Obviously, I own none of the characters: See Jane Austen and Joss Whedon for that.
All through dinner, Buffy thought about it. Her mother’s discussion of the new line of pre-Columbian (or was it pre-Cambrian?) bowls on display in the gallery drifted past her, eclipsed by the thought of The Dress. The pink, shiny, make-Angel-drool dress. As soon as she’d slung the dishes into the dishwasher, she refused her mother’s offer of sorbet and raced up to her room to try it on.
Even without the wig, the dress transformed her. No longer Buffy Summers, she was an elegant lady ready for a ball, even a country assembly like she’d read about in the Cliff’s notes for Pride and Prejudice last week. She’d enter the room, and women with flowers in their hair and men in form-fitting evening clothes would greet her with bows and curtsies while candlelight sparkled from a dozen chandeliers.
She dimmed the light in her room and let the music of the imagined scene carry her away. Over by the wall, the older women in lace and shawls were gossiping. Girls her own age giggled behind their fans and tossed their curls at the handsome men, particularly at the pair of five-alarm hotties who stood only a few feet from her.
The musicians were playing some sort of jig-type music, mostly violins, over which she mostly heard the walla walla of the crowd. But the shorter, smiling hottie spoke loudly just then and she couldn’t help but eavesdrop.
“Come, Darcy, I hate to see you so stupid. There are any number of pretty girls here – why don’t you ask one to dance?”
The other hottie – tall, dark and handsome, just like Angel – answered dryly, “You know I only like to dance when I am particularly acquainted with my partner, and you have chosen the only truly handsome woman in the room.” He nodded across the crowd at Cordelia, perfectly put together as always in a floor length gown.
“Let her introduce you to some of the other local girls. One of her friends is available,” his friend urged him with a careless nod towards Buffy.
“She is not nearly handsome enough to tempt me,” the dark-haired one replied. “I am in no mood to give consequence to young ladies who have been slighted by the other gentlemen.”
In the moment it took her to fully decode the insult, Buffy found her hand in a fist and the dark-haired man’s nose made a satisfying crunch as she leaped over his nicer friend.
“You know, I was a Prom Princess at my old school –“
“Buffy! Is everything alright?” At the sound of her mother’s voice, Buffy came to. Her bedside lamp lay in smithereens, and Mr. Gordo was giving her a shocked piggy stare. She called a reassurance to her mother and hastily put the dress away. Surely things would go better than that on Halloween.