"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."

The doorbell rang , signifying the arrival of the midwife, before he could respond. In between the increasingly frequent spasms, she realized it was for the best. She really didn't have time for another circular argument at the moment. Patricia took some basic information about timing and duration, then hustled Buffy out of the tub and into the pillow and sheet covered tarp they'd set up on the living room floor. A quick examination confirmed that she was indeed in transition.

"You managed to sleep until they were only a few minutes apart?" Patricia laughed. "You've got some real tolerance for pain there, Buffy. Keep breathing; once you're in active labor, strange as it sounds, the worst is over and you're almost there."

She was right. It proved to be much easier to deal with the pressure of something making its way out than the ripping pain of her body widening to allow for the exit.

Buffy declined the offer of a mirror when crowning began, concentrating on working with her body. She could do this, lord knew she had enough training in following her instincts to deal with something as normal as giving birth. A few moans and hissed curses, a lot of blood and crying and pushing, and not much time later, the offended squeals of a freshly-evicted baby filled the room.

She stared at the foreign creature that had been placed, squirming, at her breast. "Your head is huge," she informed it.

Patricia looked up at them and smiled. "It's the normal size. They feel larger than they really are."

Buffy stroked the tiny face, so absorbed in the feel of it that she barely felt the last contractions as the afterbirth made its anticlimactic appearance and was dutifully examined by the midwife. By the time everything was settled and taken care of, and the three of them were finally alone in the house, Buffy had come to a conclusion. The pain, the confusion, and finally the peace... giving birth was a hell of a lot like dying.

• **

Birth, he was not surprised to discover, was as messy as anything else in life. It was long, painful, boring, frightening, miraculous, and absurd by turns. Not to mention somewhat gory. The midwife claimed that it had been a fairly short labor for a first child.

Funny how one's perception of time could be affected by the amount of stress one was under. It had felt like days, rather than hours during the event itself. Of course, now that it was all over, it was something of a blur. He was beyond tired. He wondered if it would be possible to fall asleep where he was, even with the midday sun streaming through the windows. The floor felt so very comfortable.

"I give up."

He blinked and looked up at Buffy as she tried to arrange the pillows to her liking with one arm while balancing their daughter with the other.

"I could get you more pillows," he suggested.

"No, don't bother. I just need to admit to myself that comfortable's not happening in my reality anytime soon," she sighed, finally abandoning her attempts at pillow manipulation.

"It's odd. Do you know, we've never discussed names for her. I hadn't even realized it until now."

"Tara. I've been thinking of her as Tara."

He understood, he thought. Both why she wanted to use that name for her daughter, and why she hadn't mentioned it until after she had safely delivered.

"It's a lovely name. Tara. I think it suits her," he stared at the pink, wrinkled bundle with her mass of dark hair sticking out at odd angles. "She's beautiful, in a funny sort of way, isn't she?"

"Wesley, she looks like an alien. She's all head and eyes."

"And hair. She has rather a lot of it, don't you think?"

"And hair. All head, eyes, and hair. She's gorgeous." Buffy was unable to keep a note of pride from creeping into her voice. "Aren't you, Tara?"

"She'll need a middle name, you know. What about Anne?"

"That's my middle name."

"I know."

He said it quietly, almost to himself. Tara wouldn't have his name, not legally. Officially, she belonged to two people who didn't exist. Giving her her mother's middle name would be the closest thing to a heritage she would have. It seemed important, though he'd have been hard pressed to explain why exactly that was the case.

"Wesley?" Her voice shook him from his contemplation.

"Hmm?"

"Anne is perfect. Thank you."

He smiled at the two of them, then curled up on the floor and let himself sleep.

• **

Five weeks. Thirty-five days. Eight-hundred and forty hours, give or take. Math had never been her strongest skill, but she was doing an awful lot of it just to stay sane. At least she wasn't counting the seconds, though she'd thought of it. Five more weeks in limbo. Then, if she was pronounced fit and ready, she could go home. Put back the pieces of her life, put all this behind her. Five more weeks until she was the one doing the leaving. Five more weeks to memorize her daughter's face.

It wasn't enough time.

She felt the still-unfamiliar ache that meant it was almost feeding time, strong enough that it almost overpowered the constant ache of her body struggling to go back to normal. Tara was asleep on a blanket, her father stretched out on the floor next to her, one finger still trapped in a tiny fist.

Buffy suspected he'd have been happier if she wasn't breast feeding. Not that he'd said anything. After the initial euphoria of the birth had passed, he'd retreated back into himself, and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. He made a point of reminding her that she'd be leaving before too long, that it wasn't a good idea to become so invested in Tara's life.

