"Why is this book all about me?" she asked the empty room as she scanned the pages with rising paranoia. Giles had said the book listed dimensions, but her name was everywhere; had he conveniently just left that out?
"But... it's not me," she murmured, her brow furrowing as she read the cramped text. "I never did any of these things."
Delmajara; Land of Seven Suns. Buffy Anne Summers was born as a potential Slayer in the city of Delriech, vampire capital of this world. She was never called to be a Slayer, and works in a nightclub for vampires owned by William the Bloody.
Buffy let out a laugh. "Right, like that would ever happen." Rolling her eyes, she turned the page.
Sakthal. Buffy Summers was killed at age 15, by vampires.
Alternate Reality of Earth no. 403,243. Buffy Summers was killed by Angelus, at age 17.
Alternate Reality of Earth no. 404,712. Buffy Summers was badly wounded when fighting Angelus over Acathla. William the Bloody returned to the scene of the battle, taking Buffy to get medical attention.
"What?" she whispered, not bothering to read the rest of the passage. They were all quite long, even the ones that said she had died. "Alternate realities? I thought this was a book of dimensions." She snorted. "Obviously, this guy was crazy, because Spike saving me? So wouldn't happen. I mean, I'd really have to see that."
The sensation of nausea was immediate, and Buffy pressed a hand to her stomach in a futile attempt to settle its contents, her eyes widening as the world seemed to melt around her like running paint, the colors blurring and changing until...
"Oh, I'm gonna yark," she whimpered.
The sensation passed, and Buffy's mouth fell open, her eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief at her surroundings.
"How I get in my house?" she asked herself softly, looking down as she realized she was holding something, and saw that she held a sponge in her right hand, and a plate in her left.
I'm washing dishes? she thought helplessly. Did I black out?
"Buffy!"
"Mom?" the Slayer called, finding a dish towel to dry her hands with as her mother entered the kitchen.
"I've got to stop by the gallery," Joyce informed her daughter, tilting her head to fasten her earring into place. "Our shipment of stand came in late."
"Um... okay."
"Will Spike be over for dinner tonight?"
"Huh?" Buffy asked, squinting with confusion.
Spike? At our house? Eating?
"Spike?" Joyce asked with a raise of her brow, smiling indulgently at her daughter's expression. "Is he coming for dinner or not?"
"Um, I'm not sure," Buffy replied, trying to play this all very cool, until she figured out what the hell was going on. Spike didn't just stop by for dinner, unless she counted that time her mom had made him cocoa, but that was just weird, and she didn't like to dwell on it.
Her mother checked her watch, smiling. "Well, it's almost six, so he'll be here any minute, I'm sure."
"Uh, yeah. Guess so."
"Buffy, are you alright?" Joyce asked, crossing the kitchen to feel her daughter's forehead. "I don't want you getting sick again."
"I'm fine, Mom," she said, managing a small smile. "Just tired."
"I told you not to go out last night," Joyce admonished, but she was smiling. "Well, I'll be back in an hour or two. Dinner's in the oven."
"Okay."
As soon as her mother was out the door, Buffy left the kitchen to go upstairs, noting the different pictures on the wall of the stairwell.
There were only small changes, nothing alarming, but she quickly pieced together what had happened.
She was in the book. Well, not exactly, but she'd somehow managed to put herself in an alternate dimension. An incredibly weird one, since Spike was now a welcome dinner guest at her house.
Entering her room, Buffy inhaled sharply, noting the changes as her eyes roamed the four walls. Her curtains were dark and heavy against the windows, and there were more posters on her walls, none of them looking familiar to her at all. Who the hell were the Sex Pistols?
Buffy then glimpsed the biggest difference of all as her eyes strayed past her dresser mirror before locking there and widening with shock.
She had the reflection of a crazy person.
Her hair was absolutely insane, with little braids framing her face, and strands of it were colored with flaming red dye. Her eyes were lined with dark kohl, and her necklace...
Well, it was actually kind of pretty, she mused, looking to the silver Celtic Cross that lay across her skin. Apparently her fashion-sense wasn't going through its death throes quite yet.
Hearing the door close downstairs, Buffy jumped, looking toward the hall.
"You home, Goldilocks?" a voice called out.
Oh God, it's him. Spike's in my house.
"Buffy?"
"In my room!" she managed to call, whimpering when she heard him coming up the stairs. What was wrong with this world? Was Spike chipped here? What if he wasn't? She angrily berated herself for not grabbing a stake from her weapons chest before he could arrive.
When he appeared in her doorway, however, all thoughts of staking Spike fled, replaced with a floundering confusion.
He looked nice. He looked better than nice, he looked amazingly handsome, in actual blue jeans and a fitted black sweater instead of his usual 'I'm a bad guy' leather coat. His hair had grown out a little, revealing much darker roots, which she'd expected. The only way she could tell it was the Spike she knew at all were all the silver rings that still adorned his fingers, along with the chipped, black polish on his nails. And those stupid boots.
She was wrapped in his arms before she even realized, and had to stop herself from shoving him away. She'd already guessed this was one of those "alternate realities," but she wished she'd read more about this one before she'd been sucked into it.
Her and Spike were dating?
"I missed you," he said softly, his silken voice causing Buffy to tremble slightly against him.
"Y-You did?"
"Hell, it's been nearly twelve hours. I'd apologize for keeping you out so late, but you really didn't seem to mind."
As he pulled away from her, Buffy saw the infamous leer on his face, and her eyes widening with horror.
He was talking about sex. They were having sex? Would he want her to have sex right now?
After a moment, she realized he was staring down at her, his eyes skimming her features with a lover's touch.
Oh, we're so having sex,she whimpered silently. "You alright, love?"
"Uh, yeah," Buffy forced herself to speak, her throat oddly dry. "Just not feeling that good."
"Really?" His face displayed such concern, she couldn't believe it. Was this really Spike? Sure, she knew it wasn't her Spike, but she felt like the same Buffy, even though she was desperately in need of a make-over. "Sure it's not just a hang over?"
Hangover? We're drinking buddies, too?
Buffy smiled brightly, trying to pull of a look of chagrin. "Well, maybe," she lied.
He chuckled. "Wondered why we weren't shagging yet, with Joyce gone, and all. Where's the Niblet, anyway?"
"Niblet?"
