Part Two

That was the last night I let myself cry. After that I made sure I was too tired to think about anything once my head hit my pillow - I took four classes, plus dance. I'd started in martial arts but after one day of knowing everything my muscles should do but not being able to do any of them, I dropped out. "I really think you should stay," the teacher told me, "you have a great grasp of technique, you just need practice." I thought I was going to become hysterical right on the spot. "No," I gasped, "I just . . . I can't." I ran, never saw her again. Dance was easier, though I was still constantly amazed by my lack of stamina, flexibility . . . everything. It was better though, way better than fighting.

Eve turned out to share my affection for mochas and dancing, though those may have been the only similarities. She loved alternative music, big boots and hemp clothing, as well as late night state-of-the-universe talks and wild dorm parties. She was rarely moody, though once pissed off she started to throw things - usually pillows, and never at me. She did her homework . . . most of the time and spent a lot of her free time drawing people in our dorm.

We became friends.

I met other people too: Clay and Kevin lived next door and enjoyed entering our room unannounced at all times of day and night because "it smells better" than theirs. Clay was blond and little-kid-cute and played so many pranks on us we eventually put up a sign on our door forbidding him to enter, which did absolutely no good. Kev spent most of him time studying neurobiology on our floor, where apparently he thought better. Teresa lived across the hall with the Bitch Queen, who never spoke to any of us. Miriam reminded me a little too much of Willow, with mixed results. Some days I wanted to cling to her, others I couldn't speak to her for fear of breaking down. Our RA was a highly gay junior history major who joined us for many a girl-talk.

I went to parties; hell, I hosted parties. We went out to nightclubs, to football games, to smoky cafés. I learned how to take naps at any time of day because I could never sleep at night, just lie in my bed waiting to do something, to be needed, to hunt, to kill, to run to . . . to be something. Usually I got up and worked in the lounge or quietly on my bed with one of those reading lights. It allowed me to keep up with my schoolwork . . . most of the time.

The classes, the ones I'd already taken - well, they weren't as easy as I'd thought they'd be. Psych, poetry, things I'd studied before . . . things I knew seemed to slip out of my grasp. I could remember knowing them, learning them, but every time I opened a book to study everything was gone and it was that much harder to re-learn.

I was never very good at school; only now, I was worse. And in this world, in the real world, I actually had to get a real job. I wasn't going to be dead at twenty-five. I needed a career and a retirement account. I needed to be . . . good at something. The only thing I'd ever been good at had been a fantasy.

I went on. I read until my eyes hurt and I fell asleep on my desk at 5 a.m. I went to the teacher's office hours and asked them stupid questions and got really, really stupid answers. I wasn't very good, but I tried and . . . well, I couldn't sleep. That helped.

I missed rooming with Willow. I missed . . . being needed. I missed not needing sleep. I missed . . . things.

When I wasn't napping or studying I made friends; that I suppose, I was still good at. I avoided questions about my past, about my friends and family. I went home every couple of days for dinner or to do my laundry or just to reassure my mother I was still sane. I went to the therapist once a week. She said I was doing great.

Great.

Then one day, walking to lunch with Teresa and Eve, I saw Angel.

*

"Ms. Summers, you can't go in right n-" Buffy pushed past the secretary, her mind too full to handle a denial, waiting for an appointment. She pushed into the office, vaguely glad that there wasn't another client. Dr. Perry was eating lunch and looked up, startled, when Buffy burst in.

"Buffy, what are you do-"

"I told her you're busy, but she just-"

"I saw Angel," Buffy said, and both the doctor and secretary fell silent. Dr. Perry's lips firmed into a querying line and she dismissed Mrs. Laudum.

"It's all right Claire. Hold my next appointment, okay?"

"Sure." The secretary beat a retreat as Buffy took a seat without invitation.

"This is not appropriate," Perry told her firmly. "This is my time Buffy. You need to make an appointment."

"I saw Angel," Buffy whispered, by way of excuse or just unable to think of anything else. Perry set down her salad fork.

"Angel. Your vampire boyfriend?" Buffy nodded. "Tell me what happened."

