I did not create, nor do I own, the major characters in this story. Buffy, Xander, Angel, Giles, etc. all belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I did, however, create the storyline they now inhabit. Thanks to Laur, who originated the idea for a “film noir” episode of Buffy. The title for this story comes from the excellent movie “LA Confidential.” That’s it. Hope the lawyers are happy.
***
Under cover of darkness, Buffy crawled in through her bedroom window later that night after a particularly depressing evening at the Bronze. So far her “night off” had been spent alternately watching either Cordy and Xander or Willow and Oz snuggling over neglected cups of coffee and pretty much ignoring her. Buffy had left early; being a third wheel twice over just wasn’t cutting it in the fun department. Always before she had run to Angel when moodiness struck--something about his having lived 200 years already before she was even born put such things in perspective. But Angel had his own problems.
Now in her room, Buffy flopped on the bed and thought fondly of how things used to be. Time was when she,Willow, and Xander would stay late talking at the Bronze. So late, in fact, that they were sometimes still there when the band packed up and the bar closed for the night. Back then Willow hung on her every word, and Xander always made her laugh with his obvious attempts at trying to be ‘more than friends.’ But Willow and Xander had developed their own lives recently, in which Buffy saw herself playing a smaller and smaller part. Now even Giles seemed to be ignoring her, if that afternoon’s episode with Faith was any indication.
Buffy sat up and stared at herself in the mirror, scrutinizing her own face. She took a deep breath and sighed audibly. “Last year? The year before? That was definitely the Era of Me,” she said to herself. “Now, I’m not sure what it is. The Era of Not Me, that’s for sure.” She lay back and rested her head against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling in despair. Gradually she drifted off to sleep.
* * *
“Buffy! Buffy!” a voice called.
“Ten more minutes, Mom,” Buffy mumbled.
“Listen honey,” the voice replied, “I don’t know what kinda night you had last night, I don’t wanna know, but I’m not your momma. And if you don’t wake up and put some color in your cheeks, you’re gonna miss your big moment on ‘Entertainment Exclusive’!”
Buffy’s eyes flew open. She found that she had been sitting in a chair in front of a vanity mirror, sleeping slumped over on the dressing table. She jerked her head up and looked around. This was definitely not her room at home. Autographed 8x10 glossies of famous old movie stars covered the walls. There was a fainting couch on the opposite wall and an old Victrola record player in the corner. Boy, somebody went all out with the retro decorating, Buffy thought to herself. She rubbed her eyes in confusion.
“Snap out of it, already!” the voice began again. Buffy turned and stared in disbelief at the matronly woman in the doorway. The woman wore a blue serge suit, a red polka-dot blouse, a brimmed hat, and black Mary Jane shoes--straight out of the 1940s.
“Hey, is this one of those swing-dancing places?” Buffy asked, trying to make some sense of her surroundings.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” the woman scolded, eyeing Buffy suspiciously. “That does it, I’m getting your manager.” She stormed out the door and down the hall, leaving Buffy alone to wonder what the heck had happened.
As the woman’s footsteps grew fainter, Buffy turned around again and caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror. Her eyes widened as she beheld her own face in the glass. Her eyebrows had been tweezed and drawn in with pencil, her normally medium blonde head was now displaying platinum curls, and she wore a pink crepe suit with a gardenia tucked neatly in the buttonhole. Just as she raised her hands to her hair to see if it was real, Giles stormed in the room.
“Look Buffy,” he began angrily, “I had to pull a lot of strings to get you this radio gig, and this is the way you repay me? By being drunk for your interview?”
“No! Giles--” Buffy started, but Giles interrupted her.
“Let me finish!” he snapped. “You know as well as I do that aging starlets are a dime-a-dozen in this town. Your studio contract is up this year, and you have to do the song and dance routine in order to get renewed. You think you can just go on being America’s sweetheart without putting out some effort?”
Buffy was floored. Aging starlet? This had to be a dream. Still, whatever was going on, it might be best to play along; plus, the whole scenario was begining to sound vaguely familiar. “Um, no. No, of course not, Giles,” she replied. “I’ll sing. Or dance. Or...whatever.”
“That’s more like it.” Giles helped her up from the chair and escorted her out the door. “It’s not going to be the Era of Buffy Summers forever, you know.”
Buffy sighed. I know, she thought to herself. Believe me, I know.
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