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Author's Chapter Notes:
A/N: Yay! Reviews!!!! Thanks for telling me what you thought of the chap, I love it when people leave reviews talking about specific parts they like, makes me feel special =) And also—once again, shameless plug alert!—but head on over to www.livejournal.com/users/singtothesun. If you use LiveJournal, I’d be glad to talk or whatever, and if you don’t, join. It’s fun =) Plus also, I posted a short post-Chosen fic there that I may or may not get around to posting here, depending on whether or not my mom drags me away from the computer. So—enjoy the update, and sorry for the loooong note =D
~*~

What the bleeding hell had he just done?

If there was a prize for the absolute stupidest action a person could make, he’d just won it, hands down. He coulda done a million things—stepped away, run away, hopped into his car and driven away—anything involving away would’ve been an excellent choice.

But no, he’d had to come closer. Spike let out an angry growl and kicked the side of his car. “Ladies and gentleman, come to see the show,” he muttered as he got into his car. “Biggest soddin’ idiot in the world, on display for all to see.” He jammed the key in and started the car.

“Why the buggering hell did I do it, anyway?” Spike wondered out loud as he drove to his house. “Not like I actually wanted to.” He stopped the car and got out, walking up to his front door. “Maybe ‘m just insane. That could be it.”

He opened the door, slipped inside, and headed up the stairs before his parents could notice he was home. “Yep, that’s it. Didn’t wanna kiss her at all. The little man in my head forced me too. That whole angels and devils bit, with the shoulders, and all.” He flopped down on his bed. “Sure as hell isn’t myfault.”

“William?” his mother’s voice came through the intercom. “Why are you talking to yourself?”

“’m not,” he called back, irritated. “’s the, uh, TV.”

“You don’t have a TV in your room, son,” his father called up the stairs. “Now give us a truthful answer.”

He lay in silence for a moment, glowering. God, he hated his parents. Why the sodding hell couldn’t they just leave him alone? He didn’t like them, and he knew they didn’t like him, so why did they insist on bothering him?

“William!” His mother, her voice like a gunshot. “Answer your father now!”

“Okay, yeah, I was talkin’ to myself!” He hated himself for it, but he finally caved and told them what they wanted to hear. “I’m deranged, a’right? Now can you leave me alone?”

Silence. Spike relaxed, sinking into his bedcovers and thinking about anything except the small blonde he’d been with just a few minutes before. God, but she was pretty. Even with the heavy makeup and the silly, bleach-fried hair, she was so damn pretty.

“William?”

Spike started and nearly fell of the bed. “What?” he roared.

“Come downstairs. Your father and I need to talk to you.”

Spike scowled, clenching his fists, trying to ignore the impulse to find something to kill. His mum really couldn’t leave well enough alone, could she? “Fine. Coming.”

He found them both in the living room, arranged on the couch like they thought the Sunnydale Times might be snapping pictures of them any time. His mum had her hand on his da’s knee, something she probably thought made them look affectionate. It actually just made her look like the cradle-robbing bitch Spike had long ago characterized her as.

“Sit down, William,” his mother instructed. He eyed her suspiciously. When he didn’t move, she gave him a hard, uncompromising glare. “William. Sit. Down.”

He glared at her, but obeyed.

“Your father and I are concerned about you.”

“Yeah, got that bit.”

“This attitude you’ve adopted is unreasonable. You are impulsive, vulgar, crude, and unforgivably rude.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Spike glanced at the (military time) clock on the wall. Just how much longer was this going to last?

“You’re unreliable, son.” Oh, wonderful, now Da was going to go all soldier-boy on him. Spike sneered at his father as the soldier continued to talk. “That British accent you insist on keeping is ridiculous. It’s an affront to our country.”

“You guys are the ones who sent me off the that buggering school.” Spike raised an eyebrow at them. “Gonna ship me off again?”

“No, William, we are not going to ship you off again. We simply think that becoming involved in a structured activity would facilitate your psychological development,” his mother told him.

Spike furrowed his brow, sorting through the huge words his mum was so damn fond of using. “You want me to join a club?” Wonderful. Now he and his parents were gonna have a row. There was no way he was joining anything school-related.

“Not necessarily a club,” his father hastily assured him. “We’d just like to see you involved in some sort of extra-curricular.”

“One that doesn’t involve sitting around in your room,” his mother added, her lips pursed.