"I was going to lunch and he was just . . . standing there, talking to someone."

"You saw his face?"

"Uh-huh, he was facing me and then he looked up and . . . he looked right at me. It was him!"

"So this was just a little while ago?" Buffy nodded again, helplessly. How could this be happening? He wasn't real. He wasn't a person. She was just starting to get back to normal and now this. She was having hallucinations. She was going crazy again.

What if none of this was real either? What if everything . . . her new friends, her classes, everything . . . was yet another fantasy world? What if she was still in the institution?

"It was during the day time?" Perry asked.

"Y-yes. He was in the sun, but . . . but I'm sure it was him!"

"You say he looked right at you? Did he speak to you?"

"N-no . . . he looked away. I don't think he recognized me."

"He was in the sunlight, he didn't recognize you . . . Buffy, listen to yourself. This was not Angel you saw. He does not exist and he was certainly not at your school."

"I-I know he's not real," Buffy managed in a small voice. "But I saw him. I-what if I'm seeing things again?"

Dr. Perry leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her lap and watching Buffy carefully. "That is a possibility but . . . Buffy, everyone imagines seeing people. It does not mean you're fantasizing. As I see it there are two possibilities. First, and most likely, you saw someone that looked very like your picture of this Angel. Because of the emotional connection to that image, you leaped to conclusions and assumed it was him. The second possibility, valid but more unlikely, is that you had seen this particular man before, years ago. If you had his image somewhere in your mind, filed away as an attractive man, then your mind may have used that image to create the person you knew as Angel."

"So he'd be like . . . the original. Or the actor or something."

"Exactly." Buffy considered it. She was pretty sure she'd never seen him before Sunnydale, but she could be mistaken. Maybe Angel's confession that he'd seen her being called was to explain why she'd caught a glimpse of him when she was fifteen . . . unlikely, but possible. And if not . . . well then Dr. Perry was probably right. It probably only looked like him. She was on edge enough to have imagined him where he wasn't, really.

"Buffy?" Dr. Perry asked gently. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah," Buffy sighed. "I'm . . . thanks. I'm really sorry about bursting in here. I was just so scared that it was happening again."

"Just don't let it happen again," Perry teased. She paused, leaning forward. "Buffy, think about what you just said, the emotions you felt as you came in here. You were frightened about going back. You want to stay here. You're happy here, aren't you?"

Buffy blinked. She hadn't really thought about it like that but . . . but it was largely true. There were problems, but . . . there were always problems. She still missed . . . people, and there were moments when she wondered what use she was to the world, why she even bothered to keep going, but they were fewer and further between. And mostly . . . mostly things were all right.

"Yeah," she said softly, "I guess I am."

So this was what happiness felt like. Buffy had forgotten.

*

I passed my first semester; I even got okay grades, though I'd been a little worried for a while there. The whole gang went out to celebrate; it was strange being older than everyone, the only one able to buy drinks. I bought a couple and passed them around when no one was watching. We stayed out until five and sat on each other in the cab home. I didn't think once about the past, about anything except where I was right at that moment, the people that I was growing to love through some strange twist of nature or fate.

I've begun to believe that you can love anyone, if given the opportunity. I used to think it was hard, you had to find the right person, under the right circumstances. But it turns out all those "right" people were ones I made up and all the wrong ones were people I made up too and in the real world it's not so hard.

I was just so tired of being alone. Maybe that's it; maybe you have to hit the lowest point before you can climb back up.

I went home and cried and laughed my way through Christmas; it was perfect, at home with my family, my mother and father, so many millions of times better than that last, silent, cold Christmas in Sunnydale, loving Dawn and unable to tell her, hating Spike and unable to stop touching him.

But I missed them too; I missed Dawn especially, and Willow's protestations that she didn't celebrate Christmas, and Xander's Snoopy Dance and the way it snowed for Angel and Spike, I even missed Spike.

Laying in bed Christmas Eve, I missed living in a world where miracles were possible, even if they weren't really miracles and it wasn't really a world. But then I got up Christmas morning and snuck downstairs and there was the stocking my mother sewed for me when I was five and I cried again, because there really were miracles.

