Buffy hated the way Irene was making her feel. Her breasts were tender and
her mouth still tingled with the acid taste of vomit. She felt like a
giant, bloated spider, with her belly protruding a significant way out from
her body. Her body was not her own, it seemed. She was nearing her time,
though, only a month or so left to go. And they had still not solved the
riddle of her baby's soul.
Through the fire Into the cold When finally found Composed of pure gold
That was all she had to go on. She'd memorized the lines from the demon's fearful speech. The most important, and the most trivial of riddles. There wasn't enough information! she fumed silently. Oh, she'd tried. She'd gotten help. But no one understood what it meant.
Every night, Angel left her to range across the city, searching out further answers. But to that day, that was the most they'd been able to find. Angel was doing his best, and she couldn't fault him, but...
They'd had to change rooms several times because of the gaping holes she'd punched in the walls. Angel never presumed to tell her to stop, but the corners of his lips would quirk up in sad amusement. He had his ways of relieving the fear. And she had hers.
He was here now, reading to her stomach, because he'd heard that it would imprint the sound of his voice in the baby's mind. Buffy didn't have the heart to tell him that Irene already knew him very well, thank you. But it was the little things, the things like this, that kept her alive.
Every so often, Angel would look up from his reading and smile at her with an insane tenderness and love. He loved the little brat, for all the trouble she'd caused. She could tell. He adored her; couldn't help it, and he wouldn't have wanted to, anyway. He loved feeling her strong little kicks against his hand, when she'd let him. Now, Buffy took his hand in hers, and he squeezed roughly.
He was reading poetry. No paltry picture books for his child; Angel had already exhausted himself searching for books in Latin, Greek, Romanian, Gaelic, and Old English, so that he could teach her the languages of her roots.
He was so very adorable as a father, Buffy thought. Connor would have been very lucky to have him. She stroked his hand thoughtfully. It had been a year now, almost, since they'd all died. She didn't deign to mention it to Angel. She couldn't bear to relive that old pain with him. Not on top of this fresh one. In that way, Irene was like an open wound, red and sore and painful.
And always there. Buffy sometimes woke in the night, panicked from the realization that there was no escaping Irene. She was a part of her, inside her, hell, she could play a drum solo on her ribs for Christ's sake. Having an enemy so close scared her, scared her so bad that she clutched desperately at the sheets and bit her tongue against wanting Angel. She would be glad to have this pregnancy thing over and done with.
It was a shame, too, she thought sadly. This was probably the only time she'd ever be pregnant, and it had to be with a demonic soulless baby. She couldn't even enjoy the pregnant-lady glow, the radiance and the knowledge that she had a life inside her. A beautiful little flower bud, ready to blossom. Instead, she had this. This travesty of a family. Inwardly, she chided herself for such thoughts. Angel was many things, but he was never a travesty of anything.
In repentance for her thoughts, she ran her other hand through Angel's hair. He closed his eyes, and his reading dulled to a murmur for a moment. It was rare that Irene allowed them to touch like this, and so when she did, it was like finding heaven all over again.
Gently but insistently, she shut the book. "I think that's enough of that," she whispered into his ear, embracing him with her arms and legs. He understood, and tenderly lifted her up from the rocking chair, and carried her with supernatural ease to the bed. He laid her down and kissed her on the forehead.
"I think you're right, love. What would you like me to do?" He half-smiled teasingly, and she let a hand trail to his strong shoulders. She played with the hairs on the nape of his neck, stroking softly.
Time slowed down for them as she lay there. He watched the sunlight caress her curves, and illuminate her eyes. Surrounded by all the covers and pillows, her deadly strength was softened. He touched her like she was a dream and he a hopeless dreamer, wishing never to wake.
***
Thunder rolled ominously in the distance. A storm was rolling in from the east, and Angel watched the clouds build. They seemed distant and removed on the horizon, when the sky was sunny and blue here. But a wet wind disproved the theory, and noted with fervor that it would not be long before they were plunged into turmoil. He could smell the rain in the air.
He growled softly and backed into the room, pulling the curtains shut behind him. No sense bursting into flame just because of carelessness.
Of course, he was just nervous, that was all. Buffy was down with Millicent, having her check-up. Not long now before she would be down there giving birth. Angel chose his thoughts with utmost care when he thought about the birth. Most notably, he did not think of blood, miscarriages, C- sections, stillborn infants, and births resulting in death. The only way to survive this thing was to filter out the terror, he had decided, and until the moment came to act, that's what he was going to do. He was going to concentrate on the happy things about being a father. He was going to concentrate on handmade wooden cribs, rubber duckies, and baby's first steps. All the things that he'd missed with Connor. It really would be like being a father for the first time.
