Finally. Two and one half days of rest and relaxation. 60 glorious hours to
myself.
I'd been looking forward to this all week. My ex was taking the kids for the entire weekend. The Space Channel was having an all day Buffy-a-thon featuring the 10 most popular episodes. I had my chocolate, my popcorn, my homemade Greek pizza with extra feta and spare videotapes to catch the eps that I didn't already have. The only way my mini vacation could possibly get any better would be if a certain peroxide-blonde male were to show up at my door wrapped in a bow.
I glanced out the balcony window after I set up the VCR and made a face. It was shaping up to be an incredibly crappy day. The driving rain beat a staccato rhythm against the sliding glass door and made me very happy I was inside snuggled under my blanket. I turned up the volume on the TV as the opening scene began to unfold - Joyce dropping my favorite Slayer off at Sunnydale High for the very first time.
Two eps and half a pizza later, local storm warnings started scrolling across the bottom of the screen. During the commercial break I gave the ex a call. He and the kidlets were fine, but he did mention it had taken them an extra 20 minutes to get to his place because of near zero visibility. As I got off the phone, a flash caught my eye. About 5 seconds had passed when it was followed by a boom. The lights flickered and then steadied.
Fuck.
If the power went out, I was going to be one very unhappy camper. I'd already been drawn back into the kick-ass action on the small screen when the room was illuminated by another flash. This time the crack-boom of the thunder followed in under 2 seconds. I frowned. It was getting closer.
Shit.
I didn't want to chance one of the poles on our street getting hit and sending a power surge that fried everything electronic I owned, but, damn it! I grumbled as I unplugged the computer and the stereo. Standing in front of the television, I waited till Buffy finished dusting the vampire she was battling before I turned it and the VCR off. I moved the TV stand away from the wall and reached behind it to grasp the plug.
I had it in my hand and was just pulling it from the wall, when another flash of lightening lit up my front room. There was an eerie arc of energy from the outlet to the plug, not like a regular electrical arc. I've seen those - I once lived in a place with faulty wiring that melted the ground prong of my computer right into the plug. It was hot, intense and smelled of ozone. Whatever it was coming out of my outlet was cold and green. That's when I tasted lightening, felt white like tiny pinpricks where it touched my skin. And watched it jumping up my arm in small arcs.
I screamed, tried to drop the plug, tried to wrench my body away, but I was frozen. In seconds I was enveloped in the strange green haze. Cold blackness closed in around me, and then there was nothing.
I gradually became aware of several things. I was lying on a cold, hard surface. I was in pain. Someone was doing Riverdance in my head. In steel toed boots. With cleats. I groaned.
Through the myriad of painful sensations, I sensed a presence near me. Maybe a paramedic?
"Uhhnn," I managed.
"Shhhh," the person whispered fearfully.
Fearfully? I tried to open my eyes, focus. Ask where I was, what had happened.
"Nnygnnn?"
Okay. Obviously the talking thing was not going well at that point. "You have to be quiet," insisted the voice, and this time I definitely heard terror. I know that sound well, my children have it in their voices every time I tell them I'm going to clean their rooms if they don't. I forced my eyes open and blinked several times.
I appeared to be in some dank little room. No furniture, no windows. Lying on a cement floor - that would explain the cold and hard factor. There was a man kneeling next to me. He was rather blurry, but somewhat familiar. He slipped an arm around me and helped me to sit up.
"You've got to get out of here before he comes back. He'll be so angry it didn't work, he'll kill you for sure."
That got my attention.
"Wha... huh?" I tried to clamber to my feet, falling heavily on my reluctant benefactor. I managed to bowl us both over.
I heard him curse, then sigh as he pulled me to my feet. I almost lost my footing, but managed to remain upright by holding on to him for dear life.
"C'mon," he urged, pulling me out of the room faster than I could really manage. Standing in one place was faster than I could manage at that moment though, so I think I did really well considering. I noticed that he was still talking.
"I'll help you outside, but after that, you're on your own. If Warren finds out I helped you..." I could feel him shudder as he helped my up the stairs. I shook my head and abruptly regretted the action. What the hell was going on? Someone wanted me dead? The only person I could recall pissing off recently was the guy at the muffler place. He wasn't impressed when I looked over his work and told him to weld the muffler on properly or he wasn't getting paid. Okay, maybe my neighbor for when I hacked back all the blackberry bushes that were invading my yard last summer. Oh, and possibly the cashier at... all right. I admit that I might be on several people's shit lists, but I just can't see having aggravating anyone enough that they would want to take me out.
And where the hell was I, anyway? I had a throbbing head and a zillion questions, and it didn't look like this guy was going to help me out with either aspirin or answers.
The cool night air hit me as my companion guided me out the back door of the house. I started to feel a little more aware, even managing a few steps without stumbling. He hurried me through the back yard and out a wooden gate, then abruptly released me beside some garbage cans. I would have tripped over them and caused an unholy racket if he hadn't caught me in time.