*

"Buffy, are you crying? Are you okay sweetie?" Joyce hurried over, her hair wild, still trying her bathrobe. Buffy opened her arms to her mother, snuggling into the warmth of Joyce's embrace.

"I'm fine," she promised. "I'm happy Mom. I missed you so much."

"Missed me? I was just upstairs," Joyce promised, beginning to tear up too, despite herself.

"Before. Last year," Buffy told her and Joyce made a little sound of understanding.

"Oh Buffy, I missed you too. I missed you so much. We took you presents but you . . . you wouldn't open them. We could tell you were upset but you wouldn't look at us or talk to us . . ."

"I'm sorry Mommy. I'm sorry I couldn't be there with you."

"No, no, don't be silly. I'm sorry that we let you go. If I'd been a better mother, if I'd seen how hurt you were, you never would have-"

"Don't say that!" Buffy exclaimed, tightening her hold. "Don't say that. It wasn't anyone's fault except maybe my own. I just wasn't strong enough to - but I'm all right now. I'm right here."

"I know baby, I know." Warm tears dripped onto Buffy's hair as Hank emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with three cups of hot chocolate.

"Anyone for - hey, what's going on here? No tears allowed on Christmas!"

"Oh, Hank, get over here!" Joyce ordered. With a gentle smile he set down the tray and walked over, fitting his arms around both of them. Buffy closed her eyes, totally warm for the first time in . . . months? Years?

They sat like that for a long time, until Buffy opened her eyes and demanded with a smile, "Do I get to open my presents now?"

*

The worst part of the Christmas break was seeing my extended family, which we did the day after Christmas - they all gave me strange looks and tried not to touch me as if insanity is contagious like a cold or chicken pox. The best part was my parents - making Christmas cookies and decorating the tree and bringing them breakfast in bed. Towards the end I found myself missing school, missing my friends who were mostly from out of town and had gone home for the break. New Years I went out to a party hosted by people that lived the floor down from me, chatted, danced, flirted. It was fun, but it . . . it wasn't as fun as New Years with the gang. Not that I'd ever had New Years with the gang.

I went back to school happily. Everyone had pictures, tales of mischief and amusement, meetings with old friends and lovers, strange family members, stranger gifts. I had very little to tell, and when pressured shrugged it off as a quiet vacation at home. Eve sat me down after everyone was gone and looked me in the eye.

"Buffy, what happened? Why won't you talk to us?"

"It's not that . . . nothing bad happened. I just . . . I don't have many friends, outside of school. My life, before I came here wasn't . . . well, I didn't have a lot to go back to. Just my parents. I didn't talk about my vacation because I didn't do anything, just stayed home. It was nice. I like . . . quiet."

"Coulda fooled me," Eve murmured, but didn't push it.

We both learned not to push things. Eve started dating this guy that lived off-campus. I didn't like him, he struck me as . . . mean, in little unexpected ways. I tried to subtly dissuade Eve from spending time with him, but apparently I was terrible at subtlety. I suppose I could have told you that. She started disappearing for days at a time, only coming to the room long enough to get clothes, wink at me and assure me I could have the room all to myself for the night, wasn't I going to take advantage of it?

I never did . . . take advantage. There were plenty of cute guys around, UCLA was practically teeming with cute guys. And it wasn't like no one was interested, I suppose I just . . . I couldn't help but think that if everyone in my head left me, what would the men I had no control over do? I was labeled a tease until Kevin claimed we were having wild sex on the floor - he did everything better there - and though no one believed him, everyone shut up.

And then one day I walked into my Art History class and there he was - Angel.

*

Buffy knew she was staring. Further, she knew she needed to stop. Only . . . she couldn't. She was vaguely aware that he'd said something to her. She thought it was "Hi."

"H-hi."

"Shannon," he said, holding out a hand. It took Buffy a moment to realize that the hand was for her and so was the name: his name. Not Angel. Shannon. "I'm the TA. Professor Lewis is turning the class over while she finishes her book."

"Buffy. Is me."

