted she was. With a yawn, she went to her own room, where it was quiet.

Rosalie realised she needed to understand more about the band before she had a hope of writing about them intelligently. However, she knew that they would never open up to her straight off. So, she did the next best thing. She went to the Band-Aids. Not only were they dedicated enough to know the history of the band, they knew the backstage stuff too.

"You want us to tell you all their little secrets?" Cordelia asked.

"Every little detail?" Little Willow added.

"You want us to betray their trust?" Anyanka put in. Rosalie nodded.

"Sure. Where do you want us to start?" Cordelia asked.

"Well, I don't want to print it or anything, but I need to get to know them, and I don't want to make any big faux pas either."

"Well, Spike is jealous of Angel." Cordelia said. "He always has been."

"Why?" The Band-Aids laughed.

"Angel's gorgeous, as if you hadn't noticed." Rosalie blushed. She had noticed.

"But that's not the big thing. Angel can really play. I mean, he can play, you know? Spike knows he's only average. And it pisses him off."

"What about Xander?"

"He doesn't care really. He's just grateful to be playing music at all. He nearly lost a hand a few years ago in a car crash. But he's OK now." Anyanka told her.

"How long have they all known each other?" Rosalie asked.

"Xander and Spike grew up in New York together."

"New York? Spike's English, isn't he?"

"Yeah. He moved there when he was like six or something."

"I know he started the band in 1965." Rosalie said.

"Yeah. They were awful. I remember." Little Willow said.

"You knew them then?"

"Sure. I'm from the same neighbourhood. They had a really bad, noisy drummer from Queens called Joey." Little Willow paused while Rosalie wrote it down.

"Then, they got a new drummer called Mick."

"Shrimpton, right?" Rosalie asked. Little Willow nodded.

"They got better with practice, but still weren't great. They would never have gotten out of New York if it weren't for Angel."

"When did he join the band?"

"1968. That's when they changed the name from The Spike James Band to Stillwater. That was Angel's idea too. He started writing songs, really good songs."

"Angel and Spike have always had a kind of love-hate relationship. Sometimes they're fine. Then, sometimes, they have huge arguments about all kinds of trivial stuff." Cordelia told Rosalie.

"What about Buffy?" Rosalie asked. The girls for the first time seemed reticent. Rosalie noticed.

"Look, I'm not going to publish this stuff. I just need to know for myself. Please. In confidence. I promise."

"OK." Cordelia said. "But Buffy is a close friend of ours and if you do anything at all, you'll have me to deal with. OK?" Rosalie nodded.

"Well, Buffy was the Original Band-Aid along with me. I don't know how she got into it or anything. But I met her backstage at a..." Cordelia paused. "Rolling Stones gig. We got to talking and realised we weren't there to have sex with famous people. We were there for the music. Then she had a couple of bad experiences." Cordelia said no more on it, and Rosalie didn't press her.

"She was all set to retire from being a Band-Aid." Little Willow said.

"Then... It was the end of The Who tour in 1971. Stillwater were supporting them then too, although they were much less well known." Anyanka cut in.

Cordelia frowned at both. She was telling this story.

"Anyway, it was, like the second to last concert. It had just finished, and everyone, almost was already on their way back to the hotel. Buffy stayed behind. She wasn't very happy anyway. She decided to drum a little bit. She'd drummed in a band when she was in high school or something. And Angel heard her play. The next thing any of us knew, Mick was gone and Buffy the Band-Aid was the new Stillwater drummer."

"She is really good." Rosalie said. The three girls nodded emphatically.

"You know what? It was the only decision about the band that Spike and Angel both agreed on. They even fought about bringing in Ripper to manage them."

"Why?"

"Well, Angel knew him in England and recommended him to the guys not long after he joined the band. They agreed, but Spike wasn't happy. He thought that Ripper was only coming because he was a friend of Angel's. Turned out that Ripper was a pretty good manager. He got them onto the Who tour with second billing. That's pretty amazing considering that nobody in England has heard of the band. Except, it seems, you." Cordelia then stood regally. "I think that's enough. See you later." Then, she swept out of the room followed by her two friends. Rosalie sat back in her chair. She had a feeling that they weren't telling her everything. Well, perhaps it would be fun to learn as she went along.

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