He wasn't allowed to be at Buffy's check-ups, though he didn't really know why. One thing was for sure; it would be a lot healthier for his peace of mind if he was allowed to be down there. It was his Buffy, for god's sake. He needed to be with her, to make sure that she was alright. By now, the instinct to protect her was almost as ingrained as the one that told him to drink blood. And, from his viewpoint, far healthier.
He began to pace, back and forth across the floor. There was a nest of vampires in an abandoned building that he was supposed to check out, and he was eagerly waiting for the storm to break so he could do just that. It seemed like the farther Buffy's pregnancy progressed, the more useless he felt.
He scratched mindlessly at the scarring tissue on his arm. Just another injury to add to the list. He stopped when he looked down and saw that his nails had drawn blood. He growled. This check-up thing was driving him to distraction! And Buffy wasn't even having the baby yet.
Deciding it would be best to bend the rules a little than go insane, Angel went downstairs to go check on Buffy.
The door to the room was open, and he huffily worried about their privacy. If he couldn't watch, then why'd they leave the door open for any male buffoon to wander in? He peeked into the room and realized why. They weren't in there. There was a plastic bag on the table, some empty plastic wrappers, and a few used syringes, but no Buffy, and no Milli.
He let the breeze hit his face and turned toward the open door. There was a balcony he'd never noticed before, and Buffy and Milli were sitting on the railing, staring out at the storm. Wet thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
Angel threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the intense brightness of the sun's rays. He had to check and make sure that he wasn't on fire, so bright was it in the sun. He watched as the two women sat and talked on the balcony. He'd forgotten how bright the midday sun could be, even when you weren't even out in it, but only looking.
He waited for them to come back inside, blinking owlishly. Buffy's forehead was puckered in worry, but she brightened when she saw him. "Oh! Milli, get the curtains. Angel's here."
The pink-haired witch smiled and shut the curtains and the door behind them. The sun's light was now muted enough that Angel's eyes didn't burn. He reached out a hand, touched Buffy tentatively on the shoulder, and, when no pain was incurred, brought her into a hug. His chin resting atop her head, he asked, "What is it this time? Or do I even want to know?"
"Probably not. Actually, it might be a good thing if what Milli says is true. And it does mean you won't have to be bored and non-violent anymore."
Angel smiled. "Buffy, quit beating around the bush. You're gonna have to tell me at some point; now is as good as any."
Her sigh was muffled by cotton and vampire-flesh. "Fine. Milli says the baby's gonna come soon. But she also said that there's no way she can perform the kind of magick it's gonna require to get the baby out alive and kicking. Evil and powerful or not, she's still a baby, and intelligent enough not to want to leave the protection of the Slayer's body. So. Before her birthdate, we've gotta find someone powerful enough and willing enough to help our little demon girl into the world. Know anyone?"
Angel chewed his lip. He thought he did, but he wasn't going to mention it quite yet. Not when there was such a potential for disappointment. He made a mental note to check on his associates in the demon world, as soon as night fell. Or as soon as the storm hit. Either way, he was going to be out on the streets tonight.
***
Buffy was sitting at a desk and staring at a blank piece of paper. There was something niggling in the back of her mind, some connection she should have made, something that was staring her right in the face and yet she couldn't see it. She thought about all the strange things that had been going on; Angel's semi-reflection, her demonic baby, the way Irene seemed to be able to control some outside physical sensations. The fact that, by all the evidence, the Oracles had picked up and left again. And the warning about Willow and their friends. Buffy hadn't even thought much about that one. It wasn't out of disrespect or apathy; it was just that she didn't think she could bear it. Sitting there, when her friends were somewhere else, hurting. It was so much easier to believe that they were in a happy place, but Buffy would not let her desires cloud her reason.
Giles had always said that she lacked in organizational skills. Well, now was as good a time as any to get some. She began to make a list of all the things that were happening, and all the things that she thought she had to do.
As she went, the list became more and more nebulous, until she found herself doodling a picture of a girl next to her observations about her pregnancy, and Irene's upcoming birth. She sketched down a rough figure of a tiny girl with choppy, short hair. She drew a stake in her hand, but that didn't seem right, so she erased it. Then she drew a pentacle necklace around the girl's neck. A five-point star in a circle on a chain. The girl was beginning to remind her of Willow, so she grabbed a red pen and colored in the girl's hair.
Tired, she leaned back and yawned. And then did a double-take when she looked back down at the paper. Had she done that on purpose? How could...?
