"How was it?" came the excited squeal of a hyperactive teenager as they came through the door of the Summers' residence, "Did you play good? Did people mosh? Did people stage-dive? Did they throw panties at you? Did they—"

"Dawnie," said Buffy, setting her gig bag against the wall in the foyer as Willow followed her inside, "I'm pretty beat. Do I gotta recount the whole night for you?"

"Well if you'd let me go to shows, I wouldn't need to ask for a recap!"

"You're too young. They wouldn't even let you in."

Dawn scoffed, "Like they card at the Bronze."

"It's dangerous for a kid," said Buffy, "And what are you doing up, anyway? It's late. Like uber-late late. If there were vampires, even they'd be going to sleep."

"It's not that late," said Dawn, "Some people are just getting started. It's, like, the witching hour or whatever."

"Well, Dawnie," said Buffy, "If we were a family of witches, maybe we'd be going out for a 3AM picnic in the cemetery. But I don't see any witches here, so it's time for bed."

"Shhh," Willow moaned, now sprawled across the couch, her guitar and amp head thrown inelegantly onto the floor, one combat boot kicked off on top of them and the other still on her foot, untied laces hanging off the edge of the couch, "Everyone turn off the talking and shut up the lights."

"Willow got hammered?" said Dawn, "See, why do you make me miss these things?"

Buffy sighed, "Dawnie? Bed. Now."

Dawn huffed, "Fine, but I wanna hear all about it in the AM over pancakes and eggs."

"I don't think Will's getting up before noon, Dawn," said Buffy, "Now go, I can barely stand upright anymore I'm so beat."

"Fine," said Dawn, marching up the stairs, "'Night Buffy. Feel better, Will."

"Shhhh," Willow said. Dawn snickered and continued up to the second floor.

"You too, Will," said Buffy, "Off to bed."

"No, I'm sleeping here tonight," said Willow, "Right here on this couch."

"But you have a whole room all to yourself. You even pay rent on it and everything."

Willow just groaned, and Buffy tugged on her arm.

"Come on, Will."

"I'm not your lil sis, I'm your roommate. I can sleep on whatever piece of furniture I want to."

"You're gonna get eyeliner on my couch."

"I'm not wearing eyeliner."

"Okay, then drool. I know you drool in your sleep."

Willow sat up, "How'd'you know that?"

"Because this is not the first time you've tried passing out on my couch."

"I don't pass out, I just get sleepy," said Willow, "How do people manage to stay up till 3AM? I'm all tired out by ten."

"For starters, they don't drink their body weight in vodka," said Buffy.

"Okay, a valid point," said Willow as she let Buffy pull her to her feet, "Couldja carry me? Y'know, 'cause you're so strong 'n all."

"I can't carry you, Will."

"I probably weigh less than an amp. Right?"

"Willow."

Willow sighed and made her way to the stairs.

"Brush your teeth," Buffy called as her friend ascended.

Willow groaned, but Buffy knew she'd obey her, because if there was one thing Willow was, it was reliable. Buffy didn't think the girl'd ever gotten a cavity, and she wasn't about to start tonight.

Once she was alone, Buffy sat on the couch herself for a moment. She was reeling—she'd been in the scene in LA, but Sunnydale was something special. It was so intimate, so mysterious. Underground, she supposed the word was. The bands in LA were full of jerk-faced dudes pushing her around and slapping her ass. And Sunnydale was, too—but here she made the rules. This was going to be her town, her scene, and she wasn't going to be a minnow in a sea of city-dwelling piranhas. Here, she was going to be on top. Here? She could fight back.

Maybe it was too hopeful. But Buffy needed to start over, more than she needed anything. In LA, in the fewest possible words, she'd developed a bad reputation. A few too many guys she beat up, a few too many truths she spoke. She had no future in the LA scene after a fight with her then-boyfriend who had way too much power out there got ugly.

It was hard to weasel her way into the Sunnydale scene, at first. It wasn't exactly female-friendly and most of the white middle-class suburbanites in town willfully ignored the existence of a dark, dangerous rock 'n roll underbelly. But it was Giles, the owner of the run-down rehearsal studio they'd been hanging out in since they were basically teenagers, that told her where to look.

Convincing her new friends Willow and Xander to make music with her wasn't hard: Willow had already been learning guitar from her boyfriend, and Xander seemed more than excited to start hitting things with sticks. Getting them into the scene, though, was a little harder. Willow was shy and insecure; she felt like she didn't belong, when Buffy took her to shows, and couldn't relax without some drinks in her. She was a goodie-two-shoes who'd been taught that dingey nightclubs full of drugs and unsanitary conditions were bad. And Xander was headstrong, goofy—he really didn't seem to belong, and Buffy worried he was going to say the wrong thing and get beat up. And he did a few times.

