I did not create, nor do I own, the major characters in this story. Buffy, Giles, Faith, Xander, Oz, Angel, Cordelia, Willow, and Spike all belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I did, however, create the storyline they now inhabit. Thanks to Laur, who originated the general 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.
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Much later that evening, after a lovely bubble bath and a delighted perusal of her movie-star apartment and accompanying wardrobe, Buffy entered Hollywood’s Coconut Grove nightclub on Xander’s arm. She wore a black evening gown with a rhinestone-accented neckline and a sweeping skirt. The music of a full-scale swing orchestra filled the air. Boy, Buffy thought, I’m definitely not pinching myself now. This is one dream I don’t wanna wake up from.
Xander spoke briefly with the doorman, and he escorted them through the throng of people to a table marked “reserved” at the very edge of the dance floor. From this vantage point, they could see the band perfectly. Xander pulled out a chair for Buffy, a gesture which took her by surprise.
“You look amazing,” he whispered as he pushed her chair in. “Is that a new dress?”
Buffy smiled. “You know,” she quipped, “I just looked in the closet and there it was.” At least that much is true, she thought to herself.
Xander took his own chair opposite her and became immediately engrossed in the band, brows furrowed, with a strictly-business look in his eyes. Buffy gazed at him across the table for a moment, silently wondering how she had never noticed his irrepressible charm before. Then she directed her attention toward the band as well.
The diminuitive bandleader had his back to the room as he bopped up and down with the beat. Crowds of people on the dance floor shimmied, swung, and flailed wildly to the music. As the orchestra held out the final, trumpet-wailing, ear-splitting chord, the bandleader jumped up, waved his arms with a flourish, and came back to earth with finality, cutting the musicians off with absolute precision. The entire room exploded with applause. Then as the bandleader turned and approached the microphone, Buffy’s jaw dropped for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. The bandleader was Oz.
“Thank you. Thanks a lot,” he began, with typically Oz-like modesty. “We’re gonna take five right now, but we’ll be back, so don’t go away.” Oz paused awkwardly at the microphone for a moment, as if unsure of what to say next. “Well, actually, you can go away if you want. Maybe you need to leave. I’m not telling you what to do here. But we’ll be back in five if you wanna stay.” He paused again and then nodded, seemingly satisified with his speech. “Okay. I guess that’s it.”
Buffy smiled. Oz never did anything quite by the book. She watched him as he went over to thump his piano player on the back appreciatively while the other musicians put up their instruments. Shaking her head, she wondered to herself who else from Sunnydale would possibly show up next. Then she turned toward Xander and found him looking at her expectantly.
“So?” he asked. “What’dya think?”
“The music is great,” Buffy answered. “The talking needs work.”
“You’re not wrong,” Xander conceded. “He needs to polish the delivery a little. Hey, I’m gonna go talk business with the band for a few minutes, if you don’t mind. You wanna go to the bar and get us some drinks?”
Buffy nodded, and the two of them got up from their seats and headed off in opposite directions. Buffy shivered with excitement as she walked. She mentally congratulated herself for throwing caution to the wind and accompanying Xander tonight. The evening was going really well so far. It was a different world, after all, and who knew what might happen?
As she walked toward the bar area, Buffy crossed her fingers covertly at her side, hoping the bartender wouldn’t think she was too young to be getting drinks. Horrified, she realized she didn’t even know what to order. What did sophisticated Hollywood people drink anyway? Buffy tried desperately to remember her mom’s favorite old movies. She got a vague vision of Greta Garbo looking particularly dramatic with a glass of something in her hand, but she couldn’t think what it was. Then suddenly Greta Garbo was erased from her mind entirely, and time seemed to stand still for a moment. Standing at the very end of the bar was Angel.
Buffy’s mind raced. He looked so calm and collected, standing there with his dark suit and slicked-back hair. The real Angel, the one she left behind yesterday, was in the throes of struggling with the aftermath of one hundred years of torture. The man standing before her now seemed unflappable, maybe even a little bored. Buffy was dying to talk to him, to find out his role in all of this. What if he doesn’t even know me, she thought frantically. She decided to risk it.
Buffy walked up and positioned herself next to Angel at the bar. He was gazing in the opposite direction. She reached out and touched his sleeve cautiously. “Angel?”
Angel turned around and looked at her, his cool gaze shifting just slightly as he raised an eyebrow. Then one corner of his mouth turned up in a suggestive smile. “Hello, Buffy Summers,” he said quietly.
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