Comes to sprawled on an abused sofa. He lifts his head and is shocked that there are no trace circles of light flashing before his eyes. No indication whatsoever that his vision is permanently dimmed or so much as the after-imagine of staring at something too bright. He thinks it might have worked and is equally thrilled and scared shit-less.

He pulls himself up and takes in his surroundings. Tiny living room of what appears to be an apartment. Kitchen to his right separated from this room with a half-wall bar. No stools at it. The couch he was apparently napping on under a window dressed in heavy shades, linen so dark blue he would have thought it black if the sun wasn't shining through the material. The couch comfortable and a slightly lighter hue of blue. Well used, but not threadbare. Wooden coffee table before him, nicked, old, books open and papers strewn from one end of its surface to the other. Wooden floors, rugs randomly spread around the room. A large television set with a Playstation sitting on the floor in front of it. He knows for damned sure he's never been here before. Glances down at himself and is jarred by the black and white Adidas pants and white t-shirt he hasn't ever seen before, much less put on today. Looks at his feet and sees white Adidas sneakers with black stripes. //Always had the ones with green or orange stripes//

He stands and realises two things: he has to pee really really badly, and he smells something burning. Sprints as much as possible with his bladder about to split and sees there's a steady plume of smoke rising from the oven door. Thanks whoever left the over-mitt out on the counter, flings the door open, and yanks out two completely blackened pizza pockets.

"Damn. Hungry." Hasn't eaten since before work, and even though he's disoriented and frightened, he could eat. The tray falls to the counter with an ear-shattering clang when two arms wrap around his waist, and he feels breath on the side of his neck. Soft chuckle, barely audible. Full lips pressed to the juncture of neck and shoulder, and he's really about to wet himself now. He knows the laugh. Would know it in pitch-black with no tactile clues like the soft flattening of breasts against his back.

"Faith?" Keeps his voice as steady as possible, but he's had almost enough already. No idea where he is, why his clothes match, Faith wrapped around him like he's her personal squeeze toy, and really regretting his fucked up solution to Anya's actions //no one's even tried to kill me yet, and I'm about to wig the big wig//

"What's the damage, Xander? You sound like that shaky grip you got on sanity's slipped a couple notches. It was just a fucking snack." She turns him around, and he almost gasps. This might be Faith but not one he ever knew. "Male PMS or what? Jesus, sometimes your temper really... do I have snot running down my nose?" She wipes her face with the back of her hand. A hand with short, unpainted fingernails. One ring adorns the ring finger, a black-opal set in silver.

"Xander, really, no joke. You're scaring me." Reaches out and touches the side of his face. He wants to flinch away from this bizarre creature in the long-sleeved, purple shirt and tight but not sleazy jeans. Thinks alien abduction, thinks possession. Wonders why she's not in jail here, why she isn't threatening him somehow and tries to play this hand as it was dealt.

"I'm ok, I just had a weird dream." Tries to go for light, jocular, ends up increasing the frown on Faith's face when his voice cracks slightly.

"I told you to stop reading that demonic-lore shit when you feel tired. It happens every fucking time. When are you gonna figure out your own brain, Harris?" //every time? What the hell is she...she's seen me asleep?// She smiles, and his breath catches slightly. Wide, full lips drawn back in genuine pleasure //affection?//, dimple in her right cheek, and before he has any idea what's going on, those lips meet his, nipping at the bottom to pull his apart. Slither of tongue, and her hands press into his chest, brush of a fingertip over a nipple. He freezes in place, and she disengages.

"A'ight then, babe. What was it about, because you're way more off than I thought." Pulling back from him, she hops up on the bar behind her and fixes him with a look Xander's sure could melt plastic.

"I gotta pee. Could you wait on the tale telling?" Reaches up to push the hair back from his face, reflex gesture since it's grown so long in the past months. No hair to push back when his fingers reach his face, and Faith's stare turns quizzical.

"Far be it from me to keep a man out of the bathroom. Hit it, and look for your brain behind the commode." As he turns, he hopes he's heading in the right direction.

Out of the kitchen, past the front door, through the living room, there's a short hall-way. Three doors, one closed, two open, and thank the lord above or below for that. Enters the bathroom and feels the panic setting in when he accidentally glances in the mirror. Xander Harris circa 1999. He guesses at the date, but he knows it's not the him that looked back at him in the mirror this morning. //that explains Faith, you nimrod, but not the part with the naughty touching...who in hell lives here? Fuck, this sucks. I am an idiot iamanidiotiamanidiot// With a sensation like a head rush, he notices the heft of his arms, the slide of his pants over his legs, the hang of the fabric of his shirt; it's not just the face that's different. This is the body he had before he 'filled-out' as Dawn called it. Skinnier, more awkward and able to process copious amounts of sugary food items without packing fat on his frame. Flushes the toilet, and tries to collect himself.

Faith's sitting on the couch when he comes back.

