And there's a demon in my head who starts to play
A nightmare tape loop of what went wrong yesterday
And I hold my breath till it's more than I can take
And I close my eyes and dream that I'm awake

"Narcolepsy" – Third Eye Blind

Angel's fingers go over mine and he slides them down my belly. "What do you mean? Dream?"

I realize I haven't told him about what's been happening to me, so I do, in hushed tones, and he stares sort of blankly at me with his Angel eyes and I can tell he's turning over in his mind what I've told him and wondering… what are we going to do? His hand rubs my stomach a bit and whispers, "Do you think you're having a baby… our baby?"

My throat closes over. Outside, the clouds open up and thunder cracks against the sky. Quietly, rain begins to cry silver tears against the window, and it sounds like wind chimes. "I don't know," I murmur and shift, feeling his strong arms go around me, the muscles underneath his skin rippling underneath my touch. Desperately, I reach up and run my hand down his cheek, to his jaw, imprinting its curve under my fingers.

Angel draws me up so he can look at me and his eyes are gentle, dark and deeper than a drowning ocean. "What about Mike, Buffy? We never talk about him."

"He's…" I pause and flounder, wishing I knew what to say about Mike. Wishing I knew what to say to make Angel feel better because that's all I care about and sometimes I think it's all that will ever matter. "He's not important."

He looks pained and brushes a lock of hair away from my forehead in a tender gesture. "That's not true. Or else you wouldn't be his fiancée."

"I don't know," I sigh and curl away from him, my naked body quivering underneath the covers. His hand touches my back for a moment- and it burns- and then he breathes out and leans back against the headboard with a creak. My mind whirls with thoughts of a sun blanketing the crystal sky, of a rope swinging madly upon a wooden post and the long slow walk… to what? To death? I don't know where these memories come from… how I can remember the upswell of my breasts in the golden gown, the lion mane of my hair… the brush I'd use in the mornings, and the feel of the comforter beneath my cheek…

It was satin, I realize with horror. Byrony (I) slept on a satiny white coverlet. Choking back a panicked sob, I sit up abruptly and glance at Angel. He stares into the middle distance, appears to be thinking. "I have to go," I tell him shortly, biting off the words with all the cruelty I hate, but can't help.

His head moves and his eyes lock with mine. I see a sorrow- a doom in his gaze. He doesn't know what's going on but he's afraid we're not going to make it. Reaching out blindly- I know there are tears in my eyes- I caress his cheek with trembling fingers.

"I can't kiss you," I whisper.

He turns his face and presses a hot kiss to my palm. "Why not?"

I'm shivering, as I answer, "Because then I'll end up staying… and I can't do that. Not now. There's so much I have to figure out, Angel. So much… that I need to do." Curving my fingers under his chin, I memorize the texture of his flesh- so dear to me still after all these years and climb from the bed.

My thighs sting as I pull on my underwear. I can smell myself all over this room and him and breathing deeply, I ignore the tears at the back of my throat and resolutely don all the armour I have perfected over these last days. "I'll see you…" I call softly as I begin to leave the room.

"Buffy." I hate when he does that. No one else says my name like him and I suppose parts of me think that might have been the reason for all of this.

No one else says my name like him. No one else holds me like him. Like him… no one else kisses me quite like his lips kiss me. No one else… no one else… and I turn, angry and sick with the desire to throw myself back in his arms and let him fuck me until we're both gasping for air.

"Yes?" I snap.

"Take care of yourself," he gently warns me, and I can see that he's worried and I spin, falling into his arms on the bed, my legs tangling with the sheets and the covers. Everything is warmer here, in the circle of his arms and I breathe him in, kissing his stomach, where the arrow of butter soft hair begins.