"I can't help you anymore!" he hissed, his face inches from mine as he held my upper arms. "I've gotta go back. You've probably got less than 15 minutes before Warren realizes you've escaped. You better get going." With a shove, he sent me sprawling down the alley, then re-entered the yard, letting the wooden gate close quietly behind him.
I finally realized who he reminded me of. One of the idiot triplets from my favorite show. Jonathan.
To borrow a buffyism... like huh??
"This is not the holiday I ordered," I muttered sarcastically as I staggered down the alley.
Step. Step. One foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Don't fall down. I was managing, every minute feeling a little clearer, a little less like a limp noodle. I'd gone at least 6 or 7 blocks by now - but where I was going, I had no idea. I kept looking around for something that looked like a landmark, anything that I could recognize, but it was completely unfamiliar territory. I just kept slogging away, hoping that maybe I could at least find a payphone and call the police, say I'd been threatened. Maybe they'd come get me and take me to a nice safe police station.
My inner musings were interrupted by the awareness that I was no longer alone. My insides clenched, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and I just knew that there was someone watching me. Damn! Had that guy come after me? I glanced around, trying to locate my stalker. A figure crouched in the shadows about 10 feet to the left.
I'm not a fighter. I love watching a good ass-whupping on TV or in the movies. I'm a guy-movie kinda gal. Die Hard, Lethal Weapon, Blade – those are my kinda flicks. But in real life? I took some WenLiDo self defense training. I can get away from a mugger and probably show a would-be rapist a not-so-good time. But if someone is coming to lay a serious hurtin' on my ass, I'm probably not going to be able to offer a lot in the way of resistance. So when this guy rushed me, I was thinking I'd pretty much had a good life, goodbye and thanks for all the fish. I reacted the way I was taught, braced, used the force of his attack against him and threw him over my shoulder.
I expected that maybe I'd given myself a couple of seconds to try to find a big rock or something. I did not expect to see the guy grabbing some serious hang time in the air and land in a heap a few yards away. My jaw dropped. As my mind ran around in scared little circles trying to process this interesting datum, my assailant picked himself up off the ground and turned to face me.
Now, shadows are sometimes scary when you're a kid. You can imagine all sorts of monsters and whatnot hiding in them. Let me just say the face that was revealed in the light of the street lamp made me grateful for shadows. Ugly, scary, misshapen, bad teeth, nasty sharp pointy teeth... Okay, this ain't FUNNY, God!
Fuck.
He looked like a...
Like a...
No. No fucking way. They're not real!
"Bad dream," I stated out loud, like that was going to help. "Yeah, this is a bad dream. I'm going to wake up and it'll all be gone."
Tall, dark and fangy decided that would be a good moment to rush me. And I might add here that I have never been so happy that my bitch of a WenLiDo instructor forced us to drill over and over and over till we were ready to revolt and duct tape her naked to a telephone pole, because my automatic reaction saved my life. Snap kick, jab, sweep.
Damn. That felt real. And he was getting up again. This was getting old really fast.
Think, think... okay. I'm trapped in a nightmare. With a... a... gulp. I needed something wooden and sharp, and obviously the sooner the better. Backing away, I looked around wildly, wishing for a Mr. Pointy to drop from the heavens. Oh, look. I've backed into a picket fence. That'll be handy. Adrenaline. It's a wonderful thing. With a jerk I wrenched a slat free and waved the sharpened end menacingly at the dental nightmare. He just laughed - a gruesome sound it was, too - and came at me again.
In the scuffle that ensued, I lost my makeshift stake. He kept grabbing me and I kept breaking free, but I was losing ground. Then, in a moment of brilliance, I realized the fence would be just as effective if he fell on it really hard. So, I jumped on him and he did.
Have you ever cut up a chicken with a knife that isn't quite sharp enough? It's kind of hard to force it through the flesh and it feels squishy. And if you hit a bone, you can feel it crunch and snap as you saw through it. Try impaling a body on a picket fence some time. Or don't. It's not for the squeamish.
Three things happened in rapid succession; ugly spewed blood all over me, I woofed my cookies and suddenly there was a huge dust cloud. I lost my balance as the body vanished and fell onto the pickets myself.
"Ouch! Fuck!" I pushed myself off the fence, and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. Then I spit. Ashes. I was covered with ashes. Oh, this was too gross for words.
"Getting sloppy, Slayer."
The unmistakable voice, complete with oh-so-sexy English accent came from behind me. I whimpered. It was too much. I could feel my knees buckling. He caught me before I hit the ground, eased me down and then knelt on the grass beside me. I slumped against the fence, grateful for the support
"Are you hurt?"
I heard the anxiety in his voice, but I didn't want to look at him. This couldn't be real. It had to be a delusion. Yeah. I'm delusional, that's it. So why the hell aren't the throb in my head and gash on my stomach from that fence delusions too? I glanced down at my stomach. Touched my fingers to the gash. Realized that it was already closing. I whimpered again.
A cold, pale hand with gentle fingers and nails covered in chipped black polish examined the wound.
