Part Three

Buffy's eyes opened to sunlight. It took her a moment to remember where she was - her dorm room - and then another to figure out it was morning. She remembered waking up in the dark and then . . . falling asleep. No restlessness. No longing to get out. Maybe it was just that she was too tired but she'd gone to sleep, simply, easily. When she moved she discovered she was still fully dressed, her bra was digging in most uncomfortably and it wasn't morning, it was past noon and her French class started five minutes ago.

She stumbled out of bed, threw off her clothes and on new ones. Her French teacher gave her a very scathing look when she arrived twenty minutes late, but she made it in time for the quiz, which she probably failed. She straggled to Art History, stomach protesting and didn't remember until arrival why she wanted her hair to be styled, her clothes to be flattering and her make-up - nonexistent at the moment - to be perfect.

Shannon.

He looked nervous, which she was quite sure was nothing compared to her extreme rumpled-ness. "I got your call," she stammered, hoping that if she talked quickly enough he might not notice the fact her hair was in pigtails and her shirt in no way matched her pants. "I meant to call back but I had this paper and-"

"It's fine," he assured her quickly. Buffy lapsed into contemplation of his face, Angel's and not Angel's . . . Angel was gone. Sadness settled in her stomach, but was banished when Shannon smiled shyly. "I hate to press but . . ."

"I would love to do something Friday," Buffy breathed. His smile brightened and she grinned back, involuntarily. Words tumbled out without her conscious approval. "This sounds crazy, but do you know where Hemery High is?"

"It's my alma mater." Things clicked into place. It was almost . . . too nice. But she wasn't going to look a . . . whatever that thing about the horse and the mouth was.

"Mine too," Buffy said, real surprise tingeing her voice. He blinked and she explained, "You looked familiar and you said I did too . . . I would have been a freshman when you were . . ."

"A senior," Shannon finished.

"Much cooler than lil 'ol me," Buffy smiled, filled with such relief she almost couldn't breath. She wasn't crazy. He was real and no, Angel wasn't but he was. He'd been real this whole time.

"I doubt that," Shannon replied, then glanced over at the waiting class. "You better . . ." Buffy's eyes widened and she hurried to her seat, sliding in and looked back up at him. He was gazing back, his dark eyes so familiar, no reflection of her this time, just . . . him. A real person. Not Angel, not exactly like Angel and maybe it wouldn't work out, maybe she wouldn't love him or he wouldn't love her but the possibility was there.

The possibility was all she needed now.

*

We went to a movie - a normal movie, no porn, even of the soft core variety. Even though touching was permissible, I was relieved. He was a complete gentleman - hesitantly took my hand as we walked to ice cream afterwards, and that was all. I could not stop smiling, which turned out to be . . . okay. He didn't seem to think I was an idiot or anything, and he kept smiling back, shyly at first and then with more confidence as the night progressed. I had peach sorbet (my figure was no longer guaranteed) and he had raspberry chocolate swirl.

I was meeting my mother for breakfast the next morning, so I didn't ask him in. I wanted to. He walked me to my dorm room and stood there, staring down at me in that familiar, piercing way. No hint of a smile, nothing but I knew . . . I knew he wasn't unhappy.

"I had a really great time," I said faintly. He didn't reply for a long moment and then opened his mouth. I didn't let him get anything out; we'd been moving steadily closer as we stood there and I had no self control left. I pulled him down to my level and our mouths met for the . . . for the first time.

I always thought kissing Angel was incredible; not only was he really, really good at it, there was a . . . spark. I felt it all over my body.

Kissing Shannon was better.

*

Eve's position on the bed seemed almost . . . defensive. Her arms and legs were curled close to her chest, covered in long sweats, her hair pulled back tightly at the nape of her neck, emphasizing the starkness of her newly scrubbed face. The main light was off, only a small lamp on Eve's bedside table throwing shadows everywhere. Buffy, practically floating, perched on the edge of her roommate's bed, too happy to worry.