"Nice to meet you," he said, and smiled. Her hand was shaking in his and she withdrew it quickly, swallowing. He wasn't going away, wasn't disappearing, wasn't looking any less like him.

"You too. I - done this before?"

"Nope. But don't tell anyone? I'm a little nervous . . . not really a people person."

"You'll do fine," Buffy assured him emptily. "I-I should sit."

He gestured for her to go and she practically ran, dropping her bag beside her seat and sliding into it, trying not to hyperventilate. Angel. It was Angel - but not. He had a name and he was her TA - and how weird was that? Were there only so many plotlines her life could go through? Not that she was going to fall in love with this guy, or drive him away or find out he was a secret commando - oh god, was she making all this up? Was any of this real at all?

What had Dr. Perry said? That maybe he was a real person, maybe she'd seen him before and that's why he looked like Angel - Angel looked like him. Maybe . . . She felt the wild urge to raise her hand and ask him if he'd ever been near Hemery High, but she didn't think that'd go over too well.

Class began. He was a little awkward, not used to a lot of people though he seemed to know a lot about the topic. Buffy found herself losing the train of the conversation, lost in the sound of his voice - the same voice! - lost in the way he moved, the way he leaned on the desk, his hand writing - the same, all the same - and lost in memories of things that never happened.

Angel wasn't real. But this man was - he had to be, she couldn't be going back into that. Buffy was happy, she was normal, she had no reason to go back there. Even her lack of a love life hadn't bothered her, for the first time in years she felt like I didn't need a guy, like she had everything she needed. Could she have been deluding herself so much that she would resort, again, to inventing what did not exist in reality?

Surely, surely her brain was creative enough to at least build someone new. If she had to make something up, surely it would be believable. Not this shadow of a former lover, this memory given a new name and a heartbeat . . .

Lost in fear, hope, the sound of his voice, Buffy didn't notice until too late that she was staring and suddenly, he was staring back. Their eyes met and that old spark, the feeling she always used to get in the pit of her stomach - not a real feeling, not a real person - sprung up again. It lasted for only a second and then he looked again, moved on with the lesson but the sight was burned into her mind. Angel . . . Shannon. Was any of this real? Was anything real?

Buffy tried to hurry when class was dismissed, but she couldn't quite make herself. He caught her on the way out. "Hey, I know this is really weird but . . ."

"What?" Buffy asked, daring to look up at him.

"Do you want to get a cup of coffee?" he asked. Time stopped.

"It's a drink and a date," she said weakly. He smiled. And she knew her answer, reality be damned.

*

I couldn't speak, walking beside him. Instead, I babbled. I would catch myself every few neverending sentences and blush and make a self-disparaging remark which he would shrug off. He'd offer some comment, in my desperation not to make a fool of myself I would offer a very short, noncommittal reply and we'd walk in silence for a few moments before I lost control again and the cycle began all over.

It wasn't that I missed Angel so much; I'd stopped missing him in the achy, torn-out-heart way a long time ago. That was reserved for more recent losses. With Angel, what hurt wasn't losing him, but losing the . . . possibility. The dream. Some part of me, irrational, irrelevant as it was, had always believed it would work out somehow. Angel was my first love, the only one I ever felt that way about . . . and part of me never gave up on him, never gave up on . . . that. By acknowledging that it was all a lie, I had acknowledged that it was only a dream. That I would never have the fairy tale ending, where he appeared in the sunlight, walked up to me and swept me up in his arms . . .

He was walking in sunlight, as I babbled. And it was a dream, or it wasn't, or I was crazy or I wasn't, and he was there and I was feeling that again.

*

"What do you drink?"

"I don't!" Buffy exclaimed, misunderstanding. "I mean . . . not much. Why, do you?"

"Coffee?" Shannon prompted and Buffy's eyes widened in horror as her mistake dawned on her. She groaned softly and bent her head, hiding it in her hands. When she peeked out, he was grinning.

"Mocha?" she asked plaintively.

"Extra chocolate?"

"Please?"

"Whipped cream?"

"Am I ever going to live this down?"

"Probably not."

"Definitely whipped cream."