"This doesn't look serious, Slayer. Do you have another I didn't see?" The hand was already questing, in search of hidden injuries, looking to assess damages unseen.
"Slayer?"
It slowed, stilled, came to rest on my upper arm, imitating the grasp of the terrified boy who had shoved me into the alley not too long ago.
"Buffy?"
He turned my upper body to face him. My eyes were still fixated on the hand that encircled my arm. Cold fingers slipped under my chin, gently tugging my face towards him. I couldn't avoid it any longer. I looked up into a very familiar face, sensuous lips, aristocratic cheekbones, piercing blue eyes topped by that signature shock of unnaturally blond hair. His expressive face made his concern evident.
I didn't even realize I'd touched his face until he started slightly. I jerked my hand back guiltily. "I'm sorry," I squeaked out as I looked away. His fingers drew my face back to his.
"Nothin' to be sorry for, luv," he quipped with one of his trademark evil- yet-dead-sexy grins. "I know it's hard for you to keep your hands of my body."
Those cool, pale hands went from being dispassionate and clinical to tender, intimate. The one that had been grasping my arm found its way around my waist and the other slipped behind my neck, fingers entwined in my hair. A higher pitched whimper this time. Oooooh, this delusion is not playing fair, dammit!
"Maybe we could go back to my crypt and find a place amidst the rubble where I can give you a through looking over," he suggested in a low, silkily. "Just to be on the safe side and all."
And then the shakes set in. A little hyperventilation too.
Spike. Blood sucking, demon spawn, in love with Buffy, Big Bad vampire Spike. Shagging the Slayer Spike. Spike who obviously thinks I'm the Slayer. Spike, who's expression had gone from heat and desire to concern and fear.
Nothing like a little panic attack to spoil the mood.
"Slayer, what in the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
"Not the slayer," I choked out through chattering teeth.
"What?"
"I'm. Not. The Slayer."
He cocked an eyebrow and studied me for a moment. "Right. I'm takin' you home, pet. You obviously got a bump on the 'ead or something."
Before I could respond, he got to his feet and scooped me up in his arms. I struggled for a moment, but he just pulled me in tightly. "Stop wrigglin' aroun'," he ordered, and winced at the harsh tone. "I don't want to drop you."
With a sigh, I settled against him. Ear against his chest. His well- muscled, silent chest. Another whimper. Yes, I'm a wuss I admit it freely. The tears started then, rivulets coursing hotly down my face, my breath becoming ragged as sobs began to rack my frame. I turned my face into his chest, clutched at his leather duster and cried like there was no tomorrow - because I was beginning to suspect I might not have one. I didn't know how I'd gotten here, but since it didn't seem to be a dream, I was either caught in a psychotic episode or trapped in another reality. In either case, it probably meant I was not going to be waking up in my own bed in the morning.
I must have fallen asleep in his arms, because the next thing I knew we were going up the back steps of the Summer's home. Spike tapped his boot on the door, and a few seconds later a young woman with auburn hair opened it. Willow - yeah, red hair, funny stutter-y way of talking, nervous yet helpful Willow. Spell casting girl. Can I have the Atavan and Prozac now please?
"Oh, Goddess! Buffy!" she exclaimed, eyes wide in fright as she stepped out of the way so Spike could carry me inside. He carried me across the kitchen and into the living room, laying me down on the couch. "Is she okay? What happened?"
"I don't know, Red" the blonde vampire turned away to answer her. "I happened upon her just as she making very inventive use of a picket fence. All I could see was a little scrape, but... she's not herself."
At that, I started to laugh. It was that frantic laughter, the kind that's about one step removed from a hysterical crying fit. And since the nervous breakdown I'd just finished having all over Spike had left my already throbbing head feeling on par with what I imagined Glory's brain sucking was
like, more tears were not on my agenda. I forced myself to calm down.
"Mirror," I demanded weakly.
"What?" Wonderful, obtuse Willow.
"A mirror. Please?"
She jaunted quickly up the stairs and returned moments later with a handheld mirror. With a shaking hand, I took it. The moment of truth. I sat up and looked.
A young face with a thin, delicate nose and fine features stared back at me. The eyes didn't seem to know if they were hazel or green. Fine blond hair, a bit messy, in a shoulder length bob. She was a very pretty young woman. But she wasn't me.
"Attention K-Mart Shoppers!" I intoned in a department store, loudspeaker announcer voice. "The Blue light special today is on sub-let bodies from alternate dimensions. Available for a limited time only - get yours now before they're all gone." The mirror in my grasp popped and cracked as the pressure of my grip snapped the ridged plastic casing. I dropped it on my lap, and stared at the long gash across my palm as blood dripped down my arm and onto the couch.
Willow grabbed the broken mirror. "I, uhm, I'm gonna throw this out and then I, I'll go get the first aid kit." She whirled and left the room.
"Fuck," Spike let the word fall from his lips as he stared at me. I could see his nostrils flare, and the analytical part of my mind recognized that it was the scent of the blood. My analytical, curious side comes out when life flashes a 'WARNING: REALITY.SYS CORRUPTED. (A)BORT, (R)ETRY, (P)ANIC?' at me. Which probably explained why I went where I did.