She looked up wonderingly at the sky, thinking that maybe the Powers That Be weren't so heartless after all.
She got up to find Angel and tell him what she'd found.
Through the fire Into the cold When finally found Composed of pure gold
That was all she had to go on. She'd memorized the lines from the demon's fearful speech. The most important, and the most trivial of riddles. There wasn't enough information! she fumed silently. Oh, she'd tried. She'd gotten help. But no one understood what it meant.
Every night, Angel left her to range across the city, searching out further answers. But to that day, that was the most they'd been able to find. Angel was doing his best, and she couldn't fault him, but...
They'd had to change rooms several times because of the gaping holes she'd punched in the walls. Angel never presumed to tell her to stop, but the corners of his lips would quirk up in sad amusement. He had his ways of relieving the fear. And she had hers.
He was here now, reading to her stomach, because he'd heard that it would imprint the sound of his voice in the baby's mind. Buffy didn't have the heart to tell him that Irene already knew him very well, thank you. But it was the little things, the things like this, that kept her alive.
Every so often, Angel would look up from his reading and smile at her with an insane tenderness and love. He loved the little brat, for all the trouble she'd caused. She could tell. He adored her; couldn't help it, and he wouldn't have wanted to, anyway. He loved feeling her strong little kicks against his hand, when she'd let him. Now, Buffy took his hand in hers, and he squeezed roughly.
He was reading poetry. No paltry picture books for his child; Angel had already exhausted himself searching for books in Latin, Greek, Romanian, Gaelic, and Old English, so that he could teach her the languages of her roots.
He was so very adorable as a father, Buffy thought. Connor would have been very lucky to have him. She stroked his hand thoughtfully. It had been a year now, almost, since they'd all died. She didn't deign to mention it to Angel. She couldn't bear to relive that old pain with him. Not on top of this fresh one. In that way, Irene was like an open wound, red and sore and painful.
And always there. Buffy sometimes woke in the night, panicked from the realization that there was no escaping Irene. She was a part of her, inside her, hell, she could play a drum solo on her ribs for Christ's sake. Having an enemy so close scared her, scared her so bad that she clutched desperately at the sheets and bit her tongue against wanting Angel. She would be glad to have this pregnancy thing over and done with.
It was a shame, too, she thought sadly. This was probably the only time she'd ever be pregnant, and it had to be with a demonic soulless baby. She couldn't even enjoy the pregnant-lady glow, the radiance and the knowledge that she had a life inside her. A beautiful little flower bud, ready to blossom. Instead, she had this. This travesty of a family. Inwardly, she chided herself for such thoughts. Angel was many things, but he was never a travesty of anything.
In repentance for her thoughts, she ran her other hand through Angel's hair. He closed his eyes, and his reading dulled to a murmur for a moment. It was rare that Irene allowed them to touch like this, and so when she did, it was like finding heaven all over again.
Gently but insistently, she shut the book. "I think that's enough of that," she whispered into his ear, embracing him with her arms and legs. He understood, and tenderly lifted her up from the rocking chair, and carried her with supernatural ease to the bed. He laid her down and kissed her on the forehead.
"I think you're right, love. What would you like me to do?" He half-smiled teasingly, and she let a hand trail to his strong shoulders. She played with the hairs on the nape of his neck, stroking softly.
Time slowed down for them as she lay there. He watched the sunlight caress her curves, and illuminate her eyes. Surrounded by all the covers and pillows, her deadly strength was softened. He touched her like she was a dream and he a hopeless dreamer, wishing never to wake.
***
Thunder rolled ominously in the distance. A storm was rolling in from the east, and Angel watched the clouds build. They seemed distant and removed on the horizon, when the sky was sunny and blue here. But a wet wind disproved the theory, and noted with fervor that it would not be long before they were plunged into turmoil. He could smell the rain in the air.
He growled softly and backed into the room, pulling the curtains shut behind him. No sense bursting into flame just because of carelessness.
Of course, he was just nervous, that was all. Buffy was down with Millicent, having her check-up. Not long now before she would be down there giving birth. Angel chose his thoughts with utmost care when he thought about the birth. Most notably, he did not think of blood, miscarriages, C- sections, stillborn infants, and births resulting in death. The only way to survive this thing was to filter out the terror, he had decided, and until the moment came to act, that's what he was going to do. He was going to concentrate on the happy things about being a father. He was going to concentrate on handmade wooden cribs, rubber duckies, and baby's first steps. All the things that he'd missed with Connor. It really would be like being a father for the first time.
