Um... hi, sis? Mom? Dad?

“—ll right, kid?”

Dad. Except Dad hadn’t sounded like he cared so much in—oh, right, weird-ass reality-screwing button weird-assily screwing with reality.

The world gradually swam back into vision. Someone had helped him up to a seated position, leaning against the kitchen wall, legs akimbo.

“Does he have a concussion?” The girl who’d knocked him over—Letta. Better get with the program. Nicoletta Voulgaropoulou Harris. Your brand-new-except-not little sister—anyway, she sounded about as curious as she did guilty. That’s kind of shitty of her. How many times did I get beat up defending her?

Actually, quite a few, come to think of it. He hadn’t copped it half as bad for being the child of... well, y’know… as she had. To be fair, most of the time she was right in there swinging—no no bad phrase—fighting alongside him. After extensive testing, they both agreed that a rep for **** was better than a rep as a slut-by-inheritance, but not by much.

“You better hope not.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“I don’t think he could hear, Lettie-Lou.”

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry, bro. Wasn’t thinking.”

_ No objections to that Mom-nickname? She must actually feel guilty._ He wanted to say “apology accepted, I guess?”, but what came out was more of an incoherent groan through a blocked nose.

“Letta’s right, though, you might have a concussion. Don’t fall asleep. We’re going to get you sat up on the couch while we call urgent care, all right? Do you think you can eat anything?”

“Rrrmph—nggrrrr—give me a couple of minutes?”

It turned out that trying to keep up with a conversation with a family that half his brain was pretty sure had never existed without letting on that anything was strange got tiring, fast. At some point, someone gave him a plate of pasta. He ate it mechanically. He fell asleep about five seconds after his mom got off the phone and said it was okay to.

—oh, hell, the button. Where’d it go?

And how to ask without sounding weird?

… and why did it give me a sister anyway? Oh, right, before Mom and Dad hated each other and couldn’t cope with me. This round, they had no reason not to keep trying.

… he could have done a lot worse for a new family member. They seemed to like each other, she was sensible and patient and thoughtful and okay, a bit boring, but she got on with Willow pretty well, although if she kept telling her that she should come to the GSA meetings then—

… wait, my sister’s a lesbian? Bi?

_Okay, that had been a fun dinner. Sat down on a night Willow had invited herself over, waited for Dad to finish complaining about work, and then announced she liked girls too and if they had a problem with that they could start by quitting their jobs. At which point Mom had taken her into the lounge room and had one of those gentle-but-emotionally-exhausting lectures that she could apparently do in this universe, and led her back into the dining room with a “promise you’ll bring your girlfriend over for dinner once you feel comfortable!” like nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Willow’s face had turned a brighter shade of red than the hair dye she’d thrown out the week before—_

“Hey, Xander. Brother. Hey!”

“Sorry… sis.” He decided he didn’t want to know how long she’d been knocking on his bedroom door, while he stared blankly at it from bed. “Come in.”

She did. The hinges didn’t even squeak—was it weird that he found that a sign that things had changed way too much for comfort?

“Found this on the kitchen floor while Mom was cleaning up after dinner. Wanna press it and see if anything happens?”