"Have you fed tonight?"
He scrunched up his forehead. "Have I... no, not yet," he answered, looking askance at me.
I motioned for him to come closer. He did, warily. I rolled my eyes at him and indicated the floor beside me. He knelt beside the couch facing me. I offered him my hand, palm up. "Waste not, want not. Slayer blood's the good stuff, right?"
He jerked away as if I'd stuck a cross in his face, and then growled. It was a very scary sound. He grabbed my wrist and pushed it away from him, but didn't let go. "What kind of sick joke is this?" he snarled angrily.
I shook my head, giddy. Everything was feeling kind of dreamlike, as if I wasn't really there. Shock can be your friend. "No joke, Spikey," I said with a giggle. "Why wash it down the drain when you can make perfectly good use of it?"
I could see the desire in his eyes as he glanced back at the oozing wound. His tongue darted out and he unconsciously licked his upper lip. Oh, boy, I was beginning to understand what people saw in fanfiction that involved blood play. There was certainly an erotic factor to the whole lick-the- blood-off idea. Spike was apparently still undecided, so being the pro- active kinda gal I am, I dipped a finger from my other hand into the blood then darted forward and smeared it across his lips before he could pull away. And of course he licked it off. And then he was on my hand, carefully lapping the blood away, tracing the red trail down my wrist all the way to the inside of my elbow.
His lips and tongue were cool, but his touch was hot enough to turn on a glacier. Well. That was stupid of me. As I turned into a puddle of goo, I reflected on the fact that impulsivity is probably not the best option in decisions I made concerning Spike. It was hard to care about the face that he doesn't understand I'm not her.
He cradled my wounded hand between his as he pulled back and looked up at me with haunted eyes. "You... you're not Buffy, are you?"
Okay, maybe he did.
"No."
Willows chose that moment to reenter the room, first aid kit and washcloth in her grasp. She moved in beside Spike and took my hand from him, then frowned. "Where'd all the blood go?"
"To a good cause," I quipped.
Willow's eyes widened as she looked from me to Spike and back again. "You mean... you... uh..."
God, if that woman ever manages to say something uncomfortable without getting all flustered about it, I think I'll die of shock. Or maybe I would anyway, since I seemed to be having a rather sever case of it. "Yeah, why not?" I inquired matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "I mean, it's just going to get wasted anyway. At least this way, someone benefits." Oh, yeah, I wasn't firing on anywhere near full thrusters.
"Buffy," she began again, but Spike cut her off.
"It's not the Slayer, Red. It's her body, but it's not her inside."
She glared at him. Ooh! Resolve face. "How do you know that? Maybe she just had a relapse. Maybe the antidote I made wasn't strong enough. Maybe-"
"Willow." Spike gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "There's a difference. The essence in her blood. It's not Buffy's essence. You have to believe me. I'd know it anywhere, and - it's not her."
She fixed me with a deadly glare. "Faith?" she demanded angrily.
The buzzy, shocky feeling was starting to wear off. I answered with a sigh.
"If I was Faith, why would I tell you that I'm not Buffy? That would kind of defeat the whole purpose of the body swapping thing, dontcha think?"
Willow nodded. "That makes sense." Her face was still tight with worry. "Who are you then? And where is Buffy? What have you done with her?"
"I'm Dee," I answered tiredly. "I haven't got a clue where Buffy is. And I never did anything. I was minding my own business trying to watch my buffyfest when the weather turned bad. Then came the lightening and the unplugging of my TV which lead to the very Hellmouth-y looking glowy stuff crawling up my arm. Next thing I know, I'm in the Dungeon of the Dim and Jonathan's tossing me in the back alley while he babbles how it didn't work and Warren's going to kill me. And him if he gets caught. And then there was this vampire and this fence and then Spike showed up and well... here we are."
The two of them stared at me for a second, then glanced at each other. Willow was the first to speak. "Um, I need to do this thing in the kitchen, and maybe, Spike, you could help me?"
"Oh, right, that thing. Yeh. I can help."
I had to smile, and that led to a snicker, which led to a laugh, and then I was back to that crazy, frantic laughter. Oh, I was gonna be certifiable by the time this night was through.
"Yeah," I gasped between chortles, "You go do that thing. I'll just wait here till you're done that thing you have to do." I earned another worried glance from both of them before they left to go talk about me behind my back.
I took a deep breath, held it a few seconds, exhaled. Did it again. Pulled it together. Okay. Narrowly averted slipping off the edge there. I stared at the ceiling and tried to see patterns in the stucco until they came back. It was maybe 10 or 15 minutes later when I looked up to find two very somber faces.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions," Willow began. I had to feel sorry for her. She looked so sad, so scared.
"Yeah, I expected you would," I replied, unsurprised. Now that it was sinking in for them that I wasn't the Slayer, they were going to want some answers.
"So." Spike sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, draping an arm along the length of it. "You said something about a 'buffyfest'?"