"I will," I murmur and feel the beat of his heart echo against my ear for a split second. Then I get up and go, walking out the door with all the determination I think Byrony must have had—to meet her lover when she knew the road to him led only to a swinging rope.

~~~

There is a huge library in the center of the city, and I stop and get a coffee from a street vendor before I reach it. The wind is blowing in the early morning, and I can tell it's not going to be hot. Watching the river Seine absently as I sip the aromatic brew, I look over the boats bobbing along the water like a postcard and wish I had him with me to lean against. I wish he and I were just a couple. Just Buffy and Angel. I guess it's too much to ask for, given our history and all that shit that happened so long ago I can barely remember anymore. It has been so long… so many years and so many days that they are blurring and I'm thinking all that matters is him.

It used to be that I hated myself for what happened to Anya and Tara and Dawn. Spike killed them because of me. It wasn't guilt that drove my feelings of hatred- and it should have been. No… it was because I used to wonder… was I some freak that attracted only screwed up men? Why did Angel and Spike want me? Why did Parker take me home to his red sheets and then leave the next morning… to never call again? Why did I drive Riley to the blood song he had answered?

When Spike murdered my friends and my sister, I guess I lost it for a while. Xander and Willow weren't that much better. I went to the crypt and I cried as I killed Spike- who knew it was coming- I saw it in his eyes- and then I drove out to the desert and sat for a long time. I didn't think of them- those that were dead. I just sat and tried to learn how to breathe again.

It was then that I promised myself I'd never get involved with anyone like that again. Anyone that I knew could hurt people. Mike was safe. He didn't like weapons, he liked football. But now Angel's got me again and I'm not really afraid. All I want are some answers. I want a problem I can solve.

Throwing away the remains of my coffee, I stalk down to the library as it opens, the breezes coming off the river flying through my hair, as it whips around my shoulders like a blonde flag. The scent of books- musty and ancient- hits me as I duck down the aisles, searching for the English book section. It covers over half the library- which is extensive.

It isn't hard finding the mythology books as they take up an entire aisle. Bending down, I take out the documents I feel will be what I need. I sink to the floor and start to read. It brings back waves of memories of nights and days spent in the Sunnydale High library, with Will, Xander and Giles, as we'd eat pizza and research, plan our battles against whatever demon we were fighting.

Flipping through the pages, I find the stories of Alesso and Byrony, and read ravenously, anxious to know more about the lives of the people who seem to have become Angel and I. When I finally look up, hours later, tears streak my face and drip down my neck, burning salt. They were doomed, I recognize. Doomed because, as the books and legends say, Byrony was the wife of Odin, leader of the Gods. Me, I think blearily. I was the Queen. For a wild moment, I catch a glimpse of me- Byrony- walking down a hall of mirrors, in cold blue robes, a sting to my cheek and a deadness in my blood.

Shaken by the memory flash, I continue to read through the history of the Norse legends, which I find interesting yet horrifying- as I know that I somehow once lived through them. It's like the people who are convinced they lived through the sinking of the Titanic. They still wake up with the smell of fear on their breath, they imagine the iciness slipping over their heads and seeing the words sink beneath the ocean water—Titanic, Liverpool.

I remember reading once about a woman named Anna Anderson. It was in some historical book I picked up when Mike and I were traveling to Europe. I would get bored on the plane cause he liked to peruse the newspapers so I made a promise to myself that I'd read more than I ever had when I was teenager. So I did. I devoured books and magazines and discovered that I actually liked reading. In one that I bought at random, there was this woman- Anna Anderson- and she thought she was the Grand Duchess Anatasia. With rapt attention, I learned of her life- the Duchess', her premature death, and how she had been found- floating in a canal and remembered- remembered her past. Whether it remembered her was another story- but now, now I understand her better than I did then- crammed between a man with chipped teeth and scrawny elbows and my sports reading fiancé who ignored me on the flights.

Leaning wearily against the bookcases, I ponder for a moment what this means. I lay a hand on my belly and almost feel the life pulsing. I think that I'm having a baby and that's not horrible. It's not bad. I want kids. I always have and I guess I always wanted to have Angel's children. Dark haired blonde haired children—a smile touches my mouth and I realize it was a dream closer to my heart than I would admit.

Tears run freely from my hazel eyes as I caress the faded words on the page detailing Byrony's execution in Valhalla, which I had always had a dim knowledge was a place for fallen heroes. Turns out Odin had his wife hung there as well. (The mirrors…) Blurrily I recall walking that walk of death where each footstep was damnation. Bruises patched my mouth and my ribs- although no one could tell- were broken. The King of the Gods hadn't liked his most favoured Queen meeting anyone in the desert- most especially not a lower being. A man from the realm above Hell- a place of silver rivers and mist, ice and shadows.

As I read, I think of Mike and how I fucked someone else- met him in between sweaty sheets and let him slide inside me and drip his come into my womb— bowing my head, I imagine a scarlet A tattooed on my chest- over my beating heart. I think of the billowing white dress hung in my closet, the wedding dress I picked out for some far away day when we'd walk down an aisle and promise to be forever.

(Forever…)

Closing the books, I grimace in frustration at finding nothing important about the baby. Something tells me it's the key- the link between my world and Byrony's. Gathering some of them up, I make a mental note to call Giles again later and ask him to root more through his huge library of volumes with everything from magicks to the dark arts to history and vampyres… I know Giles would be more successful than I have been.

