"We can pick up the essential items before we leave, then. You might as well make yourself at home for now."

He walked over to the closet, lost in thought, and took out his jacket.

"I need to get out and clear my head. I'll get you a toothbrush and some sundries on my way back. There are various microwave meals in the freezer if you get hungry."

When he locked the door behind him, he realized he was shaking.

Christ, what had he gotten himself into? He was tempted to go to the pub and drink himself stupid, but didn't want to chance Lilah tracking him down. Besides, it would take up too much of the very short amount of time he had in which to get everything sorted out.

There were records to have altered, identifications and credentials to set up. He visited the most reliable of his contacts, handed over a fairly large sum of money, and scheduled an appointment for the next day. Wesley Wyndam-Price would soon, for all practical purposes, cease to exist, leaving Terence Bardsley in his place.

The notion upset him more than he would have thought.

A quick trip to the department store provided him with a couple changes of women's maternity clothing, a package of underpants, and some toiletries. He didn't risk guessing a bra size. Buffy would just have to make do with the one she was wearing.

He picked up a bottle of gin before heading back to the apartment, rationalizing that as he wouldn't be drinking it when he had other things to do, it was a better option than pubbing. Besides, he doubted he'd be able to get to sleep without it, and he knew better than to strategize when exhausted.

She was asleep on the couch when he let himself in, her feet tucked under her, head pillowed on her hands. Sleeping, she looked far too young to be in her situation. He was shocked to remember that she was only twenty-one. She didn't merely look too young, she was too young.

Wesley opened the gin, not bothering to get a glass. He drank two-thirds of the bottle before the guilt was numbed enough for him to fall asleep watching her.

It wasn't yet light out when he woke up. He stumbled to the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left in his stomach and the dry heaves subsided. Rinsed his mouth and washed down some aspirin with Alka-Seltzer before showering.

"Wonderful planning, Wesley," he muttered. "You'll be so bloody effective hung over, won't you?"

After getting dressed, he poured the rest of the bottle down the sink. He'd comfort himself with something later, when he had time. Even if that proved to be a point 18 years in the future.

The day went better than he'd expected. They picked up the paperwork and a few more sundries before heading back to the apartment. She napped, and he narrowed the hunt for a temporary location to three mid-sized towns not known for supernatural activity. After making some calls, he decided that Eugene, Oregon would be the best of the lot and made the necessary motel reservations.

She called Sunnydale and informed them that she wouldn't be back until after the birth. One look at her face after she hung up was enough to keep him from asking for specifics.

The forger knew someone who specialized in buying out the possessions of people who needed to leave town in a hurry. The amount he quoted Wesley for the contents of the apartment was low, but it would be enough to sustain him until he'd settled somewhere permanent. The rest of the week was spent arranging transportation, and packing the items he'd tagged to keep.

He and Buffy settled into an uneasy routine, eating meals in silence and watching old movies so they wouldn't have to talk. She slept on the bed, and he took the couch.

He had the uncomfortable notion that he'd miss her when she returned to Sunnydale.

• **

The move went as smoothly as could be expected. The rental van was cramped, and the silence more awkward than it had been in the apartment, but they made good time, only spending one night in a motel.

Within the week he found them a short-term lease in a cramped house that was fairly centrally located while Buffy made arrangements with a midwife for a home birth.

She shrugged when he questioned the wisdom of that notion. "I'm healthy, in good condition, and I hate hospitals."

He couldn't really argue with her; he wasn't especially fond of them himself. He recalled the condition of Angel's car after Darla's water broke in the backseat and added the damage deposit to the list of unrecoverable expenses.

They furnished the house with two futons and a number of plastic milk crates. He took the one small bedroom and she took the living room on the logic that it was closer to the bathroom.

It came as something of a shock to realize how attached he had been to his possessions now that he'd given them up. His flat had been, while not luxurious, at least comfortable in a way that this tiny house with its cracked plaster walls and dingy berber carpets could never manage.

He tried to convince himself that the Spartan look was underrated rather than merely unpleasant. When that failed, he went over the budget he'd set up and decided that if he eliminated razorblades from the toiletries column, he could afford some houseplants and throw rugs. He had enough blades left to get him through the next few months if he simply reduced the number of times per week he shaved.