"You're home early," she said breezily, perching at the foot of her bed.

"You're home happy," she replied, a smile softening the quick reply. Buffy whapped Eve's leg with her purse anyway, for good measure.

"Seriously, don't you have . . . well, not better, obviously-"

"Obviously."

"But . . . brighter places to be?"

"Didn't feel like it," Eve said. "Where have you been?"

Buffy smiled involuntarily. "Movies."

"Oooh. That is not a 'movies' smile. Tell me." Eve's tone was coaxing, but it didn't reach her eyes. Buffy cocked her head, sliding to the floor and resting an elbow on the bed, her head against it.

"You okay Evie?"

"Of course!" Eve replied, a little too quickly. "Can't a girl stay home on Friday night?" Buffy didn't have time to reply. The door flung open and Aaron, their RA, hurried in.

"Who was that gorgeous man?!" he demanded. "And why did you send him away?"

"'Movies'?" Eve echoed, smirking. Buffy blushed, ducking her head and then looked up with a grin, motioning Aaron to the floor beside her.

"Come, come. I'll tell you all about it," she promised. Well, maybe not all . . .

*

Life went on. Shannon and I became . . . Shannon and I, somehow. Going out after class turned into meeting on days I didn't have Art History, on weekends, for breakfast or dinner, or both. He wanted to work at a gallery and eventually I introduced him to my mother as my TA and a friend - she was in no way fooled. Though she was a little worried at first, about him being older, she soon fell completely in love with him. Possibly more than I was. She began to gush, which was when I got him the hell out of dodge.

February turned to March and then it was finals and I was dead. I'd been sleeping better but not . . . not enough. With Shannon on top of everything else, I'd been trying to forget my school work. If I didn't think about my impotency, it wouldn't matter. It was much nicer to think about him, because he didn't think I was incompetent, he thought I was wonderful. He didn't see anything missing.

I saw things missing. Still, a year later, I saw things missing - because nothing had moved in to take their place. I was no longer the Slayer. Only I wasn't anything else either.

Shannon found me crying over my psych book. It was stupid, but I just . . . didn't understand. I couldn't make myself understand. So he tried to make me. He went over everything with me. He quizzed me, he encouraged me, he explained things again and again. Mostly, it made me realize that I was never going to be as smart as he was. But sometimes . . . well, there were moments when he told me something and it . . . fit. I understood, completely. He did it for French - he'd lived there half a year - and Art History of course - though he made sure not to give any hints a to what would be on the test.

The night before my final, he refused to let me study. He took me to the apartment he shared with his two best friends and made me dinner. After eating we danced, slowly, in his living room and then slept in his bed, every part of our bodies touching.

When I got an A, I cried.

*

"Eve you will never beli-" Buffy stopped short, halfway into the room. Her excited squeal dropped away, vanishing into the shocked silence of the air.

Eve was standing near the window, cradling the left side of her face gingerly. A shallow gash ran across her cheek and her lip was split. Michael stood over her, his hand falling as abruptly as Buffy's voice.

"Buffy, it's not-" Eve began and then stopped, trembling. Michael seemed caught between anger and fear. Buffy was not caught between anything; her emotions were quite clear on the subject.

How could she have been so stupid? She should have known, should have seen . . . Eve's expression when Buffy admitted to her relationship with Spike, her exhaustion, how she always wore long sleeves even when it was warm and refused to change around Buffy . . . The look in her eyes. Just the look should have told Buffy. After all, she used to see it in the mirror every day.

The anger was partially directed at herself, because she should have known. But mostly, it was at him.

"Get out," she said coldly, stepping away from the door, clearing a path. He didn't move. At 6'4", Michael towered over both of them and his lips were twisting at her command.

"You don't know what yo-"

"Get out," Buffy repeated. "Out. Now."

Michael glanced at Eve uncertainly. She had begun to cry, silently, curling in on herself. He looked back at Buffy, a tiny column of rage. She had never wanted to kill another human being so much, not even Faith, not even . . . no one. She wanted to beat him until he cried, until he knew what he had done.