I'd been looking forward to this all week. My ex was taking the kids for the entire weekend. The Space Channel was having an all day Buffy-a-thon featuring the 10 most popular episodes. I had my chocolate, my popcorn, my homemade Greek pizza with extra feta and spare videotapes to catch the eps that I didn't already have. The only way my mini vacation could possibly get any better would be if a certain peroxide-blonde male were to show up at my door wrapped in a bow.
I glanced out the balcony window after I set up the VCR and made a face. It was shaping up to be an incredibly crappy day. The driving rain beat a staccato rhythm against the sliding glass door and made me very happy I was inside snuggled under my blanket. I turned up the volume on the TV as the opening scene began to unfold - Joyce dropping my favorite Slayer off at Sunnydale High for the very first time.
Two eps and half a pizza later, local storm warnings started scrolling across the bottom of the screen. During the commercial break I gave the ex a call. He and the kidlets were fine, but he did mention it had taken them an extra 20 minutes to get to his place because of near zero visibility. As I got off the phone, a flash caught my eye. About 5 seconds had passed when it was followed by a boom. The lights flickered and then steadied.
Fuck.
If the power went out, I was going to be one very unhappy camper. I'd already been drawn back into the kick-ass action on the small screen when the room was illuminated by another flash. This time the crack-boom of the thunder followed in under 2 seconds. I frowned. It was getting closer.
Shit.
I didn't want to chance one of the poles on our street getting hit and sending a power surge that fried everything electronic I owned, but, damn it! I grumbled as I unplugged the computer and the stereo. Standing in front of the television, I waited till Buffy finished dusting the vampire she was battling before I turned it and the VCR off. I moved the TV stand away from the wall and reached behind it to grasp the plug.
I had it in my hand and was just pulling it from the wall, when another flash of lightening lit up my front room. There was an eerie arc of energy from the outlet to the plug, not like a regular electrical arc. I've seen those - I once lived in a place with faulty wiring that melted the ground prong of my computer right into the plug. It was hot, intense and smelled of ozone. Whatever it was coming out of my outlet was cold and green. That's when I tasted lightening, felt white like tiny pinpricks where it touched my skin. And watched it jumping up my arm in small arcs.
I screamed, tried to drop the plug, tried to wrench my body away, but I was frozen. In seconds I was enveloped in the strange green haze. Cold blackness closed in around me, and then there was nothing.
I gradually became aware of several things. I was lying on a cold, hard surface. I was in pain. Someone was doing Riverdance in my head. In steel toed boots. With cleats. I groaned.
Through the myriad of painful sensations, I sensed a presence near me. Maybe a paramedic?
"Uhhnn," I managed.
"Shhhh," the person whispered fearfully.
Fearfully? I tried to open my eyes, focus. Ask where I was, what had happened.
"Nnygnnn?"
Okay. Obviously the talking thing was not going well at that point. "You have to be quiet," insisted the voice, and this time I definitely heard terror. I know that sound well, my children have it in their voices every time I tell them I'm going to clean their rooms if they don't. I forced my eyes open and blinked several times.
I appeared to be in some dank little room. No furniture, no windows. Lying on a cement floor - that would explain the cold and hard factor. There was a man kneeling next to me. He was rather blurry, but somewhat familiar. He slipped an arm around me and helped me to sit up.
"You've got to get out of here before he comes back. He'll be so angry it didn't work, he'll kill you for sure."
That got my attention.
"Wha... huh?" I tried to clamber to my feet, falling heavily on my reluctant benefactor. I managed to bowl us both over.
I heard him curse, then sigh as he pulled me to my feet. I almost lost my footing, but managed to remain upright by holding on to him for dear life.
"C'mon," he urged, pulling me out of the room faster than I could really manage. Standing in one place was faster than I could manage at that moment though, so I think I did really well considering. I noticed that he was still talking.
"I'll help you outside, but after that, you're on your own. If Warren finds out I helped you..." I could feel him shudder as he helped my up the stairs. I shook my head and abruptly regretted the action. What the hell was going on? Someone wanted me dead? The only person I could recall pissing off recently was the guy at the muffler place. He wasn't impressed when I looked over his work and told him to weld the muffler on properly or he wasn't getting paid. Okay, maybe my neighbor for when I hacked back all the blackberry bushes that were invading my yard last summer. Oh, and possibly the cashier at... all right. I admit that I might be on several people's shit lists, but I just can't see having aggravating anyone enough that they would want to take me out.
And where the hell was I, anyway? I had a throbbing head and a zillion questions, and it didn't look like this guy was going to help me out with either aspirin or answers.
The cool night air hit me as my companion guided me out the back door of the house. I started to feel a little more aware, even managing a few steps without stumbling. He hurried me through the back yard and out a wooden gate, then abruptly released me beside some garbage cans. I would have tripped over them and caused an unholy racket if he hadn't caught me in time.