The new additions to the decor were met with a raised brow from Buffy.

"Why the greenery, Wesley?"

He flushed. "I wanted the place to feel more homey," he admitted from behind a ficus.

She stared at him, puzzled, then comprehension spread across her face. "You're kind of homesick here, aren't you?"

"Perhaps a little." He busied himself with positioning the plant. "It's rather a moot point, as I don't exactly have a home to which I'd return."

"Wesley, I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. There wasn't anything there for me anymore. I was homesick long before I left."

He didn't realize she'd come up beside him until he felt her hand patting his shoulder.

"I'll make pancakes," she said with forced brightness.

"Pancakes? Buffy, it's 8:30 at night."

"Trust me. Pancakes always help. The later the better. Why do you think IHoP has stayed open for so long?"

"Demon pact?"

"Pancakes available 24/7. No demonic influence necessary."

She dragged him over to the futon, sat him down in front of the makeshift coffee table, and headed to the kitchen. He got up and followed her.

"Buffy, I don't need pancakes."

She turned to him, a tiny figure with a huge stomach, brandishing a spatula.

"Yes," she insisted firmly, "you do. Now sit down, you're in my way."

She waved the spatula in the direction of the living room and he started to laugh, winding up doubled over on the linoleum.

"What's so funny?"

He looked up at her and grinned for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. "You, the spatula, pancakes, this whole situation."

Her face softened. "Go sit down, Wes. I'm still going to make you eat pancakes. By the way," she added quietly, "it's nice to see you smile."

On his way to the futon, he grinned at the ficus and fought the temptation to go and give it a pat. It was silly, really, but he felt like he owed it a debt of gratitude. He wasn't quite certain what for. Perhaps the fact that three weeks of tension had finally broken. Perhaps just for pancakes.

They did help, she was right about that. He suspected they were lacking in nutritional value, and the amount of butter and syrup she'd added to them couldn't help, but they were warm and solid and filling.

"Buffy?"

"Hmm?" She looked up from her plate.

"Thank you."

"What for? I'm the one who dragged you away from everything you knew so you can eventually end up going underground as a single dad. Hardly seems like something I should be thanked for."

"For the pancakes."

She looked a little sheepish. "Oh, those. Kind of the least I could do, considering."

"Buffy, I'm profoundly grateful, for what it's worth. You're giving up far more than I am."

"Wesley, you gave up your family, your friends, and your whole identity. I still kind of think you're getting the bad end of the bargain."

"My family was hardly a loss, I haven't really had friends for some time, and my identity was just a reminder of both those things. You're giving up your child."

"I know."

She was silent for a long moment.

"But somehow, knowing she'll be with you, it helps. I won't pretend it's easy, but it helps. She'll be with family, even if she's not with me."

He found himself swallowing. Hard. And wanting very much to change the subject.

Of course, he couldn't think of a single thing to change it to.

Perhaps he should have kept the television instead of the dartboard.

Her hand reached out and covered his, squeezing it gently. "It's okay. Really. Do you want to feel something?"

She dragged his hand to her belly and held it there until he felt a kick against his palm.

"Does it hurt?" He kept his hand pressed against the spot in case the baby moved again.

"Sometimes. It depends on what she's kicking. I think all that demon-fighting I did before I found out was a bad influence. Weird, isn't it?"

He was grinning again, and close to an exceptionally undignified fit of the giggles.

"Weird, but also quite, quite wonderful. She's really in there, isn't she?"

"Want to see the pictures?"

He nodded, lifting his hand reluctantly so she could go and get them.

"These are somewhat like those 3D puzzles aren't they?" He muttered as he turned the grainy black and white image around. The static image was proving much harder to interpret than the monitor he'd looked at with Darla.

Buffy smiled. "Maybe a little. Here, let me show you," she pointed to a pale mass with her finger, "that's her forehead, and that's her nose... and I know that kind of looks like a second head, but it's just her fist. She doesn't like to sit still long enough for a clear picture."

"Apparently not. You're quite certain it's just her hand and not an extra head?"