He could break her in half with one hand, if he dared to try.

"Get. Out." Buffy's voice was sharp as ice, and as cold. He flinched and began moving uncertainly toward the door. Buffy stepped toward him. His eyes narrowed on her and his hand spasmed into and out of a fist. She didn't back away. Their eyes locked and he looked away first, his anger draining away abruptly. Hers stayed. "And don't ever come back. If you ever, ever come near her again, I will make you wish you had never lived."

"This is none of your business, you little bit-"

"Don't finish that sentence," Buffy warned him. Something in her eyes made the threat stick, even if she had nothing to back it up with. "Just go." He went. Buffy felt no triumph; all she felt was sick. Too wrapped up in her stupid problems, her obsession over her own worthlessness to notice that her friend was in pain . . . She turned and Eve was in her arms, crying.

Later, Eve admitted it had been happening for over a months - rarely at first, and he always apologized and afterwards everything was perfect for a while but . . . "But I knew, I knew it was wrong. I always said that a guy would never do that to me. That I would be strong enough that they could never - but I love him and-"

"It's not your fault," Buffy assured her, tears threatening. "I-I did the same thing. That guy I told you about, William? We . . . he hurt me. But I hurt him too. That was the only way we knew how to communicate. But it's a bad way, really it is. It's a terrible way. And I hated myself for letting him do those things to me . . . but I couldn't stop him."

"What happened?" Eve asked tearfully. Buffy had bandaged the cut with expert hands and she would be fine, in body anyway.

"I knew that I couldn't go another day hating myself that much. And then I . . . woke up."

"Did it hurt?" She wasn't talking about the abuse; Buffy nodded.

"It hurt. But it got better and when it stopped hurting . . . it really stopped. Oh god, Eve, why didn't you tell me?"

"I was so ashamed . . . you're so strong and perfect and I just couldn't-" Buffy did start crying then and shook her head and drew Eve's head down into her lap the way Willow had done for her once. The way she'd done for herself, she supposed. The way a friend would do.

*

Eve went home three days later, for spring break. In the meantime, he called twice. Once I answered the phone and told him that if he called again I would tell his roommates - not to mention everyone else he ever met - what he'd done, and then I would rip off his balls and make him eat them. He called back a second time, when he knew I would be at my Art History final, though I didn't find that out for another month. Eve picked up and told him to stay away from her. He didn't try a third time.

We'd planned to go to Mexico - Eve, Clay, Teresa, a few other friends and I - but Eve insisted we go without her. I put her on the plane and she told me she was going to be fine, which up to then had been my line.

The rest of us drove to Baja as planned, meeting up with some of Clay's high school friends for a week of sun, beach volleyball, swimming, tequila tasting, late-night philosophy talks, dancing and tipsy star gazing. It was . . . totally, completely normal, and I was suddenly one of hundreds of college kids without responsibility, without destiny, without baggage, with the entire world at their feet and a determination to enjoy it.

I missed Shannon.

The dorm room was filled with flowers when I got home - roses and lilies and giant daisies. I called him and he answered, "Welcome home lover . . . this is Buffy, right?" I laughed. He was waiting downstairs. I was too tired to go out, but we cuddled on the bed and told each other all about the last week. Turns out his normal job had been joined by hours spent at my mother's gallery helping her with a new show and hearing about my past. It frightened me for a moment, that intimation that he now knew all my deep, dark secrets. I was breathless, totally still until I recalled my mother's supreme need to ignore what had happened to me, to move on - she would never breathe a word of it to anyone, especially not to this young man she liked.

But the thought, the instant in which I believed he knew, shook me to my bones. Which was when I realized that despite appearances, the hard part wasn't over.

