DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. I don't get any money. Don't sue. (It don't get much drier than that, kids!)
TIMELINE: Somewhere in the final chapters of Ties III: Simple, But Never Easy. Buffy is about seven months pregnant. They haven't yet moved into the house, or had the conversation in Chapter 10 about getting married. For those of you utterly confused by everything I just said, I recommend reading the series at my site:
SPOILERS: Er... Um... In this vignette, none, really.
SYNOPSIS: Buffy feels gross -- Angel does his level best to convince her that's not true.
DISTRIBUTION: Want? Take! :) Just email me to let me know where it's gone!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Working my way back up to writing Ties Part iv, which I've been struggling with for months, now. My beloved friend and beta, Anja, suggested a tender/erotic story set in this universe to get me back into it again. So far, so good, thanks honey!
FEEDBACK: But of course...
RATING: Jeez... somewhere between R+ and NC-17... there's no actual SEX, per say, but things get steamy. If pregnant intimacy gives you the creepies, I suggest you skip it! :)
DEDICATION: This one is especially for Anja. :)

Buffy frowned so hard at her reflection, she practically hurt her face. She could definitely see some of the attraction of being a vampire -- not having to see how grotesque you looked pregnant definitely sounded appealing, right now. Of course, vampires couldn't get pregnant, either. So the parallel was weak, at best.

'I'm 19 years old. There's no WAY I should be this FAT!' she thought, stepping even closer to the full-length mirror. She turned to the side and observed her girth with a sorrowful moan, seeing that she more than filled the width of the mirror with her reflection.

Buffy had no idea why she felt the need to do this to herself -- to strip naked and stand in front of this damned thing -- she already knew full well what she was going to see: a two-legged pink elephant with angry fuscia zebra-striped stretch marks… stringy hair that didn't want to do anything but hang limply around her shoulders… splotchy red skin covered by a thin layer of sweat that she couldn't seem to get rid of no matter how many showers she took or how many tons of baby powder she coated herself with. To add insult to ugly injury, everything on her body was swollen. Her face was puffy like a red marshmallow; her hands felt like slabs of meat topped with sausages instead of fingers; her breasts hung like big, pendulous, painful fat-balloons; and her ankles were so swollen, her lower extremities resembled the legs of a smooth, peach-colored hippo.

She couldn't think, for the life of her, how she would ever get her figure back after the baby was born. And how Angel even wanted to look at her, let alone touch her like this was completely beyond her. She squinted and leaned closer to inspect her face. There were little crimson streaks fading on her cheeks -- broken blood vessels left over from that day's endless pre-dawn morning-sickness session. Buffy decided she definitely looked as bad as she felt -- which was pretty damned gross.

She was concentrating so hard on her wretched countenance, she nearly jumped out of her already too-tight skin when Angel reached out and touched her shoulder.

"ACK!!!" she yelped, spinning to face him with a scowl, "Could you not do that to the over-sensitive, hyper-emotional fat woman???"

"Sorry," he said, contrite but still smiling slightly, a little twinkle in his eye that told her clearly he was glad to see her.

"What are you smiling at?" Buffy asked, no small amount of her depression edging her voice, "Was patrol that good?"

Angel's smile grew slightly, "Things are pretty slow, actually. I ended up talking to Willow most of the night." His eyes traveled down her body, and he reached out to gently lay a hand on Buffy's bulging, bare belly.

She blushed. She'd forgotten she was standing there naked.

'Naked, and fat, and gross,' she thought, 'Don't forget fat and gross…'

But the look on Angel's face told her that he thought she was anything but gross. In fact, his eyes shone with wonder, like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever lay eyes on.

His hand traveled slowly upward, his fingertips never leaving her flesh, until he trailed his way from her stomach, up over her full breasts, tracing her throat and jaw, and finally coming to rest against her lips.

"You look so beautiful, tonight…" he said softly, and graced her with an adoring smile.

Buffy frowned and turned away, ignoring the little twinge that started like tiny fingers of fire in her groin. She refocused on her lonely ('Enormous!') reflection.

"You're obviously mentally ill," she said, "And in desperate need of glasses."

Angel stepped closer and slowly wrapped his arms around her. Buffy took a sharp breath at the feeling of his silk shirt brushing against her back.

"No… just observant," he whispered, his cool breath tickling the fine hairs in her ear. He brushed his cheek against hers, his cool skin and rough stubble against her soft heat.

She flinched. She did not like to be touched was she was feeling so hideous -- not even by Angel. His cold clashed uncomfortably against her hot, and made her shudder. Maybe it was some maternal protective instinct to shield the life inside of her against a dangerous predator -- a predator, ironically enough, which was its father.

'Oh, great. Bloated, cranky, disgusting, AND primal. Aren't I just the prize?'

"Hey…" he said, his voice low and soothing as he followed her movement away from him, and then turned her back to face him again. The annoying tingling renewed, and Buffy gasped in spite of herself, staring at the pendant of a Celtic sword hanging against his black shirt… over miles and miles of perfectly smooth, hard muscle… "What's wrong?"