"I was watching when she made the fist, so yes. She's 18 weeks old in these. She's gotten a lot bigger since then."

So had Buffy. He hadn't really noticed in the rush to get them out of L.A., but she was certainly quite a bit larger than she had been when she showed up on his doorstep. Her face was a little fuller, her breasts... he shouldn't be thinking about her breasts.

He forced his mind back to the subject at hand.

"How far along are you in weeks?"

"Jeez, Wesley, you were there. You're going to make me count? I'm 27 weeks along, which, translated into actual time, means she's 25 weeks old. Just entering trimester number three."

Three months. He was going to be a father in three months. There was a person inside the girl seated next to him. A person who would be his responsibility for the rest of his life. Oh hell.

"Wes, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Just panicking and wondering where the escape hatch is hidden. "Sorry. I should let you get some rest."

He stood abruptly and made to leave the room.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Her voice was soft and cautious. Against his instincts, he turned around.

"Not especially, no."

"It just hit you, didn't it?"

He slumped back onto the futon. "Yes. It hit me, and then I think it came back for another round. I'm terrified, exhilarated, and I think I may need to go and vomit now. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

She laughed, a dry sort of sound he'd never expected to hear from her. "How do you think I felt? Except, of course, there was no 'I think' about the vomiting."

"Terribly sorry." He was shaking again. He couldn't seem to help it. Visions of everything that could possibly go wrong were crowding out his ability to think rationally. Even the more banal, human-oriented research he'd done before and after Connor's birth spoke of a myriad of nightmarish complications and possibilities. "Your pre-natal examinations, the results... they've all been normal?"

"Yep. We're healthy as a horse. Well, two horses. I have another one next week at the birthing clinic. Appointment, that is. You should come. The midwife kind of demanded that I bring you, actually."

He nodded and started to prepare a list of questions in his head.

"Wesley?" He looked up from the spot on the floor he'd been examining. "Thanks again."

She leaned over, the breasts he was trying to ignore pressing against him as she brushed sugar-smeared lips against his mouth. His brain understood that she intended it as a chaste gesture of friendship and solidarity, but it seemed that it had failed to communicate that particular fact to the rest of his body. His lips parted under hers and his tongue flitted out to lick the traces of syrup from her mouth before he realized what he was doing and pulled away.

The sweetness lingered long after he stammered his excuses and retreated to bed. He made up his mind to go to the local library in the morning and bury himself in research. It was better to focus on possible horrors than on impossible desires.

When he woke up, he cheered himself with the notion that cold showers would at least save on the cost of electricity. Of course, with the number he suspected he'd be taking, it would be more than made up for by the water bill.

He got dressed and walked into the living room, grabbing his identification and a handful of utility bills to take with him as proof of residence. Buffy was still asleep, curled up under a light blanket. She hadn't even bothered to unfold the futon. He watched her for several minutes before finally forcing himself to walk out the door.

The library was just opening for the day. He watched as parents with toddlers wandered in on their way to some group activity, then made his way to the medical reference section. He walked out after a couple of hours with a number of texts and terrible headache.

Wonderful. He'd gone in moderately alarmed and come out completely terrified. Had it managed to do anything at all about his response to the rising levels of no-doubt one-sided sexual tension in the house, perhaps it would have been worth it.

Buffy was awake when he got home, but he brushed off her attempts at conversation and shut himself away in his room, coming out only to grab a cup of coffee and an apple.

Safely hunched over the books each night, he was almost willing to admit he was being cowardly about the whole thing. He simply couldn't think of a way to explain without sounding like a complete ass that the scent of her skin made him want nothing so much as to see if it tasted like he remembered and that the sight of her swollen with child made him want to either worship her with his hands or wrap her in cotton wool. It was easier to retreat into research and attempt to avoid having to see or speak to her.

He was aware that it was upsetting her, but considered that the lesser of evils.

• **

If he asked one more carefully phrased question about her health and the possibility of complications, she was going to scream. Or hit something. Possibly both. She had to do something to shut him up. It was funny, considering she'd spent the last week trying to get him to talk without much success. Well, unless you counted terse requests for salt and pepper as talking. Or the short "Excuse me" that always preceded his leaving the room any time she got within a foot of him.