"Sit. Talk. Stop freaking me out." She pats the cushion next to her. He complies and almost stands right back up when she shifts from her place on the couch to deposit herself in his lap. Wraps one arm around his neck and looks him in the eye.

"So, dream. Now." Much closer to the tone of voice he knows as her usual one, even if she's smiling to offset it.

//what the fuck do I say?? Come on, think think think// "I dreamed you were in jail for killing a human with a stake through the heart." Words mumbled together and high-pitched, she doesn't miss a blink. Scoots back somewhat on his lap so she can look him in the face better.

"Babe, I told you about this. If you keep everything bottled inside, you're gonna keep having these nightmares. You gotta talk. I know it's hard, fuck, no one knows BETTER than me. But you're still sliding, even though you act like you're not. It's not cool to keep us all waiting to see you lose your mind." She leans in and presses her lips against his cheek.

His heart feels like it might hammer out of his chest. She's acting so...not Faith-like, and being way too touchy-feely and emotion having. Not to mention him being the object of the feeling and touching. She saves him from dumping her on the ground when she suddenly stands and reaches for his hand. Yanks him to his feet.

"Giles and Wussley are expecting us, get your ass in gear. Hope you did your Chem homework, the old man might beat you with a stick if not." She pulls him behind her to the door.

Faith's seen this kinda shit before. Back home, B.S., before Sunnydale, and that name is too perfect. All the people she's seen act this shell-shocked or amped up have been crackheads or methheads though, and she's doubting Xander picked up a habit sometime around ten this morning. Sure, Xander has his moments. The drinking binges he seems to have gotten under control, the leaving himself open to being a vamp's tasty snack when she first came to town, the nightmares he rarely says anything about but she knows he has almost every night. But he was five by five this morning. Or she thought he was. She doesn't have the best people skills on the planet, but she thinks she knows him as well as she's ever known another person, and whatever he has on his mind is making him about as stable as her old lady after a week-long bender. She's tired of all the indirectness of these people. She misses little from her life previous to Sunnydale, but the blunt speech of the people she was raised with is one of the ones she does. Xander wouldn't tell her shit if she just out and asked him to cough it up, and her skin itches when she thinks about the indirect route she's gonna have to take to get her info.

On the walk back to the school, she notices he's left his bag at her place. Doesn't say anything. Knows fewer words are best when he fades on her. He didn't try to hold her hand or touch her hair, and she's damned sure that might mean he's about to kick up another no-sex period. God. She can pick 'em. Last time it was three weeks, no bump and grind, and she'd had to jump him to end the spell. Didn't hurt him much when he tried to pry her off and gave in quickly enough. Feels a twinge of what she guesses at guilt at the memory, but she's never been 'let's wait' girl, and her boy just needed to be brought out of his shell. Yeah. Like now maybe.

She sees the startled expression on his face as they walk up the steps to the front doors of the school. Where'd he think they were going? Bora Bora? Thinks too much. Kicks himself in the ass too much. Thought it was getting better. But she knows she sees what she wants to see, selective sight like her mom used to say about her dad, selective hearing. She wants Xander to be ok, so maybe she thinks he is more than is really true. She sees his right hand balled into a fist, knuckles white, and decides she'll try to be more gentle, more how do they put it...understanding. She knows that if someone had shown her the way years back, maybe more of her memories would be the kind she has a of Xander, moonlight and laughter, pizza and bad videos, and fewer that are nothing but screams, bruises and blood.

************************

He fights the urge to rubberneck as he walks through the halls of a school that last time he visited was sporting the extra-charred look from the spring apocalypse collection. Every once in a while, he spies a face that he knows doesn't make it past graduation, some that were vampire fodder, mayor-snake casualties, a couple that went MIA so completely the *milk carton* with their picture on it couldn't even be found.

And this is just too weird. He's foreshadowing guy and everything around him is screaming fucking Déjà vu until he closes his eyes to block out the avalanche of remember-mes that just might send him over the edge.

He bumps into Faith as she stops suddenly. Damn, that was smooth; she turns back and glares at him like he's grown another head. He just barely suppresses the instinct to check and make sure he hasn't, because anything's possible on the hell mouth. Or is it? Meaning: The Hell Mouth.

Has he landed somewhere that Sunnydale is just a sleepy, little burg with less demony population and only one cemetery? No Boca de la Inferno? That's a concept that freezes his brain so completely, even more than the Faith date-age scenario he's found himself in, he can't even respond when she makes a remark about someone's inbred cousin chained in their basement, can't do more than gape when she shrugs in confusion. With a punch of both arms, she sends the library door swinging violently inward and swaggers through. "Cancel the lameness, the party has arrived."

Xander falls in behind her, swept up in her momentum and feels a twinge of dread mixed with bittersweet nostalgia. Here are the rows and rows of books that filled many all-night research sessions, mementos of simpler times. Times when they were fighting for their lives...together...and there was no college...no initiative...no in-fighting breaking them apart...no dead mothers. Just core Scoobies in one supportive lump of cooperative effort.