She wasn't certain what he expected her to do. Six weeks total, one of them already gone. She wasn't going to waste any of the small amount of time she'd been given, even if it made leaving a little more painful to contemplate. It wasn't like it was going to be easy no matter what she did. Nothing ever was.

Tara woke with a plaintive wail; Buffy picked her up and guided her to the breast, murmuring soft little nonsense syllables to soothe her until she latched on and began feeding.

"You're quite certain you want to be doing this?" He was watching them, his face unreadable. Buffy had learned over the months that the lack of expression usually indicated that he was fretting about something.

"She's better off being nursed. It's good for her."

"I'm not questioning the obvious benefits, but it's not her I'm worried about."

Well, that cut to the core of the matter. "Believe it or not, I'm capable of making my own decisions about what's good for me. My milk would have come in either way. Would you rather I was sitting around watching her drink formula and waiting for it to dry up? Because I'm kind of thinking that would be worse."

"It's more than just the nursing, Buffy. You're bonding with her, which is a risk you shouldn't be taking."

She took a few deep breaths, not wanting to get angry during a feeding. She'd done it the night before, and had been up all night trying to settle a very cranky Tara.

"You'd rather I just ignored her, and let you run to her with a bottle every single time she needs something?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Not going to happen. I thought you knew me better than that." Buffy watched the movement of the little jaw as Tara suckled. "You can't expect me to just leave her alone."

"Buffy..." he stopped and let out a short sigh. "I only want what's best for the both of you."

She looked up at him, exhausted and sick of the argument. "You need to let me be the judge of that."

After that, he kept his opinions to himself for the most part, and she kept tracking the ever-shrinking number of days until her six-week appointment.

• **

She had to admit, part of her had hoped that there was something wrong, something that hadn't healed right and would force her to stay just a few more weeks. She knew better. After all, quick healing was part of the package, and she'd felt almost like her old self for a couple of weeks. The post-natal appointment just confirmed it. She had the go-ahead to resume almost everything, and while slaying wasn't technically on the list, she'd run out of excuses. It was time to go home.

Even if it didn't feel like home anymore.

It didn't take her very long to pack. The maternity dresses went into a black garbage bag, ready for donation, and the t-shirts and sweats she'd been wearing for six weeks weren't hers to begin with. In the end, it was just another light bag with a few essentials ready for another bus ride away from the things that mattered.

They'd gone out while she readied her things, leaving a house loud with their absence. She set her bag by the door, then went to the hamper and started folding the pile of baby clothing Wesley had washed while she was at the clinic. Tara was growing so quickly; the littlest newborn items didn't really fit her anymore. Buffy separated the clothing that Tara'd outgrown from the things that still fit. Instead of putting them in with the rest of the things to given away, she slipped them into her bag, putting them under the change of clothes and the Ziploc with her toothbrush and floss. She realized she was crying again when she felt something wet hit her hands. She hated crying, but it seemed like she'd been spending a hell of a lot of time doing it as of late. Her breasts were aching, which meant Tara must be getting hungry, but there was no sign of them.

She checked the clock. They'd been gone for two hours. She checked the freezer. There was one less bag of milk than had been in there when she'd left for the appointment. He must have packed a bottle. He'd been doing that about as often as she'd been crying. Funny, that. She pumped to relieve the pressure, then sealed the bag and stuck it with the rest of them. Buffy figured Tara had at least a two more weeks of milk left before she became a formula-only baby.

When she ran out of chores, she took out a pen and a stack of cards she'd purchased on impulse a few weeks before giving birth. There were eighteen of them in all. Buffy wrote something on each one and enclosed them in their envelopes, numbering them as she went.

Her breasts were full again by the time Wesley returned with the baby. She grabbed Tara before he had time to take off his coat.

"Nice of you to take so long," she said flatly as she pulled up her shirt and guided her daughter to a nipple.

"You're leaving in the morning. She needs to get used to you not being here."

"So, what? That means I should be allowed to spend time with her before I leave?" She tried to keep her voice level.

"Buffy, you're leaving. In case you hadn't realized it, that means you're going to have to get used to not being with her the same as she has to get used to not being with you."

"Believe me, I'm well aware of that, but I sure as hell don't see why that means I can't spend as much time with her as I can before I go."

"Buffy--"

She cut him off. "If you tell me it's for the best, I swear I'll break something."

It was obvious that he was well past angry and bordering on furious, but he said nothing. She stared at him, eyes daring him to speak, until he turned and left the room. Tara kept nursing, blessedly oblivious to the tension, until she drifted off to sleep, little milky bubbles gathered at the corner of her mouth. Buffy set her down gently in the crib and went in search of Wesley.