He wasn't allowed to be at Buffy's check-ups, though he didn't really know why. One thing was for sure; it would be a lot healthier for his peace of mind if he was allowed to be down there. It was his Buffy, for god's sake. He needed to be with her, to make sure that she was alright. By now, the instinct to protect her was almost as ingrained as the one that told him to drink blood. And, from his viewpoint, far healthier.
He began to pace, back and forth across the floor. There was a nest of vampires in an abandoned building that he was supposed to check out, and he was eagerly waiting for the storm to break so he could do just that. It seemed like the farther Buffy's pregnancy progressed, the more useless he felt.
He scratched mindlessly at the scarring tissue on his arm. Just another injury to add to the list. He stopped when he looked down and saw that his nails had drawn blood. He growled. This check-up thing was driving him to distraction! And Buffy wasn't even having the baby yet.
Deciding it would be best to bend the rules a little than go insane, Angel went downstairs to go check on Buffy.
The door to the room was open, and he huffily worried about their privacy. If he couldn't watch, then why'd they leave the door open for any male buffoon to wander in? He peeked into the room and realized why. They weren't in there. There was a plastic bag on the table, some empty plastic wrappers, and a few used syringes, but no Buffy, and no Milli.
He let the breeze hit his face and turned toward the open door. There was a balcony he'd never noticed before, and Buffy and Milli were sitting on the railing, staring out at the storm. Wet thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
Angel threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the intense brightness of the sun's rays. He had to check and make sure that he wasn't on fire, so bright was it in the sun. He watched as the two women sat and talked on the balcony. He'd forgotten how bright the midday sun could be, even when you weren't even out in it, but only looking.
He waited for them to come back inside, blinking owlishly. Buffy's forehead was puckered in worry, but she brightened when she saw him. "Oh! Milli, get the curtains. Angel's here."
The pink-haired witch smiled and shut the curtains and the door behind them. The sun's light was now muted enough that Angel's eyes didn't burn. He reached out a hand, touched Buffy tentatively on the shoulder, and, when no pain was incurred, brought her into a hug. His chin resting atop her head, he asked, "What is it this time? Or do I even want to know?"
"Probably not. Actually, it might be a good thing if what Milli says is true. And it does mean you won't have to be bored and non-violent anymore."
Angel smiled. "Buffy, quit beating around the bush. You're gonna have to tell me at some point; now is as good as any."
Her sigh was muffled by cotton and vampire-flesh. "Fine. Milli says the baby's gonna come soon. But she also said that there's no way she can perform the kind of magick it's gonna require to get the baby out alive and kicking. Evil and powerful or not, she's still a baby, and intelligent enough not to want to leave the protection of the Slayer's body. So. Before her birthdate, we've gotta find someone powerful enough and willing enough to help our little demon girl into the world. Know anyone?"
Angel chewed his lip. He thought he did, but he wasn't going to mention it quite yet. Not when there was such a potential for disappointment. He made a mental note to check on his associates in the demon world, as soon as night fell. Or as soon as the storm hit. Either way, he was going to be out on the streets tonight.
***
Buffy was sitting at a desk and staring at a blank piece of paper. There was something niggling in the back of her mind, some connection she should have made, something that was staring her right in the face and yet she couldn't see it. She thought about all the strange things that had been going on; Angel's semi-reflection, her demonic baby, the way Irene seemed to be able to control some outside physical sensations. The fact that, by all the evidence, the Oracles had picked up and left again. And the warning about Willow and their friends. Buffy hadn't even thought much about that one. It wasn't out of disrespect or apathy; it was just that she didn't think she could bear it. Sitting there, when her friends were somewhere else, hurting. It was so much easier to believe that they were in a happy place, but Buffy would not let her desires cloud her reason.
Giles had always said that she lacked in organizational skills. Well, now was as good a time as any to get some. She began to make a list of all the things that were happening, and all the things that she thought she had to do.
As she went, the list became more and more nebulous, until she found herself doodling a picture of a girl next to her observations about her pregnancy, and Irene's upcoming birth. She sketched down a rough figure of a tiny girl with choppy, short hair. She drew a stake in her hand, but that didn't seem right, so she erased it. Then she drew a pentacle necklace around the girl's neck. A five-point star in a circle on a chain. The girl was beginning to remind her of Willow, so she grabbed a red pen and colored in the girl's hair.
Tired, she leaned back and yawned. And then did a double-take when she looked back down at the paper. Had she done that on purpose? How could...?
She looked up wonderingly at the sky, thinking that maybe the Powers That Be weren't so heartless after all.
She got up to find Angel and tell him what she'd found.