"I can't help you anymore!" he hissed, his face inches from mine as he held my upper arms. "I've gotta go back. You've probably got less than 15 minutes before Warren realizes you've escaped. You better get going." With a shove, he sent me sprawling down the alley, then re-entered the yard, letting the wooden gate close quietly behind him.
I finally realized who he reminded me of. One of the idiot triplets from my favorite show. Jonathan.
To borrow a buffyism... like huh??
"This is not the holiday I ordered," I muttered sarcastically as I staggered down the alley.
Step. Step. One foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Don't fall down. I was managing, every minute feeling a little clearer, a little less like a limp noodle. I'd gone at least 6 or 7 blocks by now - but where I was going, I had no idea. I kept looking around for something that looked like a landmark, anything that I could recognize, but it was completely unfamiliar territory. I just kept slogging away, hoping that maybe I could at least find a payphone and call the police, say I'd been threatened. Maybe they'd come get me and take me to a nice safe police station.
My inner musings were interrupted by the awareness that I was no longer alone. My insides clenched, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and I just knew that there was someone watching me. Damn! Had that guy come after me? I glanced around, trying to locate my stalker. A figure crouched in the shadows about 10 feet to the left.
I'm not a fighter. I love watching a good ass-whupping on TV or in the movies. I'm a guy-movie kinda gal. Die Hard, Lethal Weapon, Blade – those are my kinda flicks. But in real life? I took some WenLiDo self defense training. I can get away from a mugger and probably show a would-be rapist a not-so-good time. But if someone is coming to lay a serious hurtin' on my ass, I'm probably not going to be able to offer a lot in the way of resistance. So when this guy rushed me, I was thinking I'd pretty much had a good life, goodbye and thanks for all the fish. I reacted the way I was taught, braced, used the force of his attack against him and threw him over my shoulder.
I expected that maybe I'd given myself a couple of seconds to try to find a big rock or something. I did not expect to see the guy grabbing some serious hang time in the air and land in a heap a few yards away. My jaw dropped. As my mind ran around in scared little circles trying to process this interesting datum, my assailant picked himself up off the ground and turned to face me.
Now, shadows are sometimes scary when you're a kid. You can imagine all sorts of monsters and whatnot hiding in them. Let me just say the face that was revealed in the light of the street lamp made me grateful for shadows. Ugly, scary, misshapen, bad teeth, nasty sharp pointy teeth... Okay, this ain't FUNNY, God!
Fuck.
He looked like a...
Like a...
No. No fucking way. They're not real!
"Bad dream," I stated out loud, like that was going to help. "Yeah, this is a bad dream. I'm going to wake up and it'll all be gone."
Tall, dark and fangy decided that would be a good moment to rush me. And I might add here that I have never been so happy that my bitch of a WenLiDo instructor forced us to drill over and over and over till we were ready to revolt and duct tape her naked to a telephone pole, because my automatic reaction saved my life. Snap kick, jab, sweep.
Damn. That felt real. And he was getting up again. This was getting old really fast.
Think, think... okay. I'm trapped in a nightmare. With a... a... gulp. I needed something wooden and sharp, and obviously the sooner the better. Backing away, I looked around wildly, wishing for a Mr. Pointy to drop from the heavens. Oh, look. I've backed into a picket fence. That'll be handy. Adrenaline. It's a wonderful thing. With a jerk I wrenched a slat free and waved the sharpened end menacingly at the dental nightmare. He just laughed - a gruesome sound it was, too - and came at me again.
In the scuffle that ensued, I lost my makeshift stake. He kept grabbing me and I kept breaking free, but I was losing ground. Then, in a moment of brilliance, I realized the fence would be just as effective if he fell on it really hard. So, I jumped on him and he did.
Have you ever cut up a chicken with a knife that isn't quite sharp enough? It's kind of hard to force it through the flesh and it feels squishy. And if you hit a bone, you can feel it crunch and snap as you saw through it. Try impaling a body on a picket fence some time. Or don't. It's not for the squeamish.
Three things happened in rapid succession; ugly spewed blood all over me, I woofed my cookies and suddenly there was a huge dust cloud. I lost my balance as the body vanished and fell onto the pickets myself.
"Ouch! Fuck!" I pushed myself off the fence, and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. Then I spit. Ashes. I was covered with ashes. Oh, this was too gross for words.
"Getting sloppy, Slayer."
The unmistakable voice, complete with oh-so-sexy English accent came from behind me. I whimpered. It was too much. I could feel my knees buckling. He caught me before I hit the ground, eased me down and then knelt on the grass beside me. I slumped against the fence, grateful for the support
"Are you hurt?"
I heard the anxiety in his voice, but I didn't want to look at him. This couldn't be real. It had to be a delusion. Yeah. I'm delusional, that's it. So why the hell aren't the throb in my head and gash on my stomach from that fence delusions too? I glanced down at my stomach. Touched my fingers to the gash. Realized that it was already closing. I whimpered again.
A cold, pale hand with gentle fingers and nails covered in chipped black polish examined the wound.
"This doesn't look serious, Slayer. Do you have another I didn't see?" The hand was already questing, in search of hidden injuries, looking to assess damages unseen.