As expected, he was in the bedroom, nose in a book.

"She's asleep. Her clothing's been put away and there's more milk in the freezer. I'll be out of your hair before too long, so you can stop fretting."

He slammed the booked closed and stood up. "Stop it."

"Stop what? Stop caring? Stop hurting?" She moved until she was close enough to feel the warmth coming from his skin.

"Stop taking it out on me, damn it." He must have been stewing the whole time Tara had been suckling, because he'd crossed the border to furious several miles back. "What in heaven's name do you want me to do, Buffy?"

"What I want is to have spent more time with my daughter on the last day I could be with her, but you just have to know best, don't you?"

"Because it would be so much better for her to be subjected to your self-indulgent moodiness, I suppose?"

The crack of her hand across his face shocked them both. She stared at its reddened outline, appalled.

"You should get out before I'm tempted to respond in kind." He spoke so quietly she could barely make out the words, but there was no mistaking the sentiment.

She stood and waited for the answering blow. His hand lifted, but instead of connecting with her face, it tangled in her hair, tugging until there wasn't any space left between their bodies, and very little between their mouths.

"Is this what you want?" Her voice was harsh, foreign to her own ears. Her mouth covered his before he could say a word, teeth digging into his lower lip as she sought to punish them both for everything and nothing at once.

He answered with hands as brutal as her voice, yanking down the sweats she was wearing and pushing her onto the bed, not bothering with the nicety of foreplay before taking what she offered. She felt dry and bruised and nowhere near used enough, nowhere near hurt enough. Frantic and frenzied with need and self-loathing, she drew him closer, meeting violent thrusts with quick jerks of her hips as he slammed into her, little whimpers escaping her lips at the feel of his fingernails digging into her thighs while his hands pushed them up and further apart. Her hands worked their way under his shirt, pulling it off before returning to claw at his back, slicing into the skin like tiny razors. She was trembling, vacillating between pain and pleasure as she came. Her teeth clenched around his shoulder until she tasted the copper and iron of his blood mixed with the salt of his sweat and felt him shudder, felt the warm-wet familiarity of his release inside her and the warm-wet familiarity of tears across her face.

"You should have left when I told you to do so." The words came out of his mouth without infliction as he rolled off of her, but the hard, haunted look on his face gave lie to the even tones.

Too shocked by what they'd done to say anything, she just stared at him, dumbly taking in the marks she'd left on his skin. There were more than she remembered making, neat imprints of teeth and nails mixed with long scratches welling over with blood.

She looked at her hands and back at the wounds she'd left. "I'm sorry." She was shaking, oh Christ, what had she done? "I'm sorry," she repeated, voice breaking.

"Are you all right?" The question was a mix of weariness and concern, and she had no answer for it. Something between a laugh and a groan escaped him when it became obvious she wasn't going to respond. "G-d, we're a mess, aren't we?"

"That would be one way of putting it. I didn't mean to..." she trailed off, one hand reaching out to touch the worst of the bites.

"Neither did I, but it's not something one could tell from looking at you."

She glanced at her body, startled by the scratches and bruises just starting to blossom. "Oh." Feeling self-conscious, she tugged her shirt down to cover the evidence. "I hadn't noticed." She winced as she shifted her weight; she may have been told it was fine to have sex again, but she somehow doubted that this was exactly what the midwife had intended.

"I didn't entirely mean physically," he added. "When I referred to us as a mess."

"Yeah, I know. I'm starting to think my coping mechanisms leave a little something to be desired. Also? I'm getting the feeling that learning from my mistakes? Not my strong suit."

"Nor mine. Buffy, I'm sorry I took Tara out today. It was presumptuous of me."

"You were also right, much as it pains me to admit it. I'm not sure how I'm going to get through leaving her. I've had to do so many things that seem like they should have been harder than this; some of them have even killed me. But this? It's different. It's not the end of the world, so how come it feels so much worse?"

"I don't know. She'll be well taken care of, if it helps at all." He pulled the blanket up to cover them both.

"It does, a little. And I know she will, but sometimes I get so sick of sacrificing anything that might possibly resemble a normal life for the sake of my calling."

"If it wasn't for your calling, Tara wouldn't exist in the first place. Presuming the best-case scenario, that being a lack of success for any of the apocalyptic events that have taken place during the last half-decade or so, you'd most likely be in your final year at university, still an only child, and Sunnydale would, if it entered into your thoughts at all, merely be a small town with an obscenely high death rate and obscenely low housing prices. However, the best-case scenarios very rarely occur outside of theory, so we'd probably all be dead."

"Thank you, I think. Wow, you sounded like Giles."