"I… nothing," she said. But scarcely a moment later, she burst into tears and wailed, "I'm HORRIBLE!!! I feel like a circus freak -- like Bobo the Giant Uncooked Turkey, all slimy and fat with totally disproportionate breast meat!!!"

Angel let out a sympathetic half-chuckle, and pulled her into his arms, "Oh, Sweet… you're so wrong. You're amazing -- full of life! Glowing and humming with the music of creation!"

Buffy sniffled forlornly, and burrowed deeper into his chest, "That is, by far, the corniest thing you've ever said to me," she complained.

But Angel could feel her smiling against his still chest, and he knew the comment did its work. He pulled her closer yet, holding his breath to control the sudden urge to shudder as his hands made contact with her bare back. He traced a fingertip slowly down to her waistline, coming to a stop at the first curve of her rump, and tracing lazy little circles there. Hot goosebumps rose from her skin under his touch.

"How about this, then?" he said, "You are the Maithair an Uile -- the Mother of All. The Geata Saol -- The Gateway of Life. The Centerpoint for the genesis of all the universe -- the most magnificent Goddess of the greatest Mystery of all…"

Buffy felt her eyes fill with tears, and she pulled away to look up into his eyes.

"Wondrous… Holy…" he murmured on, "Beannacht (blessing)…"

Angel began punctuating his velvet words with tiny kisses to her cheeks, her eyelids, and her soft lips. He let his hands wander slowly over her back, up to her neck, and into her hair.

"Look at yourself, Buffy…" he turned her around so she faced herself in the mirror once again. Although she could feel his tender touch, there was nothing in the glass but her body. He ran his fingers through her hair, brushing it against his face, inhaling its scent. "Your hair is so thick, and it shines like gold." He released her hair and moved his touch to her cheek. "Your skin is so, so soft and warm… and you glow…"

"It's sweat," she insisted half-heartedly, suddenly breathless. She opened her eyes again and craned her head to look at him, and felt her heart leap at the intensity of emotion she saw blazing behind his eyes. He turned her toward him once again, and looked deep into her face.

"Your eyes are almost blue," he whispered, "Like pools of liquid midnight. They were never that color before you were pregnant."

He lifted one of her hands, and touched the fingers to his lips.

"Your hands are hot…" he observed, but didn't stop caressing them with his mouth, "Your body is creating… building something new and alive every moment that passes. You're burning energy, like a furnace, to fire all that work." He held his hand up, palm toward her, an inch from making contact with her skin, "I can feel your power from here. Your heat warms my cold… it's… indescribably beautiful."

The last two words were barely a breath against her lips. She touched hers to his with a feathery caress, but the contact rocked them both.

This time, they both shivered.

This kiss grew deeper, filled with soft sighs and tiny moans of delight, the dancing of tongues, and the smoothing of hands on aching skin. Angel backed Buffy slowly toward the bed. She felt it bump against the backs of her legs, but before she could stumble, his arms were around her, his strong hands supporting her back as he eased her on to the soft mattress.

He continued to murmur in her ear as he caressed her softly with his familiar hands. Buffy sighed into his touch, accepting his kisses and words with joyous abandon, letting herself be washed away by his reverent ministrations.

Angel was equally lost in the salty-sweet, searing hot of her skin. Awash in her many scents: her honeysuckle shampoo, the ivory fresh of her skin, the fire of arousal and creation in her blood. The words that spilled forth from his mouth were automatic -- not coming from any rational part of his brain, but from that central core of his spirit, the most ancient of heart of all men that is driven to worship the bringer of life -- the Goddess.

He gently squeezed one of her tender breasts, and traced its ruddy, diamond hard tip with faint brushes of his lips. He followed its swollen curve with his tongue slowly before sealing his mouth around to suckle her gently.

Buffy moaned and arched into him, tangling her hands in his thick, soft hair, all thoughts of discomfort wiped utterly from her.

Angel's mouth was cool, but not cold, as if her excess heat warmed him from within. Where his touch had shocked her uncomfortably earlier, it now cooled the aching fire that had been leaving her so tired and drained as her pregnancy progressed. His lips tended both her breasts, millimeter by tender, aching millimeter, before his mouth traveled down over the swell of her belly. He brushed up the curving slope with his lips, then lay his ear flat against the crest, where he lay utterly still, not even breathing, as he listened to the sounds of their child stirring within.

The fire in Buffy mellowed, easing to a warm ember of perfect comfort as she lay her hand on his head, caressing him as he lay against her. Angel raised his eyes, and they were suddenly full of tears. The corners of his mouth were turned in the slightest of smiles, and Buffy realized that he was trembling. She let all the tenderness she felt in her heart show in her eyes as she gazed down at him.

"Thank you," she said softly, touching his pale cheek.

"No. Thank you," he replied, tapping her belly with another soft kiss, "Thank you for making this possible… for allowing me to be a part of this Mystery."

He lay his face back down against her, against the rhythm of life that he could feel pulsing beneath the taught skin of his mate, and closed his eyes.

Buffy lay, quietly holding him in the dark, and felt beautiful.

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