The woman in the mirror wasn't someone she was unaccustomed to, just someone she wasn't sure she wanted to see. Her features were pallid, her cheekbones covered with rouge and her lips with carefully thought out lipstick: a soft pink she thought wasn't too outstanding. She dried her wet hands on her sweats, and thought of Willow waiting only three feet away. "My backbone," she whispered, wiping sweat from her forehead. "I'm ready," she conceded, meeting her gaze, someone who didn't want to do it. Opening the door, she smiled shyly at the nurse.

"Are you okay, dear?" she said, cuffing her shoulder and leading her sternly into the room. It was a clean room, silver, and white, and sterile. A bed with stirrups, covered in tissue paper. A sink with a pink bin in it. A machine, there really was no other way to put it, on a steel table. Buffy wrapped her arms around herself. "Have a seat right there on the bed, Ms. Summers. My, I see, you're three weeks along. Some women just make their minds up quickly." She indicated the bed again, and ushered Buffy closer. "The doctor will be in in just a moment, okay? Go ahead and disrobe, put on this little gown. After the procedure, I'll give you some pain killers, and another pill to close your cervix. You're going to have some uncomfortable cramps, okay? And I'll also get you a perscription for birth control."

"I don't need birth control," Buffy said, staring the woman in the face. "I'm not sure, I, what happens to the baby?"

"The baby goes from the machine to a small bin, where it is disposed of."

"Disposed of," Buffy repeated, her hazel eyes blank.

"I'll get Dr. Tomlinson."

"No, no. No—I mean, I don't think I can do it."

"Did you see the counselor, dear?"

"Yes, I saw the counselor, dear. Yes, I did everything, I did it right. I just can't do this." Her voice was shaking, her hands were balled into fists. Sweaty, again.

"Oh, well, it's your decision. Let me get you that birth control perscription."

"I'm already pregnant," Buffy answered, her hand on the door. "I don't think it's going to help much." She pushed the door open. Willow stood quickly, the question in her eyes. Buffy shook her head. "Do you think Angel will be mad?" she asked, holding Willow's hand on her way to the car. Tears were hot on her cheeks. For the first time in four years, she was unsure of herself. Unsure where she stood, where to turn. She wanted to run away from something she hated, but loved at the same time. For the first time since she met Angel, she hated him.

"What do you mean, you didn't do it? You just couldn't do it? I don't understand. You don't do anything, the doctor does the work. It's not like you couldn't afford it. Buffy, I don't understand!" Angel's eyebrows knit together, his fists pounded against the table. Buffy was sure he shook the whole building, he shook the whole city. He looked miserable.

"Angel, it's our baby. Why should we punish it for our mistake?"

"We're only punishing ourselves!" His voice carried out the windows; this city never slept because it's inhabitants were never quiet enough. He stood, his hands braced against the table, and pushed it out of his way. It toppled over onto the chairs, and they splayed across the kitchen. "Dammit, Buffy!"

"Quit," she whispered, burying her head in a pillow on the couch. "You're making me sick to my stomach."

"It's not me," he yelled, throwing the glasses from the countertop. They shattered on the wood floors. "It's your fucking baby, Buffy."

"It's your baby, too," she fired back, and stormed into their room. She pulled out a bag, and filled it. Underwear, shirts, jeans, slacks, skirts. Two pairs of shoes.

"What are you doing, Buffy?"

"I can't sleep with a murderer," she whispered in response, her cheeks burning. "I need to cool off."

"Fuck you," he said, shoving her shoulder. "We can't have this baby. If you want the baby, I was a fucking divorce. And you aren't going anywhere. You're a fucking bitch, Buffy. So fuck you. Fuck you." She slung the bag over the opposite shoulder, and looked at him.

"You're drunk," she said. Her voice was cool when she added, "I'll see you in court. Asshole."

"Thanks, Xander," Buffy whispered from the couch. Her face was tear streaked, mascara trails leading the way from her eyes to her chin.

"No prob, Buffster," he said. "Lights out? Still scared of the dark?" he smiled. She missed his voice, his life. They rarely saw each other anymore, with his booming construction company building half of New York; and her career taking off with such promise.

Buffy managed a laugh, then looked at her best friend. "Just a little light," she whispered. "Just tonight."

"Thanks again, Buffy, for lettin' the little bits come," Spike said from her doorway. The woman looked less than on target today. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, looking back at her computer screen. "And it's no problem, they were adorable."

"Buffy, you know, you're kind of a celebrity in the city. You've written several screen plays, and you're no stranger to the paparazzi."

"I know," Buffy said, looking up at her executive producer, a quizzical smile on her face. "What are you playing at?"

"The cover of the entertainment section in USA Today, is you leaving your flat at three AM, with a bag on your shoulder." Her eyes closed.

"Shit."

"Buffy, I'm sorry. This has nothing to do with work, I just thought, if you wanted to talk..."

"Can we go to lunch?" Buffy was shutting her computer down. "I'd really like to just go have a glass of champagne."

He cocked his head, staring at the woman he had been lusting after since she set foot in the office. "Sure."

"Let me just get this papers ready, and I'll ring your extension, okay?" He nodded, and moved slowly toward his office, replaying the scene in his mind. What the hell did he do, what did he say, to make her ask him out? Did she ask him out? Was this a date?

She gathered the stack of papers, then looked down at them. Four years, down the drain, she thought, tapping her pen on them. Buffy Anne Summers petitions for divorce. "Damn," she whispered, pressing her signature onto all the right lines. She slid them into the manilla envelope, and taped it closed. She put a stamp on the outside, then addressed it to her own home. "Dear Angel," she whispered as she addressed it, "you suck." Sliding it into her outbox, she picked up her phone. "Spike? I'm ready."

AN: I really like the idea of this story, and from the amount of hits it's getting, so do some other people. But, without positive feedback, I just don't see the need to continue writing. Every writer loves reviews, and I review every story I read. So, do me a favor: REVIEW! I won't be adding another installment, if I don't get any reviews, because what's the point of writing, if no one reads?