This must be some kind of fresh start. He looks around, sees Wesley pacing in front of the reference desk. The nervous energy coming from the man probably doesn't weigh very favorably for the Sunnydale is normal camp. Also, why would he be here if this was a normal town?

Another movement catches his eye, just off of his right elbow. Giles comes out of the office carrying a heavy book and stops when he notices the new arrivals. "Oh Xander, there you are. Did you need some money, I noticed you didn't take a lunch today."

And gu-guh? Giles cares about his nutritional status *and* offers him money? This world is of the utmost bizarreness. Xander can't help but study the librarian like he's a bug caught under the microscope. Since when did Giles grow a paternal bone, a paternal bone for Xander? That's just beyond freaky.

A wrinkling of the eyebrow and there's a concerned look that makes Xander snort out loud, which just gets him more of the same. "Don't forget that the Honor Society Photos are being taken today." The last is said with a slightly pained expression and a sigh as he takes in Xander's tank top and running pants.

"And they need someone to set up the equipment?" In this world he's some kind of janitor's helper? Um, okay. He guesses he can live with that. Don't janitors belong to unions? That might not be so bad.

"Xander, we talked about this. The Honor society looks good on your college applications. Admissions are looking for a well-rounded profile, grades *plus* extra curricular activities." Giles is giving the vibe of a well-practiced argument.

"And why would they be looking at *me*, specifically?"

Small sigh. "Xander, 3.75 is nothing to be ashamed of, calculus was a very difficult course for you. But you really did quite well, not an A, but a good showing nonetheless. I told you not to fret about it, Chemistry will pull you right back up in the running."

Whoa, they had talked about this before? He took Calculus...and apparently chemistry? And he did WELL? He looks around for a chair, because he suddenly feels a little light-headed. He's like super brain guy?

Giles sees his confusion and pushes him toward the reading table in the middle of the room, muttering something about skipping breakfast and how did he expect to do well on the Chem quiz today if he didn't have a solid meal in him and something else that was lost on him when Xander finally noticed who was sitting at the table. From behind various, half-opened books, Willow looks up, smiles when she sees him, but frowns when she notices Faith.

The Slayer swings a chair around until its back hits the edge of the table. She straddles it and scoots it an inch or two closer to the one that Xander hovers over and slaps him on the ass. "Sit it down, sweet cheeks."

He can see the annoyed glare Willow throws at the slayer. At least that hasn't changed. Willow wasn't exactly president of the Faith fan club in his world either. And he wonders how many other things about Will are the same here? Does she have a Tara in her life; is she still an Oz lover; does she have any remnants of that childhood crush on Xander that Jesse used to tease her about; does she still love maple-walnut ice cream?

How many parallels are there between both universes? There's a big one sitting next to her. Dead boy. And how delightful to see that some things never change...or do they? Is he a bloodsucker here? Have they been treated to demony fun with Angelus?

Xander leans forward, looks him right in the eye and says loudly enough for everyone else to hear it, "How's that soul thing going?"

A look of supreme confusion crosses Angel's face, then he looks to Willow as if she can decipher the strange Xanderspeak that he doesn't even want to tackle.

Xander restates his accusation, "You're a vampire."

Willow wrinkles her nose in concern and pats his hand. "Have you been drinking the Dr Pepper again? You know how hyper that makes you."

And Xander doesn't miss the frown when Angel's lips tighten. He's upset about something. Guess that old hatred between them hasn't changed either. What's going on here, it occurs to him that he hasn't seen Buffy yet. Where is that girl?

He's about to ask when Wesley gives him a disapproving glance and addresses Dead boy, "Continue Angel. You said that a African-American vampire has been rumoured to be recruiting for some type of nefarious undertaking?"

"Mr Trick." Xander cocks his head to see what Willow's reading and blurts out the name.

"Excuse me, what?" Wesley pulls his glasses from his face and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"How did you know that?" Angel's forehead scrunches up in the perpetual furrow Xander always thinks of as Confusion face.

"Everyone know...uh, I heard it somewhere." Xander's brain reengages, and he realizes this is the library, it's in one piece, and he shouldn't know something like a random vampire's name. He needs to shut up. Right now. Blend, that's his motto.

A loud bell sounds signalling time for classes. Willow picks up her backpack

from the floor. "Well, you have Mr Lindley and Chem, let's go." As they walk through the doors and into the hallway, she looks at him quizzically.

"Where's your backpack?" He starts and feels his chest constrict. This was a universal nightmare come true: a test he had no idea about and no school supplies to boot. Not to mention that whole not going to school for a couple years thing.

"Ah, I must have left it when I went out for lunch." He doesn't look her in the face, but knows the look she's giving him. All steel.

"You must have left it huh? Let me guess, you're not too worried about it because it's only at Faith's apartment anyway. Here, you can use one of my pencils for your test." She shoves the number 2 into his grasp and angles into the door to her class. He catches a glimpse of Ms. Calendar at her desk. Apartment Faith's, check. No Angelus, check. Failure ahoy, check.

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