He made a small motion of obeisance and ordered her mocha and a cup of chai tea.

"So you don't actually drink coffee," she accused. "You tricked me into coming with you."

"It's not actually a drink and a date," he admitted, "it's just a . . ." He trailed off lamely, as if afraid to finish the sentence. Buffy wasn't really willing to step in. " . . . time for conversation."

"Right. Conversation. That would be where I babble like a maniac and you nod once and a while and look highly superior?"

"I'm good at that."

"You are."

"I practice in the mirror."

"Well that explains it." The barista delivered their drinks which they collected and moved to a table. Buffy still couldn't quite believe this was happening; she was largely running on adrenaline. Make that completely running on adrenaline. She breathed in the scent of her drink. And coffee.

He didn't drink coffee.

"It makes you jittery," she murmured, her throat closing tightly.

"Sorry?"

"Coffee. Makes you jittery." It wasn't a question, it was a statement upon which she was trying very hard not to cry. She succeeded, thankfully, pushing back the sudden panic and extreme contentment.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Déjà vu." She looked down, swirling one finger absently in the whipped cream. She brought it up to her lips and sucked off the cream, looking up just in time to catch his eyes on her lips. An involuntary smile sprung to them and he looked away guiltily.

"So how'd I do?" he asked.

"Well, there was no mass riots, so I think it was a positive first day," Buffy replied, raising her cup. They "clinked."

"Thanks."

"That's what I'm here for." Nothing else, her mind added silently. Damn it. She did not need that, not now.

Angel fell in love with the Slayer. If this was . . . if Shannon was like Angel in more than the stupid, superficial ways, would he, could he ever love her? He'd told her, in the other world, that he fell in love with her just for being her but it could be a lie - it was a lie, because she'd made it up, it wasn't real, like Angel wasn't real.

Was any of this real?

"You okay?" he asked. Buffy realized she'd drifted off, twirling her finger in the whipped cream. She straightened, nodding.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just . . . been a weird day."

"Not bad I hope?"

Their eyes met. "No, not bad. Though you'll have to get through Day 2 before I declare you official teacher material."

"Do I want to be official teacher material?"

"Probably not. You'd have to get at least grey streaks in your hair and lose the black clothes for a more . . . brown-on-brown wardrobe."

"I may be able to do without that certification."

"I was kind of hoping you'd say that. I promised myself I'd never da-" Buffy cut herself off abruptly on the D word. This was just coffee. Well, tea. Not a date. And he wasn't . . . she couldn't believe that he was Angel, that he already cared about her. He had no idea who she was. For that matter, she had no idea who he was. He could be nothing like Angel. The coffee thing could be a fluke. And the art history interest. And the little talk thing. And the black clothes. And the girly, Irish name. All total flukes.

Or she could be imagining all of this . . . Buffy tried to be subtle as she looked around to see if people were staring at her, wondering why she was talking to herself. No, everything seemed normal. Maybe she wasn't even in a coffee shop though. How did she really know?

The answer, of course, was that she didn't.

"Have we met before?" Shannon asked. "You look . . familiar. When you walked in, I felt like I'd seen you before."

"Ditto," Buffy admitted, though the depths at which she recognized him she left . . . untouched. "But I don't know where. Let's just assume we've never met and . . . start over. Favorite Ben and Jerry's flavor?"

"New York Super Fudge Chunk. Um . . . favorite color?"

"Blue. Favorite movie?"

"The Godfather II. Favorite Beatle?"

"Ringo. Favorite bumper sticker?"

"'What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about'?" Buffy laughed despite herself. His straight face never failed. I'm a funny guy. She stopped laughing. "Favorite food?"

"Cheese. Hey, it's good . . . it's cheddar-y . . ." His expression was still incredulous. She sighed and shook her head. Some people. "Favorite word?"

"Onomotopeia."

"What is that?" Buffy demanded, aghast. Another fluke-y similarity: fondness for big, strange words.

"When words sound like what they represent."

"So for instance, not that . . . ono-whatever . . ."

"Onomotopeia."

"No need to show off."

"Still my turn. Favorite song?"