Now he was gonna piss them off. “Right, then. I’ll just be a cheerleader.”

“What?!” Just like he’d predicted, his father leapt to his feet. Spike watched with amusement as an expression of abject horror settled on the man’s face. Startin’ to think all those faggot-boy accusations were real, Da?

“You are not going to be a cheerleader!” Riley fumed. His mum put a calming hand on his arm, but he shook it off. “No, Maggie! I will not have a gay for a son!”

“Why can’t I do cheerleading?” Spike protested. “’s a perfectly legitimate activity. Our sodding president’s a cheerleader!”

“And look how well that turned out,” Maggie muttered.

Spike smirked. He was out of the woods now—he always was when his parents started in on politics.

“George Bush is a wonderful leader!” Riley yelled. “He’s spreading democracy everywhere!”

“At the expense of human life!” His mother was giving as good as he got. “Look at the statistics that the White House doesn’t give, Riley, and you’ll soon come to the conclusion that...”

Spike wisely took that time to exit.

Great. So ‘ve got to get myself a hobby. He knew that just because his parents got distracted didn’t mean they’d forgotten their orders. Bloody fantastic.

*

If this was the movies, Buffy would’ve been able to stay slumped against the door for however long it took for her heart rate and all that to return to normal. But this wasn’t the movies, and her little freakout was interrupted almost immediately.

Dawn flounced down the stairs. When she saw Buffy she raised her eyebrows haughtily. “Mom wants to talk to you. Bet you’re in big trouble.”

“Oh shut up,” Buffy muttered, running her hands through her hair. She really didn’t want her mom to know what had just gone on in her driveway.

“Well, it’s not my fault she doesn’t like you. If you’d concentrate a little more on school work and a little less on boys, and get rid of the stupid fake hair, maybe Mom wouldn’t have to be so hard on you.” Dawn smirks. “It works for me.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. That stupid, rat-faced, condescending little brat! But if she so much as yelled at Dawn, her mother would treat her worse than a convicted murderer. So instead of slapping the crap out of her sister, Buffy pushed past the younger girl. “I’m going to bed.”

“Mom’s gonna be ma-ad,” Dawn taunted, a huge smile on her face. “She’ll totally ground you tomorrow morning.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Whatever, brat.” She slammed the door to her room shut, just in time to hear Dawn screech. “Moooom!”

Wonderful. As of tomorrow, she’d have to deal with another don’t-be-mean-to-our-precious-baby-genius lecture. Buffy scowled at her reflection in her mirror.

Why, why, why couldn’t people just leave her alone? She’d just gotten done kissing Spike. As in, Spike Walsh’s lips had been on hers! For a long period of time! If the world was a fair place, she would have been able to lie on her bed and call her best friend and giggle about it.

Except that she wouldn’t giggle, because she hadn’t liked it. Nope. Not a bit.

Well, okay, maybe a little...

But still. Buffy frowned pensively. The whole kissing Spike thing could make hating him a little hard. That and the project-doing. How were you supposed to do a project with someone when you kissed them and you said you hated them?

Well, she could just stop saying she hated him. That would help, right? Except that everyone in Sunnydale knew about their rivalry. It was, like, the Eleventh Commandment, or something. Thou Shalt Not Steal, Thou Shalt Not Wear Cheap Drugstore Perfume On Thy First Date, Buffy Summers Shall Hate Spike Walsh For As Long As Their Lives Shall Endureth, and so on.

Okay. Thinking about Spike was gonna make her go insane. Buffy decided to settle on a safer topic: hating Dawn.

Why Mom thought Dawn was like the perfect child or whatever was completely beyond her. And why Dawn thought she had the right to criticize her sister was also of the non-understandable. Although...she squinched her nose at her reflection. Dammit. Dawn was kinda right about her hair. It was all fried and dry-looking from the number of times she’d had it bleached.

Oh no. Spike made fun of her hair, too. What if he didn’t like it? What if he thought it was stupid, or dated, or something?

Not that she cared, of course. But staring at herself in the mirror, Buffy decided that it was time for a change. And since there was no time like the present, she decided that this weekend was going to be Makeover Buffy Weekend.

Luckily for her, her mother still hadn’t caught on to the fact that the phone in her room was one of the things that made her a social butterfly. She even had her own phone line. God bless loaded dads. She grabbed her phone and plopped down on her bed, belly-first. She punched in a few numbers and waited for someone to pick up.