"Patricia, while we're asking you questions, what about sex? Is that still okay at this stage, any precautions we'll need to take?"

When all else fails, burst out with something outrageous. Besides, sex was on her mind more frequently than she liked to admit. It was one of the more frustrating side effects of her pregnancy.

It worked. He wasn't sputtering, but he looked like he wanted to sputter. Kind of flushed and tight-lipped. Definite sputter potential. He was also glaring at her, but at least he wasn't talking. Good. She shot him an innocent look, which he met with narrowed eyes.

"...should be fine." The midwife was saying. "Generally, I tell women that as long as they feel up to it, it doesn't do them any harm. Most women say it helps them to relax. I'll give you a pamphlet to take with you with things to watch out for and suggested positions."

Okay, it was her turn to blush. Maybe she should have asked about bodily functions instead. Of course, those had pretty much been covered during the English Inquisition. As had almost every single gruesome event, outcome, or combination. She had to hand it to him, he was thorough.

He was also more than a little peeved from the look of things. He didn't say a word to her until halfway through the walk back to the house.

"What the devil was that about?"

"What was what about?" She'd been going for guileless, but somehow what emerged from her mouth was closer to defensive.

"You know exactly what I am referring to, and I would appreciate it if you didn't lie to me." The cold, quiet voice was worse than the clinical detachment he'd shown in his questioning.

"You spent half an hour reducing me to a pronoun and a set of possible complications and discussing me as if I wasn't in the room. If you can think of a better way for me to shut you up, let me know. I may have to remember it for the next appointment."

"I'm so very sorry that I had the nerve to be at all concerned about what lies ahead. If you really feel the need to keep your head firmly in the sand, by all means, do so. However, one of us has to know what to do in the event that something goes wrong." He was starting to sound far too much like he had when he'd been sent to Sunnydale. She could feel her blood pressure start to rise.

"What makes you think I have my head in the sand? Don't you think I've already taken most of this into consideration? I'm the one going through this, after all. If you'd bothered to ask me before locking yourself in your room in the name of research, you'd know that."

"So bringing our fictional sex life into it in public is a perfectly acceptable and mature way for you to handle the fact that my line of questioning upset you. Of course."

"You spend the last week indulging in passive-aggressive brooding, and suddenly I'm the immature one?"

He glared at her and quickened his pace, leaving her to curse under her breath while she tried to catch up. She'd thought they'd come to some sort of understanding the night she'd made pancakes. It had been nice to actually talk instead of just relating tasks and orders. It had been almost normal, or as close as her life ever came to normal. Instead, he'd been surly ever since he'd cut off their conversation to go to bed. Which he'd done right after she'd kissed him.

Damn.

Maybe she did have her head in the sand, just not about what he thought. Of course, it was possible she just had the world's largest blind spot when it came to figuring out when a man was attracted to her. Given that she'd already slept with him, she felt like a complete idiot.

She slowed back to a normal walk and wondered if she'd ever figure out the opposite sex without needing a neon sign with fifty-foot letters to spell it out. Or figure herself out, for that matter. She'd had a lot of different motives for kissing him, and she really didn't want to examine any of them.

He'd locked himself in his room by the time she got back to the house, so she curled up on her futon and flipped through the pamphlet she'd been given.

Fifteen minutes later, she was cursing the blind spot again. Nothing like having them spelled out in plain text with handy illustrations to force a person to examine the things she was trying to avoid thinking about. They needed to have a talk. Now.

It was probably a bad idea. No, there was no probably about it. It was a bad idea, one ranking about on par with drinking with frat boys, and slightly below sleeping with vampires.

The badness of those ideas hadn't stopped her from going through with them. Twice. She'd only done this particular bad idea once. Not that she was certain she was going to do it again.

"Never let it be said that I've learned my lesson," she muttered as she walked to his door.

There was no pause in the steady thud of darts hitting the board when she knocked.

"Come" -thunk- "in." -thunk.

He was obviously still sulking. She let herself in.