"Someone Like You."

*

We talked; well, I babbled. We ate cheesecake. I floated back to my dorm, amazingly content with the idea that I was insane again (still?). Spending time with Shannon had banished my worries, for a moment. Possibly the fact I hadn't slept in two days and I was high on mocha had something to do with it.

Eve was in the room, looking as exhausted as I should have felt. She had circles under her eyes and her usual spark was gone. My artificial one disappeared and it all came rushing back - if this wasn't real than Eve wasn't real either, or if she as then Shannon wasn't, or perhaps it was me, I wasn't real. If this was all in my head than eventually I would have to wake up, I would have to cut myself off from Eve and Clay and Teresa the way I'd cut myself off from Willow and Xander and Dawn and I couldn't . . . I couldn't . . .

"Hey," was all Eve greeted me with, immediately returning to her studying. I stared at her, wondering if I should ask why she looked half-dead and if I asked would she return the question? I echoed back the word and walked past her, sitting down on the edge of my bed. After a moment she looked over at me. "Did you start the Psych paper?"

We were taking 102 together; she didn't love psychology, but I'd persuaded her to. It was worse, chemical explanations for behavior we'd studied in 101. I understood only half of it; I'd thought, for a brief moment, about majoring in psychology, but 102 had convinced me of the futility in that. Not that there was any subject I was better at.

I had not started the paper. I shook my head mutely. Her expression did not change. "Me neither."

"How many words is it again?" I asked helplessly.

"1500 to 2000."

I closed my eyes against her dejection, against the promise of another all-nighter - not that I would have slept, even if I didn't have work. What if none of this was real? What was the point?

What if all of this was real? What was the point?

*

"Buffy, have you ever had a serious relationship?"

"What?" For a moment, Buffy thought she must have misheard, but the look on her roommate's face assured her she hadn't. She sighed, turning away from the computer - 312 words - to her roommate, sprawled across the bed with her laptop at her fingertips and notes spread around her. "Why?"

Eve looked defensive. "Just wondering."

She had to bring this up right at that moment. When Buffy had really been trying not to think about Angel, or Shannon or . . . anyone. Just this stupid paper. She felt like events were way up ahead somewhere and her brain was running as fast as it could, desperately trying to catch up and instead falling further and further behind. "Yeah."

"You never talk about guys. Unless . . ."

"They were guys," Buffy assured her. Eve looked faintly relieved, though she hastened to tell Buffy that if they weren't that was fine. Buffy waved the assurance away. "I know. But . . . they were. I just . . . well, none of them ended well, so I prefer not to talk about them or . . . think about them." Not that it was working.

"What happened?" Eve asked, looking intrigued. Buffy's lips twisted. Nice to know her pain could still provide entertainment.

"Well, my first love left me, and then my second love . . . left me. I couldn't . . . I was too detached, probably because of the first one and . . . it's a mess. Anyway, when I say 'left me' I mean really left. Really really. Left town. And then . . . well I don't know if you could call him a 'serious relationship' but the last guy I was involved with was . . . a total jerk. I hated him half the time but I couldn't . . . stay away. He made me feel something. Maybe not something good but . . . something." Buffy sighed, forcing herself to meet Eve's eyes. They were in pain, achingly familiar. "Evie, what's going on?"

"Nothing," Eve replied immediately, looking down. "I'm sorry, I just . . . I wondered why you never seemed interested in guys." It sounded like a lie to Buffy's ear, but she was too tired and confused to be sure. "I guess because of the last one . . ."

"Sp - William. Yeah. I just . . . the next time I'm involved with someone, I want it to be for the right reasons," Buffy said, then wondered if it was true. No, she knew it was true. The question was would she hold to it. If she got involved with Shannon, would it be because she liked him or because she liked the reminder of Angel? Were they separate people? Was he real? Was any of this possible?

She'd had a good time with him. Whoever he was.

"Right," Eve agreed, though there was something hollow about the word, her agreement. Buffy's eyes narrowed, understanding dawning suddenly - and then gone again as Eve bent her head over her notes and school reintroduced itself. Buffy shook her head slightly and turned back to her work. Only 1188 words left.