“Buffy! How have you been?”

“Hey, Lorne.” She let an easy smile come to her face. “Listen, I need a favor.”

~*~

“A-are you sure this is a good idea?” Buffy asked nervously, staring at the outside of the salon.

“Trust me, by the time you get out of here, you will look fab!” Lorne patted her cheeks. “They do my hair all the time. You’ll go in there, and vóila! No more California Fried Blonde ‘do!”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “California Fried Blonde?”

“Face what it is, honey,” Lorne advised, before giving her a little push toward the small salon. “Now go get ‘em!”

“Oh, boy,” Buffy muttered. She hadn’t changed her hair since, like, the seventh grade. She walked up to the door and tried to push it, but her muscles got all floppy. She glanced back at Lorne. He was gazing at her like all his hopes and dreams rested on her getting her hair fixed. “Stupid gay guys,” she huffed. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the shop.

She was immediately accosted by a familiar presence. “Buffy! What are you doing here? Did your horrendous sister put bubblegum in your hair, or are you attempting to make Spike even more sexually attracted towards you than he is now?”

“Anya!” Buffy hissed. By now, it was a familiar action. “Could you please stop it? People talk! And anyway, I have absolutely no attraction to—“

“Save it for the tourists,” Anya advised, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, why are you here?”

“I, um—I wanna change my hair.” She frowned. “Wait—what the heck are you doing here?”

“Learning,” Anya said brightly. “I’ve been told that in the cosmetology industry, people don’t care if you tell them they look awful, because it’s your job to fix it. Retail is of course fascinating as well, but cosmetologists make lots of money, and you never have to tell people you don’t like to have a nice day. Also, no one so far has told me that the customer is always right.”

Buffy blinked. “Uh.”

Anya didn’t seem to notice that her chatter was stunning the other girl—she continued blithely: “Anyway, Sweet’s the guy who owns the place, but he’s letting me take care of the simple things like dye jobs and cuts. Are you finally going to get rid of that hideous fake blonde hair?”

“Hey!” Buffy, suddenly verbal, protested. “My hair is not—“

“I can see your roots.”

Now Buffy was scowling. “Whatever,” she snapped, unconsciously pulling a Cordelia imitation. “Can we just get on with this.”

“Of course. Sit down.” Anya practically pushed Buffy into one of the chairs. “Now, what kind of look are you going for?”

~*~

Buffy was used to normal salons. You know, the ones with mirrors where you got to actually see what the hairdresser was doing to you. Anya, though, had a flair for the dramatic, so Buffy was mirror-less for three hours while Anya washed, dried, cut, and dyed Buffy’s hair. Buffy had told her that she wanted something a little more natural and a little less, in Lorne’s words, “California fried”. Anya had been so enthusiastic that Buffy couldn’t help but wonder if Lorne had called her beforehand.

After the three hours had passed, Buffy was way bored and dying to know what she looked like. So when Anya stopped she asked in a voice that was way whinier than it probably should have been, “Are you done yet?”

“Finished!” Anya said in a voice of supreme satisfaction. “And now, Miss Buffy Summers, may I present you with...well, you. But a better version, I promise.” She led Buffy over to a covered mirror and dramatically uncovered it.

Almost in spite of herself, Buffy gasped.

Her hair was still blonde, but now it was golden more than white, and it shone even in the salon’s fluorescent lighting. It had been cut so that it fell just below her shoulders, and Anya had styled it in loose curls. Instead of looking dry and unnatural, her hair shone like that chick from the Pantene Pro-V commercial.

“So, did I turn you into a sex magnet or what?”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Is that even a legitimate phrase?”

“Of course it is,” Anya said impatiently. “Now, you like it, don’t you?”

She stared at herself. She looked different. Less shallow, less insecure.

Strong.

When she smiled, she could almost feel a difference. It was only a change in appearance, but it felt like more. Now what she looked like showed who she was.

“Yeah.” Buffy’s smile turned into a confident grin. “I like it a lot.”

And when he sees me, Spike is so gonna eat his heart out.

~*~

A/N: OK, I said this up top, but humor me: GO TO SEE MY LIVEJOURNAL!!!! Ciley (Suzee’s her penname) made me a preeeetty banner so I’m way psyched about it now =D So go there...please?





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