Stranger Bedfellows

He blinked. He was kissing his own wrist. He shook it off and began to kiss the bare feminine shoulder cradled against him.

It took him some mental effort, but he finally reached a few conclusions. This was even more impressive because normally "Xander Harris" and "Mental effort" resided in differing solar systems.

1. There was definitely a female body next to his.
2. Both their bodies were naked.
3. That other body was COLD!
3. He had NOT yet saved enough money for that dream weekend at Madame Xanadu's.
3. His head hurt.
And the final, most important observation his rational mind made was:
4. Being hung over was not conducive to counting accurately.

"Man," he thought, "This must have been one bizarro game of Twister." He shook his head again. "That punch must have been spiked," he whispered and felt a jackhammer-like pounding in his head. Moaning, he felt the jackhammer again, penetrating deeply behind his right eye. He concentrated. As he attempted to open his eyes again, the jackhammer grew louder. The sound was coming from . . . outside? The jackhammer ceased, to be replaced by a man outside yelling, "Hey, Lenny! Over there now!" He opened his eyes, finally, and risked a quick look out the window. Street construction.

Alright, so it WAS a jackhammer and not his head. How the hell was he supposed to know that?

He speedily shut them again, "Okay, the punch WAS spiked . . . " Something about that phrase set his stomach to tumbling about the room doing flip-flops, cartwheels, and the occasional handstand. "I'm going to be sick. . ." It was a strange new thought-concept, especially for Xander, who didn't even understand the thought-concept of thought-concept.

He slowly reopened his eyes and was greeted with the sight of two overweight men in t-shirts and jeans tearing up the road. He shifted his gaze from the open window to the feminine form cradled against his. The arm and back were lusciously smooth, and there was something almost overwhelmingly erotic about the neck. Shock overcame him, silencing his other problems temporarily, although not the guy outside yelling "Lenny!"

"I'm in bed. With a woman. An actual woman, not the kind you blow up. Not a praying mantis, not a mummy. Wow." His biggest teenage fantasy -- except for the one involving Snyder's death by falling anvils -- had come true, and his head and stomach hurt too much for him to truly appreciate the moment.

He couldn't decide if would thank, curse, beat up, blow up, stake or reward the person who'd spiked the punch. One thing was painfully clear, and it wasn't his vision. While waking with a woman in one's arms was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, one nagging question kept thrusting itself through his mind. Who WAS the guy who did Snoopy's voice in those old Peanuts cartoons? No, wait, the question actually was, who IS this woman? His bloodshot eyes swept over the distinctly female body until he came to the averted head and the strands of dark hair he saw there.

Dark hair.

"Huh. Well, that could be Cordelia or Ms. Calendar. But it can't be Ms. Calendar, because she's dead, and while looking at linoleum makes me think about sex, looking at dead people does nothing for me. Although, in this town, I should be used to it by now. As for Cordy, well, while she might sleep with me, she wouldn't be caught dead spending the night in anything less than a four-star hotel. Which my room most definitely is NOT. So I have no idea who this is."

The figure stirred next to him and rolled over. Xander's eyes slowly traveled the lengths of her naked body, making a few detours around the chest area, and found himself staring at . . .

"Druscilla!" He rolled out of bed and crashed facedown to the floor. "Yooooowww!" He screamed as he stood up and quickly checked. "Nothing broken, nothing bent," he thought. "Thank God . . ."

The she-vampire languorously opened her eyes. "Hello, luv," she said sensuously. "Was it good for you too?"

"The punch wasn't spiked, I was punched BY Spike!" he thought in a panic. "This has to be a dream, it has to be . . ." He sprinted from the bedroom and barely made it to the bathroom in time to relieve his stomach's irritation all over the porcelain god therein.

He blinked again. He was NOT throwing up into a toilet. He WAS throwing up, literally, over a small statue of a porcelain god. He looked in the mirror. No reflection! He pinched himself. Hard. Nothing -- except he DID kind of enjoy the sensation. He did it again . . .

Xander bolted upright in bed. "Thank God, it WAS a dream . . ." Then he noticed the arm encircling his waist. He quickly observed three things.

1. He was naked.
2. The arm was hairy.
3. This time about, he was Xander-shaped.
4. Even sober, he didn't count all that well.

Slowly, fearfully, he twisted his body to see who was in bed with him this time. As he wriggled, his bedmate rolled over and faced him.

"Mr. Harris," it said in a distinctly British voice, "Would you please cease squirming?" Giles! No! He pinched himself again. And again. "It's a dream, it's a dream . . . "

Buffy Summers bolted upright in bed. Carefully she looked next to her. No one. "Thank goodness," she thought. These dreams were too bizarre. So bizarre they might be a premonition. She had to tell Giles.

"What am I thinking?" If she had a choice between telling Giles the content of this dream and watching the world end in fiery destruction, well, she MUCH preferred the latter of the two concepts . . .