Summary: She's getting her gameface on.
Timeline: Buffy Season 9: Free Fall | Issue 1
Spoilers: Vague-ish for Season 8, I guess, and obviously the preview for Season 9.
Author's Note: I noticed Buffy's shirt changed in the behind-the-scenes look at the artistic process for this page and I was inspired to write this bit wherein I channel Buffy in all her rambling glory.
I’d been out of the Slayer General gig for months now, and I was back to doing what I do best: see vamp, stake vamp, party all night — and then work all day.
What? Like your life is perfect? If it is, don’t tell me ‘cause I’ve convinced myself that sleep is for people who aren’t me and that I’m okay with that. No complaining here, nope, not at all. I gotta come close to almost paying those bills, and sure whipping up lattes isn’t the most glamorous day job, but I’m working my way up to not being in danger of living on my sister’s couch, so I’m all smiley bright side. San Fran is muy expensivo, but I’m dealing and making it work.
(Check me out, learning Spanish like a champ. French just wasn’t my thing. Yo abla… ablo? Er…)
Back to my plan. See, Anaheed is the most boy!crazy girl I’ve ever met, but in that generous way where she’ll see a hottie and shove me in front of him because I need to get back on the dating horse, carousel, I don’t even know — she’s really into riding metaphors ‘cause she competes professionally. I don’t think she even gets the double entendre-y-ness of her.
Anyways, after enough awkward pauses and boring conversations with perfectly gorgeous straight men (and some perfectly gorgeous not-so-straight ones), I realized that rewinding to the good times worked out when it came to slaying (saying sayonara to Generalissimo Buffy was so the right career move), so…
I invited Spike to the party. I also invited Riley and Andrew, too, just so I wasn’t being obvious. Yet. I plan on being obvious later, but texting come-ons aren’t my thing. I’m not so great with the verbal if I don’t have nonverbal to back it up. You know, eye contact, smiling, leaning in close to whisper… you know.
And that’s where the sexy comes in (hey, check out the double entendre-y-ness of me!). I went shopping for a new shirt and I bought this multi-colored silk slinky top — do you have any idea how many iced mocha frappuccinos I had to make to buy this top? Of course you don’t know, no one wants to know, I wish I didn’t know — and then I realized it wasn’t so much sexy adventurous as painfully busy to the point of inducing a psychedelic trip. (And sure, I can rock a radioactive outfit like no other, but I didn’t want my night to start off with a dresscode party foul.)
So after running across town, I exchanged the eyesore, raced back home, showered, primped, had Cheung work her hair twisty magic, and now I’m ready to roll.
What do you think? Red’s a good color on me, right?
Oh boy. Thank the alcoholic gods, Cheung’s making pregame strawberry daiquiris. I need a double shot of liquid courage.