*

I finished my paper at 10:30 the next morning, with a combined total of about three hours of sleep, largely in fifteen to thirty minute increments. It was . . . not terrible, not truly. But it certainly wasn't any good. I handed it in at 11:30 and went to my French class (despite the fact that I took two years of French in high school, I no longer remembered the word for 'hello' - possibly because I never actually took it, or I am stupid. Either works).

At three I returned to my room. Kevin was working on the floor while Clay watched TV, but they both took one look at my face and excused themselves, ordering me to sleep. A note from Eve assured me privacy; she was staying at Michael's. I wondered if she'd get any sleep and decided she probably wouldn't. I didn't have enough energy left to be worried, though it was a close thing.

I took off my shoes, carefully, as if one wrong move would break me. There was one message on the machine. It was from Shannon - I'd given him my number in a moment of elation.

"Hi Buffy, I know this is . . . well, I don't want to bother you. I just . . . I just wanted to say I had a nice time yesterday and see if you wanted to see a movie or something. Or . . . not. I'm going to shut up now. Bye."

I smiled despite myself. He'd left his number and I desperately wanted to call it, but that seemed to require too much effort. Instead I lay down on my bed, fully clothed, and closed my eyes. Shannon's - Angel's - voice swirled through my head and I found myself remembering things I had no business remembering, found myself sinking deeper into an image of the world, of myself, that I had denied.

I was never this tired there, and I always was good at one thing, anyway and I never questioned reality, even if none of it was real.

And then I opened my eyes, and it was too late, I was already there.

*

Angel was sitting beside the bed, talking softly - to her, or to the baby gripping the edge of the bed she was laying on. She made a restless movement and Angel's words ceased, abruptly. His eyes were riveted to her. The baby continued to sing softly to himself as he moved cautiously along, letting go for a moment and then returning to the safety of the blankets.

"Angel," Buffy said, sure that this was not her new TA. Her senses screamed it at her - this man was not alive - as well as a thousand other things she'd forgotten they knew how to say. Her body felt . . . different. Probably because it wasn't really a body, it was her fantasy of a body. Oh god . . .

"Buffy," he breathed - no, that wasn't the right word, Buffy thought before he crushed her in his embrace. It was hard, too hard for a human but it didn't hurt her, she didn't mind. She had a feeling she would have, five minutes ago. Her real self.

None of this was real. How did she get here? More importantly, how did she get out?

Did she want to?

"You're really here," he murmured, pulling away far enough to look at her face.

"I - Angel, where am I?" This wasn't his apartment - at least, not the one he'd had. He said he'd moved, but this looked like-

"My hotel," Angel said, "I live in a hotel. You've been here for . . . months . . . Buffy, what happened?"

"Months," Buffy echoed. Months. Since she'd left. Almost a year now, actually . . . She must have been just . . . a body. Though of course those months hadn't really happened, she was just imagining that they had. "I'm - I've been - what do you . . . ?"

"Spike found you," Angel answered the question she hadn't asked. "And . . . the others. He called Giles, Giles told me . . . Spike wanted to take care of you, but I wouldn't let him keep you in that filthy crypt. I brought you here. You've been-"

"Gone," Buffy finished for him. He nodded.

"You're here."

"I'm here but, Angel I can't stay - I mean, I don't want - I -"

"Where have you been?" Angel asked.

"What did he tell you? Spike knew about the . . ."

"The visions," Angel said, "he told us about the visions. You thought none of this was real, that you'd been in an institution, this world was just a-"

"Fantasy," Buffy completed. They seemed to be doing a lot of that, completing each other's sentences. They'd always been in tune with each other, Buffy thought, and then Easy when you're both one person. She looked up at him, into his eyes. There was consciousness there, a person, a life. Like in Shannon's eyes. "That's . . . well, it's complicated. But I've been . . . in another world. A-an alternate dimension, I guess and it's-" she choked on the word 'better.' True to form, Angel supplied it for her. She nodded a little. "It's different. My parents and - I'm just normal there. Which is hard, I'm not . . . I mean, I don't know what to do with myself half the time. I'm not Spordelia or anything, but I'm not . . . not exactly Buffy anymore."