He let another dart fly before turning to look at her. "Did you want something in particular, or are you just planning on standing and looking at me?"

Now that she was there, she had no idea how to broach the subject. She wasn't even certain exactly what it was she should be broaching. She settled for a lame, "I just thought we should talk."

"I thought you didn't want me to talk. That's the impression you gave, at any rate."The caustic tone didn't bode well for communication.

"Wow. You're acting like Dawn on a bad day. You going to start screaming at me to get out now?"

"Buffy... " His voice trailed off and his jaw clenched.

Wonderful, she'd managed to make matters between them worse. She rubbed her forehead absently, cursing her inability to take a decent pain killer, and sat down uninvited on the edge of his bed.

"Are we going to spend the next trimester bickering and avoiding each other? Because I'm tired, I'm lonely, and my head hurts."

He stood up and headed towards the door. Well, looked like she'd called the avoiding part, at least.

"Where are you going?" She sounded petulant even to her own ears and winced.

"I'm getting you some ice. I read that it helps ease the headaches."

Maybe it was the hormones, maybe the stress. It didn't take much to make her feel stupid. She swallowed, hard, and wished the floor would swallow her up before she totally humiliated herself.

He made it back before she had time to burst into a fit of crying. She supposed she should give thanks for small mercies.

One hand brushed her hair out of the way, while the other gently rubbed a piece of ice against the nape of her neck.

"Is it helping?"

"Hmmm?"

Tiny rivulets of cold water trickled down her spine, taking much of her tension--as well as most of her vocabulary--with them.

"The ice. Is it helping your head?" he asked gently.

Buffy nodded. "I'm willing to admit that there may be something to be said for obsessive research at this point." He let out a quiet sound that might have been a laugh and kept rubbing in slow, soothing circles.

His fingertips met her skin as the last of the ice melted. Instead of pulling away as she'd expected, they traced the curve of her neck and shoulders. She leaned into his touch until they were close enough that his breath stirred the tiny hairs at the base of her skull.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he murmured, and lowered his mouth to her nape.

The kiss was soft, just a brush of lips over damp flesh, leaving an impression of fire. She whimpered, her hands tangling and twisting in the sheets as his lips moved to her ear.

"It's a very bad idea, after all," he whispered. "You should probably stop me."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then I should probably stop me."

"Don't..." She couldn't tell exactly what he was doing to her ear, but it was short-circuiting her brain.

"Don't what?"

"Stop. Don't stop."

She twisted until she was facing him, the added bulk of her body forcing her almost on top of him before she could reach his mouth.

"Please, just don't stop."

Kissing felt good. A stupid, simple thought, she guessed, but about the only one she could form while doing it. Her hands sought the places they'd explored before, the ridge of his spine, the line of his jaw. There didn't seem to be a method to it. She wondered if it counted as state-dependant memory. Professor Walsh had been talking about intoxicants, but surely this wasn't far off.

And then he managed to untangle her dress and pull it over her head, and she wasn't interested in thinking, period. Just touching and tasting and feeling and trying to figure out how to translate illustrations on a page into practical real-world solutions. It was awkward, punctuated with nervous laughter and edged with desperation. It was also just what she needed.

Afterwards, she still didn't want to let reality intrude. She felt calm, human, for the first time since the whole mess had become apparent. The longer she could put of thinking the better. She'd always been better at action than analysis.

She had forgotten who she was with.

"That was probably a very bad idea." he said it calmly enough, but the slight frown that accompanied it was one with which she was all too familiar. It was the same frown he got before burying himself in books.

"Yeah. Probably. Do you wish it hadn't happened?"

"I'm not certain. It introduces another complication which we didn't particularly need."

She shrugged. "I don't see that it complicates things any more than avoiding each other would."

"Buffy, you know as well as I do that this sort of entanglement always complicates things. It's the nature of the beast."

She was quiet for a while before answering.

"It's a complication that already existed. Avoiding it doesn't make it go away or make things any easier. It just makes it worse. Believe me, I'm the poster child for avoidance-related badness." She decided to ignore the fact that she was trying to avoid thinking about the subject. It kind of ruined her argument. "And besides, it's kind of too late to second guess our actions."

