I don't own these characters, and I make no profit from this story. However, I do make great low-fat chocolate muffins.
Girls Night Out
Xander lifted his head and groaned. “Did anyone get the number of the Concorde that ran over my head?” He cracked open a bleary eye and pushed himself up on his elbows, noting the angle of the sun through the window. Must’ve overslept.
Then he noted the makeup on the pillow. “An…” he said with affectionate exasperation.
“Mm, what?” Anya mumbled as she rolled over to face him.
…with her usual gorgeous morning face. Conscientiously scrubbed clean, complimenting her usual silk slip. Which meant the makeup must’ve come from…
He rubbed a finger across his cheek. It came back smeared pink. “Oh, God.”
“You called?” Willow said chirpily from the doorway. She yawned, and ran a hand through her hair, mussing it further. She was dressed in one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxers, with a bottle of water dangling from one hand. “If you can tell me where you keep your breakfast stuff, I can smite us some eggs. I’m a merciful god.”
He rolled onto his back to see her better. “What is it with you and mornings?” he demanded.
Then he did a double-take. “Come to think of it, what is it with *you*? Why are you here?”
Anya sighed, and opened her eyes resignedly.
Willow shrugged. “You guys said we could stay. We got back pretty late.”
He sat up. “We? What ‘we’?”
“Hi,” Tara rested her head on Willow’s shoulder, smiling sleepily. She was also dressed in one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxers. “Wow, that was some night! I've never had a night like that.”
“You deserved it,” Willow tweaked her nose. “You don’t get to have enough fun.”
“Speaking of fun,” Xander said cautiously, feeling his way. “What’s on my face?”
Willow took a sip of water, and realised. “You don’t remember.”
She looked at Anya. Yawning, Anya sat up. “He doesn’t remember,” they chorused.
“No, no, I remember a little,” he protested, as it started coming back to him. “There was pizza – pizza and beer.”
Willow winced at the mention of beer. She put a hand to her temple. “Yeah. We went to a new club. Buffy and Giles were doing Slayer stuff, but we decided we shouldn’t let it stop us.”
“So we went out,” Xander confirmed, looking from one to another.
“Did we ever, Tasty Boy,” giggled Tara. She scrubbed at her face. “Ooh, my head. Why did you let me drink, Willow?” She leaned against the doorway, and slid down to the floor.
“You only had two!” Willow said, grinning. She gave Tara the water bottle.
“She called me ‘Tasty Boy’,” Xander stood, looking at Anya. She motioned at his partly-bare behind, and he yanked his boxer shorts up a little higher. His voice rose in panic. “Why did she call me ‘Tasty Boy’?!”
Anya struggled to keep a straight face. “You had an accident with some cake. While you were dancing with the transvestites.” She swivelled, planting her feet on the floor. She picked up her hairbrush from her bedside table, and began to rhythmically brush her hair.
“I what with the who now?! Oh, God.” He slumped back onto the bed. “I think I remember. Ouch.” He bounced up and pulled a blue feather boa out from under the quilt. “How did this get here?!”
Anya said, “You don’t remember the makeover?”
“Makeover,” he said in disbelief. Then the concept bubbled through his beer-hazed mind, triggering faint memories. More emphatically, “Makeover. They dressed me up, didn’t they. And you let them. You three – vixens!” He glared at them all, with his best ‘I am Xander, hear me roar, I’m too hungover to ignore’ look.
They remained unscared, as usual. Vixens.
“What did you evil people make me wear?” He sat again, picked up a tissue from his bedside table and rubbed frantically at his face.
Tara’s eyes danced. “Um, it wasn’t us. Really. But the halter-neck top was nice,” she volunteered.
Willow nodded in agreement. “And I liked the fishnets.”
“My favourite was the blonde wig,” Anya added.
He said slowly, “Blonde. Wig.” His head drooped forward into his hands.
Anya smiled. “Yeah. You made us call you ‘Sandy’.”
“I did not!” His head snapped up. “Oh… yes, I did.” The corner of his mouth quirked reluctantly; a twinge of a smile.
Willow sat next to him on the bed and poked him in the shoulder. “You liked it, didn’t you?” She poked him again. Then again, in the ribs.
He broke. “Yes, yes, I liked it, damn you!”
“I-I knew it!” Tara giggled. “You looked so cute. I’ve never seen you that relaxed.” She smirked mischievously, and raised the bottle to her lips. She lowered it again. “Maybe you should consider a permanent change.”
He frowned at her. “No, thank you. I’m happy with my – parts – just the way they are.”
“And so am I,” Anya chimed in. “Though Sandy and I could go shopping together.”
He objected half-heartedly. “Hey!” Then another half-memory struck him. “Was there something – I was scheming, wasn’t I – something about Buffy? I had a really good idea.”
Willow laughed. “You wanted to, and I repeat, ‘throw her in the pool with all her clothes on because it would be really cool’. You thought it would make her happy.”
He considered. “I remember that! I said that just after we had the cheesecake. Then I did my evil laugh.” He demonstrated. “Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“You giggled like a schoolgirl,” Willow corrected sweetly. “And you sprayed crumbs everywhere. Then you started the limbo competition.”
He shuddered. “Limbo… competition. Huh. I guess that ain’t too bad.”
“Not if you’re clothed,” Tara said demurely.
He spluttered.
Anya took something from the drawer of her table. She stood, and walked around to his side. “It gets worse.” She backed in between Willow and Xander.
Xander noted that Willow happily moved over to give her room. They seemed more comfortable together than usual. <Well, that’s good, at least,> he thought. Tara crawled over and sat in front of Willow, resting her head in Willow’s lap.
“Much worse,”
Anya clarified.
He met her eyes uneasily. “Thank you for the support.”
It was a Polaroid. Of course. She handed it to him. “I have others,” she warned. “In a safe place.”
He stared. He could feel his eyebrows disappearing up towards his hairline. “I, erm, I like the way the blush brings out my cheekbones. Though I don’t think green eye shadow is my colour.” He faltered.
“And?” Anya prompted.
He coughed. Then, very quietly, “And don’t ever, *ever*, tell me why I was sitting on a fireman’s lap.”