"You'll always be Buffy," Angel told her softly, understanding in his eyes or at leas the appearance of it. He had an uncanny ability to make her feel better, even when he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. "Being the Slayer has nothing to do with that. You're still . . . amazing."

"How do you know?" Buffy asked, not really looking for an answer. The little boy let go of the bed and took the few steps over to the chair. Distracted, Buffy asked, "Who's that?"

"That's my son, Connor," Angel said softly, adoration transforming his worried face. Buffy didn't even know where to begin asking. "He's . . . he's home. Like you."

"Was he . . . ?"

"Stolen," Angel said shortly, a spasm of pain crossing his features. He bent, holding out his hands and Connor came to them, smiling brilliantly. Buffy's eyes filled with tears for some reason beyond her. Angel had a son. This was . . . not part of her life, not related to her. But it was his life.

Angel had a life, entirely removed from her. Yet he was only part of her imagination . . . How was that possible?

"Angel," Buffy said softly and he turned towards her. He looked older than Shannon, but not much. She wasn't sure how old Angel had been when he was turned - late twenties, maybe. Shannon was a little younger, much more . . . innocent. Lighthearted. Human. "I've missed you."

"You really aren't staying?" he asked softly, reaching out to brush her hair back. She turned her face into his hand, discovering how true her last statement had been.

"No, I can't. I . . . I don't really have any reason to be here anymore. And I'm better off there, I really am. I could be. I just have to learn how to . . . be real. I'm working on it."

"You are real," Angel assured her. "Buffy, being the slayer was always the least impressive thing about you."

"Oh." She wasn't entirely sure she believed that, but it was nice to hear anyway.

"Do you just . . . will yourself here and away?" Angel asked. Buffy shook her head.

"I don't know how I-" she broke off, because she did, suddenly. "No. But I know how to go . . . for good. No more coma-Buffy. I don't have to go right away though."

"Good," he said. "I missed you too."

Even though he wasn't a real person, and everything he said was because some part of her unconscious made him say it - despite all of that - Buffy believed him.

*

Angel told me Connor's story, and what they'd done with my house and eventually about the funerals. He didn't elaborate, but I knew that Giles had been broken and Spike had . . . poor Spike. He couldn't help being evil or . . . any of it really. Really couldn't help it, since I suppose I created him that way to fulfill some wacked need of my own.

I wanted to ask him about Shannon, but I couldn't bring myself to it. Why tell him that he wasn't real, that he was either totally a figment of my imagination or mostly so and if it was the latter I'd met the real him and if it was the former I was leaving him to go to a world that still wasn't real.

I asked him if he would have loved me, if I was just me. He promised, again, that he would. Again, I couldn't help but wonder what part of me made him say that.

We sparred. I missed that too, more than I would have believed. The smooth flow, the tiny shifts of muscles, the hard, endless contact is invigorating and . . . addicting, in a way. It's like dancing, only . . . more, harder, deeper. To fight is to be intensely in the present, wholly inside oneself, one's own body.

Not that it was my body, not really. My body couldn't do those things. But it was nice pretending for a little while.

Night fell; we put Connor to bed and sat on Angel's bed watching him sleep. He had his own little bed; Angel had hand-carved it. I didn't want to stay, I knew I didn't; but I wanted Angel to want me to.

"I want you to have a life," he told me when I brought it up, plaintively. "A normal life. With all those things you want."

"What things?" I asked, knowing all the time. After a moment I added, watching the small, dark head. "I'm glad you have Connor."

"He's the only thing I've ever loved more than you."

So I kissed Angel goodbye, took Cordelia's old painkillers and went back to the bed I had woken up in. I took what was left in the bottle - fourteen or fifteen I think. Enough. Angel came in, when it was done, and held my hand. It was a . . . gentler way to leave, and more permanent. There might be nothing left to pull me back in, but hopefully this way I would be unable to pull myself.

I fell asleep and as the world went dark I felt myself die again. They say the third time's the charm.

Go to Part 3