She watched him think about what she'd said, wishing his face revealed anything of what he was thinking. Other than a certain level of worry, it was blank, unreadable. He'd be rolling in kittens if he came back to Sunnydale to play poker.

Wow. She must be lonely if she was having nostalgic thoughts about that. Next thing, she'd be missing calling the plumber at three in the morning to deal with stopped-up pipes.

"Wesley?"

He blinked, coming back from wherever it was his mind had wandered off. "Yes?"

"I need this." It was hard for her to say it, but it was too late to take it back even if she'd wanted to.

He nodded faintly and pulled the blanket up to cover them both. She wasn't certain what it all meant, but was even less certain that she cared. Curled up on her side with her belly against his waist, nothing much mattered except shared warmth and company.

"Buffy, when you say you need this, do you mean for this to be an isolated incident, or something more?"

"You're trying to make me think. Why are you trying to make me think?" She burrowed her head into the crook of his arm. He smelled of fresh sweat and faded deodorant, something salty and spicy. "Nutmeg," she announced.

"You're avoiding the question. As I recall you were the one who said avoidance was a poor choice... and what in G-d's name do you mean by 'nutmeg'?"

"It's what you smell like. Kind of. And I don't know, maybe."

"Maybe you're avoiding the question or maybe this was a one-time occurrence, or maybe you'd like for this to be something more for now?"

"The last one, if you stop asking me questions and let me sleep."

It seemed to shut him up without a fight. She'd have to remember that when she woke up.

• **

She always slept soundly after sex. He always remained awake, watching her slumbering form and wondering how much he'd regret the entanglement once she was gone.

He knew full well they were using it as a palliative for loneliness. He had no illusions that it was anything else. There was little passion to the act, just a mutual craving for closeness and comfort in its most elemental form. Still, he was bothered by the thought that they had broken some necessary barrier by sharing a bed.

She no longer bothered to go back to her own bed before morning. She'd made an effort the first week, but for all practical purposes, she had moved into his room. He still had a number of questions regarding the wisdom of their behaviour, but knew better than to ask them. It would only lead to trouble, and he was too selfishly glad for the succour to suggest anything that might upset the balance they'd managed to achieve.

Besides, when Buffy slept, he could watch the movements of his daughter distort her mother's rounded abdomen. It was strange at first, to see the punch of a fist beneath flesh. He wondered how Buffy could sleep through it. She seemed especially active tonight, perhaps the result of the extra helping of pie Buffy had eaten at dinner, but it didn't wake her mother. Giving in to temptation, he poked the last spot she'd punched. She punched back.

Curious.

He poked again, and she returned the volley. He spent a good five minutes entertaining himself, and, by extension, the baby, that way before Buffy woke up and swatted his hand away.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was thick with sleep.

"Did you know that if you poke at her, she pokes back?"

"Mmm-hmm. Did you know that if I don't get enough sleep, I get cranky and want to break things?"

"I had noticed, yes."

"It's bad enough having to wake up every half hour to pee. Next time you two feel like playing, can it wait until I'm already up? I feel like someone's been using my internal organs as a drum set."

"I can see where that might be annoying. I'm afraid I just got caught up in the excitement of discovery."

"If you want you could read to her or something. If I can sleep through it, I'm happy. But no poking unless I'm already up, okay?"

It seemed like a reasonable request. He was too comfortable to bother getting a book, and besides, there wasn't anything in the house suitable for children, so he just quietly recited highly edited tales of his adventures in Los Angeles and Pylea, and when he ran out of those, snippets of myths in whatever language he'd read them in. He kept one hand on Buffy's belly as he spoke to the occupant, wondering if the occasional kicks and movements were a response to his words. He rather hoped so, even if it was a fanciful notion. He resolved to check out some books of children's stories and fairy tales when he made his next trip to the library.

Buffy expressed her approval. It appeared that she found the quiet rhythm of the stories soothing, or so she claimed. It became a habit, one that eventually spread to the waking hours, and , when her pregnancy advanced to the point that sex was no longer feasible, provided them both with a certain amount of comfort.

