I said la, lala la la, lalalalalalala la

It started as an angst fest, back in the beginning. Tara, mothering and worried, had knocked on Anya's door with a casserole. She couldn't help it; even in LA she knew what was right, and right was a casserole. Never mind that Anya probably couldn't cook even to reheat, never mind that Tara'd had to borrow the kitchen of the campus Hillel House (which meant the casserole had to be kosher, which caused some complications for a girl who'd been raised to add bacon to her green bean casserole), never mind that Anya wouldn't understand. Anya was mourning, sort of, and that meant green beans and cream of mushroom soup casserole.

But Anya wasn't in the mood for commiserations over casserole. Tara's attempted comfort turned, that first night, into weepy drunkeness on both their parts. When Spike showed up -- secret vampire senses sniffing out an opportunity to drink, perhaps? -- they got drunker and slightly more violent. Even Tara broke a glass or two. It went late into the night, and again three nights later, and once more the following Friday. Not like any of them had anything else to do, after all.

But after a few weeks the repeated drink-and-bitch sessions started to morph into something new. Spike brought DVDs -- at first Mad Max, but as time passed he brought his John Hughes collection, and a pile of similar movies. Tara mocked him for liking The Breakfast Club but he just laughed and produced a lipstick from his pocket.

"Well, love, are you as dextrous as Molly Ringwald?" he asked, and made to tuck it into her shirt.

Tara had drunk three screwdrivers by that point, and so she let him, and ended up with lipstick all over her face. Then of course Anya had to try, repeatedly until she got a perfect lipstick pucker.

"Now it's your turn, Spike," insisted Anya, tucking the lipstick into his t-shirt.

"Hey! I'll have you know I'm Bender in this story, not that silly twat Claire." He pulled out the lipstick from where it had fallen through his shirt to his crotch and tossed it back to Tara.

Anya crossed her arms obstreperously. "Who are you calling a twat?"

Tara rolled the lipstick around in her palm, suddenly maudlin. "I've always been more of an Ally Sheedy than a Molly Ringwald." Before she could get deeply into an alcoholic funk, though, she was pounced upon.

"Here, love, none of that," whispered Spike as he knocked her on to the floor and grabbed the lipstick.

"Right," said Anya brightly, as she took the lipstick from Spike and drew a cupid's bow pout on Tara's lips. "I'm Molly Ringwald, Spike can be Emilio Estevez, and you can be Judd Nelson." Spike opened his mouth to say something obnoxious but froze when Anya leaned forward (or fell, more like) and kissed Tara. No, snogged Tara. Tongue, little whimpers, everything Molly Ringwald's lilywhite character didn't even dream of at night with her hand working under the sheets.

A few days later they were drinking rum and cokes and watching Say Anything.

"What the fuck is up with this cunt and her pen?" cursed Spike at the screen. "Jesus, he's Lloyd Dobler, he's learning kickboxing, he is the fucking keymaster, and she gives him a bloody pen?"

"Shut up, Spike," said Tara. "We're watching the movie."

Anya sniffled into her rum and Coke. "Yes. I wasn't even a teenager to be indoctrinated by this film, and I still find it extremely compelling. So be quiet."

Spike snorted. "How can it be a happy ending if he ends up with pen girl?" Nobody was fooled; it was Spike had brought the DVD.

"I'll give you a pen, Spike," said Anya. I have some wooden pens that were a promotion for some book that got sent to the Magic Box, and I'll give you one of those right through the heart if you don't shut it."

"Ooh, like in Grosse Point Blank," mused Tara into her drink, while Anya tackled Spike and poked him in the chest with her finger as if it were a stake. She smiled, bemused, as they wrestled on the floor, fighting, tickling, and necking.

"You give me a heart and I'll give you this pen!"

"Yeah, I got your pen right here!"

It was amazing, really, Spike's power to be annoying about movies he liked.

"Maclay, Maclay, Maclay, anyone? Maclay," he droned in terrible imitation of Ben Stein's monotone.

Tara and Anya showered him with popcorn and chips. "God, I should just have 'Shut up, Spike,' tattoed on my forehead," said Anya.

"It's been done," said Spike, grinning. "Bueller, Buller, Buell-". Tara hit him with a beer bottle to shut him up. It worked for a minute.

"Does running a car backwards to reverse the odometer work?" asked Anya. "Perhaps being a used car dealership can be made extremely profitable."

"Nah, doesn't work in real life any better than in the movie. Sorry, love."

But Anya had already turned from the movie and was rapidly calculating figures on the back of a pizza box. "If I purchase at ten... and sell under margin..." This, mused Tara, was what came of switching to beer. Increased sobriety had its downside.

Then she stopped worrying, as Spike gave up needling Anya and slipped down behind Tara on the floor. His cool tongue slipped into her ear and his hand cupped her breast. As she pressed into his hand and moaned, he whispered into her ear: "Bueller, Bueller," then bit her softly on the throat.

"John Hughes never gives the nerds any action," said Tara, sipping her Dr. Pepper. "They have to be the good friend who lets the girl get away to the cool guy. What's up with that?"

Anya waved her Coke can at the screen. "I believe that Duckie and Blane should hook up. I would find that far more visually appealling than either of them having intercourse with Molly Ringwald. John Hughes has an excessively prudish streak to keep them apart." She pursed her lips, clearly imagining Duckie and Blane in a sweaty clutch.

"Eh, they should just have a threesome. A pretty in pink threesome," said Spike, absently.

Anya put down her Coke.

Tara snorted into her Dr. Pepper.

Spike turned away from the screen and met eyes with the girls.

And as Psychedlic Furs music swelled in the background, all three slowly smiled.