But as Buffy started taking them to more shows, it was like she'd unlocked some punk-rock sensibility that'd been buried deep inside them both. Willow discovered riot grrrl and became enamored with the political side of it all, printing anonymous zines and mailing them out to strangers she'd met on internet message boards. She started dancing in the pit ("It's a political statement!" she'd always say, "Why shouldn't I be allowed to mosh just because these big tall dudes make it dangerous?"). Of course, then one day she got knocked out cold, and Buffy wondered if that violent righteousness was going to come out in another way sometime soon.

And once Xander found Anya, it was like any bad jokes he might have tried making to hardened punks at the bar were saved for the girl in the bedroom (or backstage, or in the studio, or on Buffy's couch).

Buffy knew it was silly to worry about her friends, anyway. After all, this was all supposed to be fun.

Buffy was surprised when she awoke the next mid-morning to the smell of bacon and other breakfasty things. She sleepily padded downstairs, expecting to find Dawn at the stove, making a mess.

"Will?" Buffy asked, when she saw Willow wide awake and cooking away, "You are surprisingly vertical this morning."

"Oh, morning Buff!" said Willow, way too chipper, "I dunno. Got hungry. Want some?"

"Aren't you hungover?"

"You have to be drunk to be hungover, Buffy," said Willow.

"Will?" Buffy said, "You were drunk."

"Okay, well I was hungover but I barfed and chugged some Gatorade—did you know there's a new one? Blue. Anyway, also Tara made me drink water last night so it's not so bad!"

"Who's Tara?"

Willow frowned, "The bartender! Remember?"

"Oh, the one with the…" Buffy stopped and considered her words for a moment wondering if Willow would deem it sexist for her to mention the woman's breasts, "Um, nice eyes?"

"Ha-ha, Buffy," said Willow, "What are you doing looking at girls' breasts anyway?"

"I didn't say breasts. And if I was gonna, I would say 'tits'. What kinda weirdo says 'breasts'?"

"I dunno, someone carving a turkey," said Willow with a shrug, "And I could just tell you were gonna say it."

"No, really! She had nice eyes."

"What color were they?"

"Um," said Buffy, "Uh, brown?"

"Pft, nice try. They're blue."

"You remember the color of her eyes?" said Buffy with a quirked eyebrow, "A random bartender you just met?"

"Um," said Willow, the smirk of her previous victory fading, "I mean, I dunno. She was blonde so I assumed…"

"I'm blonde," said Buffy, "My eyes are green."

"When did we start interrogating me?" said Willow, "You know it's hard for me to make friends! I'm just excited to make a friend who is maybe, you know, as into the social justice stuff as me. 'Cause I know you don't care about that stuff, and I don't think Xander even knows what the Seneca Falls Convention was."

"Uh," said Buffy, "Is that like a comic-con?"

Willow rolled her eyes, "Who was that peroxide guy you were talking to?"

"Oh, did you notice that when you weren't looking in your new bartender friend's ocean-blue eyes?"

"Okay, I did not say ocean-blue."

"Sky-blue, sorry. He's Spike," said Buffy. She considered that his eyes were also blue. Not quite ocean-blue, more like a lake. "Anya says he likes to lurk around the club. Apparently he has some sway with who gets to play there and stuff. Weird vibes, though. Cryptic. One of those only-out-by-night, hides-from-the-sun-in-the-day types. Betcha he lives in his mom's basement."

"Like Xander? And sorry," said Willow, "You lost me at 'he's Spike'. His name is Spike? What, does he think he's Sid Vicious or something?"

"He is British," said Buffy, "Or, he's got the accent at least. So probably."

"Sounds like a poser," came Dawn's voice as the teenager descended the stairs.

Buffy took a strip of bacon from the dish Willow was loading them onto and popped it in her mouth, "And my teenage sister wearing farm animal pajamas is the real deal."

"Only thing keeping me from being the 'real deal' is you," said Dawn, "How you feeling, Will?"

"Hangover-schmangover," said Willow, "Dawn, when you start drinking, you'll be shocked at what three Ibuprofens and a bottle of Gatorade can do."

Suddenly, the phone rang, and Willow winced at the sound, somewhat weakening her point.

Buffy smiled knowingly at her suffering friend and picked up the phone, "Hello? ... Oh, hi!" She glanced at Willow again, mischievous, and Willow cocked her head in curious worry, "Yeah, she's here. … Yeah, that sounds like her. Listen, would you say your eyes are a sky blue or more of a Pacific Ocean kinda thi—?"

"Gimme that!" cried Willow, snatching the phone from Buffy's hand despite her pounding head. She spoke into the phone, "Don't listen to her! Buffy's got, uh, a history of mental problems. Yeah, she doesn't know what she's—"

"I-it's okay," said Tara on the other end, "S-sorry to call so early, I-I know you're probably h-hungover."

"Nope!" said Willow, "I'm fine!"

"W-well," said Tara, "Um, it's just, you l-left your ID on the bar after you closed out your tab. I… I tried to catch you but you were a-already gone. I wanted t-to let you know early, in case you n-needed it."

