An Anthology of Firsts
The first thing Fred notices about Buffy is her smile, which is the kind of smile straight out of People magazine. Buffy has movie star teeth: even, flawless, straight. Her lips are shiny and pink and they don’t pull oddly into sharp shapes, like Fred’s. Buffy’s smile honestly sparkles, its brightness reflected in the hundreds of tiny twinkle lights Cordy has strung up in the lobby.
Cordy has done a magnificent job on the lobby, which even Angel grudgingly admits, though he swears this is the first and last time he agrees to hold a Christmas party. Cordy just makes a face at him.
Fred has not been around this many people in ages; she watches nervously as the hotel lobby slowly fills. Angel warily greets a group that comes in together: a blonde, a redhead, a dark-haired guy. The blonde’s face is tight when she talks to him and that’s when Fred realizes it’s Buffy.
Cordy told her all about Buffy.
The first thing Buffy says to her is, “Fred, right? Hell dimension?” Fred nods, her eager grin doing that spiky thing it does. Then she wonders if smiling is inappropriate when you’re talking about hell and sucks it back in, leaving her face looking lemony.
Buffy regards her momentarily with wide eyes and then lets out a laugh; as Fred sees her smile, it is like a mad whoosh through her stomach, possibly also through her small intestines and kidneys. She attempts speaking. “How – how did you know? Did Angel tell you? Of course Angel told you, who else would have told you? Unless Cordy or Wes or Gunn did – or maybe Lorne? Have you met Lorne? He’s the green one.”
Buffy looks impressed. “And I thought I could string together random babbling better than anyone.”
Fred blushes, embarrassed. Her twang in more pronounced than ever. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Oh! No!” she exclaims. “Ugh. Here I am, being Rude Girl. You’d think talking to people on a daily basis would lead to some actual human interaction skills.”
The brunette nods solemnly. “I’ve found it doesn’t.”
That earns her another shining grin (which, she notes, Buffy has not thrown anyone’s way but hers) and a perky, “Let’s get drunk?”
It is the first time Fred has been drunk since before Pylea. She was never drunk much then – a few college parties and nights out – but the feeling is so wonderfully familiar. She feels mellow and happy and Buffy keeps giggling in between stories of Slayer carnage.
Cordelia really didn’t know what she was talking about.
Buffy does a shot and grimaces more exuberantly than Fred has ever seen anyone grimace. “I like you,” she says. “You’re nice. I’m still not used to people being nice – except Angel. And Cordy, I guess, but I don’t think she really counts.”
A head nod, then Buffy stills immediately. “Shaking of any part of the body is a mistake at this juncture.” Unfocused eyes focus on Fred. “I like you too. You neither have bleached hair nor a bloodlust.” Fred quirks a brow, a sharp arch, like everything about her. Buffy is so small and curved. “I’ve been having vampire trouble recently.” She pauses, takes stock. “Actually, I’ve been having vampire trouble my entire life. Why should now be any different?”
“Angel said you were trapped in a hell dimension too,” Fred blurts. “When you were dead, you know?” She remembers now why she didn’t drink that often.
Buffy doesn’t answer her, just flicks her gaze towards her drink and back at Fred again. She seems suddenly sober. “What was yours like? Pile-on-ya?”
Fred giggles despite herself, and it breaks the tension. “Pylea.” She offers Buffy another shot. “And it was very not good. The exact opposite of good.”
The other girl nods in a worldly way and hands Fred a very full bottle of a liquor she can no longer identify. “We are not drunk enough.”
Fred has never been quite as drunk as she gets with Buffy at Angel’s first and last Christmas party. Concerned looks are shot her way from everyone except Cordelia but she doesn’t see that as any reason to stop dancing on the countertop. It’s fun and she’s had very little fun lately, a point Buffy concurs with.
Fred has not had the opportunity to kiss someone for a very long time and, while her first choice might not have been a tiny blonde girl, she is not going to pass up the chance. They have somehow found their way to Wesley’s desk and are sitting underneath it; Fred is telling Buffy the Pylean words for various objects but realizes halfway through she’s actually just talking in slurred English. “You like science,” Buffy informs her. “I failed science.”
“I’m sorry,” Fred says earnestly and then they’re kissing, but Fred feels there must be a middle part somewhere that she missed. Buffy’s lip gloss is rather unfortunately smeared across both their faces, in a way that cannot be attractive. They’re fairly unaffected by it; instead their concerns are finding the dip of lower back with eager fingers, mouthing necks in a decidedly non-vampy way, and maneuvering around the tiny space that is underneath Wes’ desk.
Fred has decided that Cordy is completely full of nonsense because Buffy is wonderful and it’s obvious why Angel would fall for her and she thinks Cordy is just jealous. “I,” she says, every syllable a Texan, “can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had sex with someone other than me.”
Just when she’s realizing that’s another sentence that falls under the inappropriate header, Buffy is giggling and exclaiming, “Oh my god, me too.”
Then there i s more giggling and the bottle is discovered to be empty; Fred has found Buffy’s earlobe to be unendingly fascinating. The party sounds are faint, ghostly, possibly gone. Fred is running through equations in her head, inserting f or b when necessary, trying to make sense of making out with Angel’s ex.
“You know it really isn’t fair that only Willow got to have a Big Gay Change,” Buffy says and Fred nods like that makes any sense at all to her. “I’d like a Small Gay Change. Maybe a Minute Gay Adjustment?”
Fred nods again or maybe shakes her head, it’s all spinning, and she kisses Buffy, ignoring physics and lip gloss.