"Slayer?"
It slowed, stilled, came to rest on my upper arm, imitating the grasp of the terrified boy who had shoved me into the alley not too long ago.
"Buffy?"
He turned my upper body to face him. My eyes were still fixated on the hand that encircled my arm. Cold fingers slipped under my chin, gently tugging my face towards him. I couldn't avoid it any longer. I looked up into a very familiar face, sensuous lips, aristocratic cheekbones, piercing blue eyes topped by that signature shock of unnaturally blond hair. His expressive face made his concern evident.
I didn't even realize I'd touched his face until he started slightly. I jerked my hand back guiltily. "I'm sorry," I squeaked out as I looked away. His fingers drew my face back to his.
"Nothin' to be sorry for, luv," he quipped with one of his trademark evil- yet-dead-sexy grins. "I know it's hard for you to keep your hands of my body."
Those cool, pale hands went from being dispassionate and clinical to tender, intimate. The one that had been grasping my arm found its way around my waist and the other slipped behind my neck, fingers entwined in my hair. A higher pitched whimper this time. Oooooh, this delusion is not playing fair, dammit!
"Maybe we could go back to my crypt and find a place amidst the rubble where I can give you a through looking over," he suggested in a low, silkily. "Just to be on the safe side and all."
And then the shakes set in. A little hyperventilation too.
Spike. Blood sucking, demon spawn, in love with Buffy, Big Bad vampire Spike. Shagging the Slayer Spike. Spike who obviously thinks I'm the Slayer. Spike, who's expression had gone from heat and desire to concern and fear.
Nothing like a little panic attack to spoil the mood.
"Slayer, what in the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
"Not the slayer," I choked out through chattering teeth.
"What?"
"I'm. Not. The Slayer."
He cocked an eyebrow and studied me for a moment. "Right. I'm takin' you home, pet. You obviously got a bump on the 'ead or something."
Before I could respond, he got to his feet and scooped me up in his arms. I struggled for a moment, but he just pulled me in tightly. "Stop wrigglin' aroun'," he ordered, and winced at the harsh tone. "I don't want to drop you."
With a sigh, I settled against him. Ear against his chest. His well- muscled, silent chest. Another whimper. Yes, I'm a wuss I admit it freely. The tears started then, rivulets coursing hotly down my face, my breath becoming ragged as sobs began to rack my frame. I turned my face into his chest, clutched at his leather duster and cried like there was no tomorrow - because I was beginning to suspect I might not have one. I didn't know how I'd gotten here, but since it didn't seem to be a dream, I was either caught in a psychotic episode or trapped in another reality. In either case, it probably meant I was not going to be waking up in my own bed in the morning.
I must have fallen asleep in his arms, because the next thing I knew we were going up the back steps of the Summer's home. Spike tapped his boot on the door, and a few seconds later a young woman with auburn hair opened it. Willow - yeah, red hair, funny stutter-y way of talking, nervous yet helpful Willow. Spell casting girl. Can I have the Atavan and Prozac now please?
"Oh, Goddess! Buffy!" she exclaimed, eyes wide in fright as she stepped out of the way so Spike could carry me inside. He carried me across the kitchen and into the living room, laying me down on the couch. "Is she okay? What happened?"
"I don't know, Red" the blonde vampire turned away to answer her. "I happened upon her just as she making very inventive use of a picket fence. All I could see was a little scrape, but... she's not herself."
At that, I started to laugh. It was that frantic laughter, the kind that's about one step removed from a hysterical crying fit. And since the nervous breakdown I'd just finished having all over Spike had left my already throbbing head feeling on par with what I imagined Glory's brain sucking was
like, more tears were not on my agenda. I forced myself to calm down.
"Mirror," I demanded weakly.
"What?" Wonderful, obtuse Willow.
"A mirror. Please?"
She jaunted quickly up the stairs and returned moments later with a handheld mirror. With a shaking hand, I took it. The moment of truth. I sat up and looked.
A young face with a thin, delicate nose and fine features stared back at me. The eyes didn't seem to know if they were hazel or green. Fine blond hair, a bit messy, in a shoulder length bob. She was a very pretty young woman. But she wasn't me.
"Attention K-Mart Shoppers!" I intoned in a department store, loudspeaker announcer voice. "The Blue light special today is on sub-let bodies from alternate dimensions. Available for a limited time only - get yours now before they're all gone." The mirror in my grasp popped and cracked as the pressure of my grip snapped the ridged plastic casing. I dropped it on my lap, and stared at the long gash across my palm as blood dripped down my arm and onto the couch.
Willow grabbed the broken mirror. "I, uhm, I'm gonna throw this out and then I, I'll go get the first aid kit." She whirled and left the room.
"Fuck," Spike let the word fall from his lips as he stared at me. I could see his nostrils flare, and the analytical part of my mind recognized that it was the scent of the blood. My analytical, curious side comes out when life flashes a 'WARNING: REALITY.SYS CORRUPTED. (A)BORT, (R)ETRY, (P)ANIC?' at me. Which probably explained why I went where I did.