Willow was a little disappointed at the purpose of the phone call, "Oh, yeah. I do need that. You know, for driving, and drinking… But not at the same time! Of course. Can I stop by the Bronze to pick it up tonight?"

"A-actually," said Tara, "I k-kinda took it home, since the Bronze doesn't open till later a-and I thought you might need it. And I thought, y-you know, maybe you could come over and we could t-trade zines or something. I-if you're not busy."

"Busy? Me?" said Willow, "'Not-busy' is my middle name!"

"Actually, it says here it's Danielle," said Tara.

Willow blushed, "Hey! Don't go looking at my personal…— That's got all kindsa proprietary information, like my birthday and my eye color and… and my height! I promise I grew an inch since I got it!" She took a breath, telling herself to chill out a little, "Uh, anyway, yeah. I can totally come over. What's the address?" Willow wrote it down on a notepad attached to the fridge, "Oh, that's way closer than the Bronze! Cool, I'll, um, I'll head out right after breakfast. Well, it's kind almost noon now, so I guess it's kinda lunch… Anyway, see you then!"

Willow hung up the phone with a satisfied little grin on her face.

"Buff, finish these pancakes, okay?" said Willow, pulling another Gatorade from the fridge and the bottle of Advil from the counter. She poured a handful of pills into her palm and washed them down with a swig of sugary energy drink, "I gotta go get ready."

Buffy clicked her tongue, "Report back on the eye color thing."

Willow left, almost bursting at the seams, it seemed, with energy, and Dawn grabbed herself some orange juice. "Willow make a new friend?" she said, "Good for her!"

"It's one of the bartenders at the Bronze. She seems nice."

"Did you make any friends?" said Dawn, "I feel like playing a show automatically gives you some social currency. You guys were definitely running negative since Willow smashed her head on the stage and that bandana guy gave Xander a black eye after he made fun of his patches."

"Our social status is fine," said Buffy, "And nah."

"What?"

"Friends. Didn't make any," she shrugged, and thought about Spike, "Maybe an enemy. Or a… rival. A very annoying, sexist rival."

"How about a lover?" said Dawn, "Ever since Riley, I've been kinda waiting for you to meet someone remotely cool."

"First of all, I don't want you to ever use the word 'lover' again. And Spike is not cool," said Buffy, "Like you said. He's a poser."

Dawn shrugged, "Whatever you say. What about Will? Since Oz she's been all, y'know, blah. Any cool punks with mohawks 'n nose rings 'n tattoos hit her up?"

"Dawn, not everything is about boys, okay?" said Buffy, "We made some cool music and performed for a room of people. Well, we performed it for a few people anyway. That's what punk's about, and if you forget that, then you're the poser."

It was a crappy little brick apartment building that seemed to befit a bartender's salary. Willow buzzed Tara's apartment a few times, but it didn't take long for her to realize that the buzzer didn't seem to be working, or hooked up to anything at all. No kind of lock prevented her from entering the building, though, so she climbed the metal stairs to the third floor and knocked on Tara's door.

It opened very fast, almost like Tara had been standing right on the other side. Though she really must've been, Willow decided, since there weren't many other places to stand in the tiny studio apartment she glimpsed behind Tara's shoulder.

"W-willow," said Tara with a crooked little smile. She held something up, "Um. H-here."

Willow was confused for a moment, before she remembered the reason she'd come here in the first place. She took the ID back and shoved it in her pocket, "Thanks."

"Y-your hair was long," said Tara, "And darker."

Willow cocked her head, confused again. Then she thought of the photo on her license, "Hey!" said Willow, "I… I was sixteen!"

Tara chuckled, "I didn't say it was bad. I like it how it is now, though. I like the layers."

Willow reflexively touched her hair, "Oh, thanks. Yeah, one day I went to the barber and I was just kinda like… 'Cut it all off!'. Well, not 'all', I kinda like… pointed to my shoulder. And Buffy told the barber to give me layers and I was like 'what are layers'? And then… Well, now I have layers."

"It's cute," said Tara.

"I like your zig-zag part!" said Willow, "It's very zig, until it goes zag! Unpredictable. Almost like a sound wave, with the zigging and the zagging."

Tara's eyes fell on the shoebox Willow held, "Are those your z-zines?"

"Oh!" said Willow, "Yeah! I've been collecting them for a while, I have some cool ones."

"W-wanna come in and show me?" said Tara.

"Yeah!" said Willow, "I mean, duh. 'Cause why would we do that in the hallway." She wrung her sweaty hands together, feeling awfully anxious and wishing she had something to calm her down, but it was a little too early to drink.

Tara stepped aside, and Willow realized she was waiting for her to enter. With a nervous bounce in her step, the red-haired guitarist stepped over the threshold, resolved that by the time she left today, she will have made a wondrous new friend.