~~~

When I walk into my apartment, I see Mike's outline, sitting in the chair by the TV that he adores. I hate it because it's plaid and ugly, but he insists on having it there—he says it's perfect. Focusing my thoughts, I try on a smile and begin to speak, "Hey honey I—"

"Forget it," he snaps, and leans his chin on his hand, his eyes raking over me with rancor and something else- something cruel. "Where the hell were you?"

"Well I was about to tell you," I murmur, a little disconcerted, and also a little alarmed at how I don't feel guilty. I'm ready to lie- ready to spill untruths from my tongue if only he'd let me speak. He usually accepts it when I am out- he knows I love les bateaux mouches and could spend hours by the gleaming river, just watching them sail.

Standing up, he stalks over to me quietly, his booted feet making tracks of black across the wooden floors. With one finger, he reaches out and touches a reddish mark on my collarbone- where I remember Angel's teeth and tongue pulling—and I flush— tipping my head back defiantly. It's only when I feel the crack of his rock hard palm against my cheek that I realize what's happening.

Amazed, I can only stare as I feel the trickle of blood from my split lip, and wonder if I'm getting it all over the floor. Glancing down, I see the small pool of redness and it looks alien, bubbling down there like something that did not come from me. A slow roaring in my ears makes me look up and I see Mike's calm eyes glaring back at me with white-hot force.

"Who is he?"

"No one," I respond and falter, my knees wobbling as I step into the next room, trying not to stumble. He grabs me around the forearm and yanks, and I feel the bone splinter even as I scream, flailing backward, my head hitting the corner of the coffee table. "You can't humiliate me like that, Buffy," he spits smoothly.

Coughing blood, I turn over and realize my arm is dangling uselessly beside me, but I feel nothing, except blankness. I realize I've become Byrony and touch my neck, imagining it with a rope snugly choking it to the death. Mike leans down and kisses me- his tongue licking the blood from my teeth as he grins and I feel like I'm spinning up in the clouds somewhere—anywhere but where I am—and then his fist comes down and I feel it crush my mouth and jaw with all the pressure that I used to be capable of with my Slayer hands. I see nothing but blackness- and stars- fat and red, their wax drips over my eyes, covering them with burning fire.

~~~

Opening my eyes, I shudder and blinding pain crunches down on my head. Rolling over, I open my mouth and heave, the raw skin of my mouth and jaw stinging and wailing. I can feel myself wanting to cry, and sitting up, I try and breathe, even though my ribs feel broken and I dimly remember Mike's boots crushing my chest a few times. I wonder if he wore those just in case he did find marks on me from boys. Just in case I had been a naughty girl. I remember Odin and Byrony's bruises and wonder if her lungs stung like mine do. Tears slip from my eyes, and red seeps over my cornea as if they've been cut with glass.

I kneel in the wreckage of the coffee table and ignore the glass under my thighs, wondering what to do now. Wincing, I stand up and trek through the apartment, my feet sliding against the shininess of the wood, until I reach a mirror. I don't gasp when I see myself. After all, in my days as a Slayer, I'd get the shit beaten out of me. However, I think it's worse knowing it's someone I sleep with who has done this to me. Purplish bruises streak the sides of my face, patching into furious reds and yellows- like a sunrise- along my mouth- which is puffy and distended. I almost laugh at the sight. My arm is broken, I can tell that- but it throbs so much I know it's not a bad break. If it was numb I'd be worried.

I look like I did in my dream. Like Byrony did- as she walked along the silver river with shackles on her wrists and a kiss from the executioner on her face. Gathering up some of my things, I walk silently down the hall to the front door, inhaling the smell of this place- metallic- like blood and vomit and sorrow.

As I travel down the Parisian road, inhaling the scent of flowers, I keep my face bowed, furious that I have to hide from all these people. But I don't want anyone to pity me, as if I was a battered wife- someone that had to check into a shelter and run away and adopt a disguise. I won't be a person like that. There's a way to solve this problem, I just have to figure out how.

When I knock on his door, and he opens it, I think I hear his startled gasp and he draws me inside, saying harshly, "Who did this? Who in thefuck did this to you, Buffy?"

"Mike," I whisper and then press my face to Angel's sweater as he brings me inside.

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