"Have you fed tonight?"
He scrunched up his forehead. "Have I... no, not yet," he answered, looking askance at me.
I motioned for him to come closer. He did, warily. I rolled my eyes at him and indicated the floor beside me. He knelt beside the couch facing me. I offered him my hand, palm up. "Waste not, want not. Slayer blood's the good stuff, right?"
He jerked away as if I'd stuck a cross in his face, and then growled. It was a very scary sound. He grabbed my wrist and pushed it away from him, but didn't let go. "What kind of sick joke is this?" he snarled angrily.
I shook my head, giddy. Everything was feeling kind of dreamlike, as if I wasn't really there. Shock can be your friend. "No joke, Spikey," I said with a giggle. "Why wash it down the drain when you can make perfectly good use of it?"
I could see the desire in his eyes as he glanced back at the oozing wound. His tongue darted out and he unconsciously licked his upper lip. Oh, boy, I was beginning to understand what people saw in fanfiction that involved blood play. There was certainly an erotic factor to the whole lick-the- blood-off idea. Spike was apparently still undecided, so being the pro- active kinda gal I am, I dipped a finger from my other hand into the blood then darted forward and smeared it across his lips before he could pull away. And of course he licked it off. And then he was on my hand, carefully lapping the blood away, tracing the red trail down my wrist all the way to the inside of my elbow.
His lips and tongue were cool, but his touch was hot enough to turn on a glacier. Well. That was stupid of me. As I turned into a puddle of goo, I reflected on the fact that impulsivity is probably not the best option in decisions I made concerning Spike. It was hard to care about the face that he doesn't understand I'm not her.
He cradled my wounded hand between his as he pulled back and looked up at me with haunted eyes. "You... you're not Buffy, are you?"
Okay, maybe he did.
"No."
Willows chose that moment to reenter the room, first aid kit and washcloth in her grasp. She moved in beside Spike and took my hand from him, then frowned. "Where'd all the blood go?"
"To a good cause," I quipped.
Willow's eyes widened as she looked from me to Spike and back again. "You mean... you... uh..."
God, if that woman ever manages to say something uncomfortable without getting all flustered about it, I think I'll die of shock. Or maybe I would anyway, since I seemed to be having a rather sever case of it. "Yeah, why not?" I inquired matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "I mean, it's just going to get wasted anyway. At least this way, someone benefits." Oh, yeah, I wasn't firing on anywhere near full thrusters.
"Buffy," she began again, but Spike cut her off.
"It's not the Slayer, Red. It's her body, but it's not her inside."
She glared at him. Ooh! Resolve face. "How do you know that? Maybe she just had a relapse. Maybe the antidote I made wasn't strong enough. Maybe-"
"Willow." Spike gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "There's a difference. The essence in her blood. It's not Buffy's essence. You have to believe me. I'd know it anywhere, and - it's not her."
She fixed me with a deadly glare. "Faith?" she demanded angrily.
The buzzy, shocky feeling was starting to wear off. I answered with a sigh.
"If I was Faith, why would I tell you that I'm not Buffy? That would kind of defeat the whole purpose of the body swapping thing, dontcha think?"
Willow nodded. "That makes sense." Her face was still tight with worry. "Who are you then? And where is Buffy? What have you done with her?"
"I'm Dee," I answered tiredly. "I haven't got a clue where Buffy is. And I never did anything. I was minding my own business trying to watch my buffyfest when the weather turned bad. Then came the lightening and the unplugging of my TV which lead to the very Hellmouth-y looking glowy stuff crawling up my arm. Next thing I know, I'm in the Dungeon of the Dim and Jonathan's tossing me in the back alley while he babbles how it didn't work and Warren's going to kill me. And him if he gets caught. And then there was this vampire and this fence and then Spike showed up and well... here we are."
The two of them stared at me for a second, then glanced at each other. Willow was the first to speak. "Um, I need to do this thing in the kitchen, and maybe, Spike, you could help me?"
"Oh, right, that thing. Yeh. I can help."
I had to smile, and that led to a snicker, which led to a laugh, and then I was back to that crazy, frantic laughter. Oh, I was gonna be certifiable by the time this night was through.
"Yeah," I gasped between chortles, "You go do that thing. I'll just wait here till you're done that thing you have to do." I earned another worried glance from both of them before they left to go talk about me behind my back.
I took a deep breath, held it a few seconds, exhaled. Did it again. Pulled it together. Okay. Narrowly averted slipping off the edge there. I stared at the ceiling and tried to see patterns in the stucco until they came back. It was maybe 10 or 15 minutes later when I looked up to find two very somber faces.
"We'd like to ask you a few questions," Willow began. I had to feel sorry for her. She looked so sad, so scared.
"Yeah, I expected you would," I replied, unsurprised. Now that it was sinking in for them that I wasn't the Slayer, they were going to want some answers.
"So." Spike sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, draping an arm along the length of it. "You said something about a 'buffyfest'?"