Stories and fairy tales segued into long, sleepy conversations about nothing in particular that segued into nearly confessional tales of how they'd ended up where they were. Part of his mind screamed that it was a bad idea, but he wasn't inclined to listen to it. He wished he'd realized, when he'd first met her, what a burden it was for the vessel. Perhaps it would have changed how he'd behaved with her and with Faith.

Funny, the sorts of regrets that hit long after the fact and refuse to leave. He'd been so certain, however, that he was going about things the right way. Following procedure, doing as he'd been taught. As was so often the case, he'd been completely and totally wrong about everything. It did not, he suspected, bode well for his future parenting abilities, a thought he was careful to keep to himself as her due date approached.

• **

Labor didn't seem like it would be too hard, at first. It wasn't the worst pain she'd ever had, just fleeting cramps every few hours that slowly lengthened until they were strongish cramps every hour. They started after breakfast, and she timed them absently as she set up an area in the living room with tarp, towels, and pillows in preparation. When her water still hadn't broken by midnight, and the contractions were still about twenty minutes apart, she got sick of waiting and crawled into bed, dozing between pains.

A sharp twinge in her back pulled her from her half-slumber and she whimpered. Soothing murmurs and a warm hand at the small of her back came from the other side of the bed, along with a sleepy inquiry as to the time. She stared at the clock, trying to focus on the glowing red of the numbers through the pain.

"3:22. It's been seven minutes since the last one, and this one really hurt."

"Do I need to call the midwife?" His voice had lost the softness of sleep.

"I'm not sure yet. They're still pretty short."

"Water?"

"Yes, please."

She listened to him get out of bed and fumble for his robe. Concentrating on sounds helped take her mind off the pain; the alarm clock's buzz, the creak of the floorboards followed by the rush of the tap--she focused on each of them in turn. 3:23 switched to 3:24, the pain receded and she struggled with her cumbersome bulk until she managed to sit up. They'd been short, but this one had lasted over a minute. She might have mistimed the one before it.

The light flicked on, indicating that Wesley was back with the water. He handed her the glass, waiting for her to finish drinking before asking her if she needed anything else.

"Help me up?" She'd made it to sitting, but was pretty certain that standing would take a joint effort, and she kind of needed to go to the bathroom.

Another spasm hit as she was washing her hands, harder than the previous ones. She found herself crouched on all fours, moaning and shaking uncontrollably, as a gush of fluid soaked her legs. Hands, those were hands helping her off the floor and into the tub. Then they were gone, but there were soothing sounds that made no sense as warm water poured over the pain, dulling it until she could focus on anything other than the dark red haze. Was she crying? It felt like she was crying. The pain faded again, and she was finally able to pay attention to things outside of her body. Wesley was on the phone. Why was he on the phone? He was also dressed. When had that happened?

"Patricia will be here soon. She says to remember to breathe. For the record, there were only about five minutes between contractions. You may have slept straight through to transition. I'll go and get you some more water and some ice cubes while we wait."

Buffy nodded. This was it. She wasn't ready; birth would be the first stage of separation, and she wasn't ready. Not for any of it. Her hand trailed in the bathwater, leaving tiny whirlpools in its wake. The blinding pain of contractions was in some ways easier to deal with than this in-between state. She could focus on the goings-on of her body and not even think about what would follow.

Wesley returned with the water and a bowl of ice cubes; he handed her the former and set the latter on the back of the sink, then retreated to the doorjamb. He leaned against it, eyes flicking from her to his watch and back again every few seconds.

Buffy was about ready to ask him to knock it off when the next pain shot from her back down her legs. She didn't have time to make it from tub to toilet before she threw up; the nausea had hit her so suddenly that she figured she was lucky she'd at least made it to the edge of the tub.

"Sorry," she groaned.

He was already mopping up the mess. "It's mostly water. As I recall, you haven't eaten since yesterday morning, and the only other thing you've had is a half glass of apple juice. Besides, it's a common enough response, one I believe has to do with sympathetic nerves. Ice?"

She nodded, sucking on a piece until the contraction ended. "You're nervous, aren't you?" She asked when she was able to speak again.

"How could you tell?"

"You're babbling. It's kind of a dead give away."