*

It started with dinner. The restaurant was extremely elegant, with prices that made Buffy's eyes bug every time she looked. Then the ballet: Shannon had secured tickets to a sold out performance of Sleeping Beauty Buffy's favorite ballet. When she expressed extreme gratitude at his sacrifice of an evening, he admitted he'd always loved ballet - had she not had proof otherwise, she would have suspected he was gay. He promised that he would further convince her later. She looked forward to it.

After the ballet he had plans to take her dancing, but she had a better idea. They drove to Venice Beach and walked barefoot in the sand until after midnight.

It was a perfect night, Buffy decided later. Absolutely perfect.

The problems came after, when they arrived back at his empty apartment and he began proving his masculinity, with her avid support. Because they came to a moment, as he ran his hands down her bare back and she unbuttoned his dress shirt when they both knew they wouldn't be getting any sleep that night. It was time. The perfect end to a perfect evening.

Only there was more to it than that

They'd been dating for months, going slowly for reasons and reasons inside of reasons - Buffy wanted to make sure it was Shannon she was falling for, and not her memories of Angel; she needed to know this was not her desperation or loneliness or need to be real; and she was still a virgin.

It was stupid and she hadn't thought of it at first, not for months after she . . . came back. Woke up. All her relationships, all her sexual experience except some groping in a movie theatre freshman year, was imagined. Her body had been involved in none of it. Shannon knew she'd had other boyfriends, her approach to sex, as far as they had taken it, was at least somewhat experienced. She hadn't given the impression she was a virgin because in her mind, she wasn't. She'd lost that distinction to . . . to a man with his face. Only there was no man with his face, other than him and she had never really lost it.

But he would know when it happened and she couldn't . . . couldn't surprise him like that. He would feel terrible. But to tell him meant . . . explanation. Reasoning behind her experienced non-experience. And maybe that was the right thing to do. Maybe she couldn't take this step with him without telling him. Maybe she could never, never tell him, not if she didn't want to . . .

To lose him. To lose herself. How could she move on if everything in her life was warped by her former . . . insanity? But wasn't it? A third of her life wasn't real, didn't that change her? Shouldn't it? Would she never tell anyone, live the rest of her life hiding?

Hiding. That's what she'd been doing all that time; hiding from the world, from who she really was. So she re-entered the world only to do the same thing in a . . . better manner? Was there a good way to hide?

"What's wrong?" Shannon asked, sensing the tensing of her body. Her hands flattened against his shirt and then pushed away, gently, extracting herself. His brow drew downwards, worried. "Did I-"

"No," she assured him quickly, "it's nothing you . . . Shannon, I have to . . . I have to tell you something."

He looked frightened. "What?" She tried to imagine what must be running through his mind: she had another boyfriend, she had some kind of sexually transmitted disease, she'd been using him for his study help.

He had no idea. How could he?

Buffy felt physically ill. She groped into a chair, drawing her arms in close to her chest. His worried look grew and he sat on an ottoman directly opposite her, their knees almost touching. "What is it?"

"It's about . . . me. Why I'm older than the normal college student. Why I don't . . . talk about my past much."

"Did something happen to you?" Shannon asked. Rape, Buffy's mind supplied as the cause of the pain in his eyes. She shook her head.

"I . . . I guess I happened to myself," she murmured. She looked up and met his eyes. Where to start? Was she really saying this? Was she ruining . . . everything? "I can't believe I'm going to say this. I was-" She broke off. Oh god.

"What?" he asked gently, so soft, so kind and loving and . . . oh god. He would hate her. Be afraid of her, or contemptuous or . . . something. Think she was sick. She was sick. Had been sick.

"Sophomore year, I started . . . imagining things. Crazy things. I was this superhero, destined to save the world, kill vampires, which existed and were at Hemery and . . . I was a freaked out teenager. I felt like I wasn't worth anything, my life meant nothing. So I pretended it meant something and . . . I began to believe it."

"Buffy? I don't understand . . ."

"My parents checked me into a . . . hospital. That was . . . I snapped. I retreated entirely into my mind, imagining that my mother and I had moved to a town that doesn't exist. I made up people - friends, teachers, bad guys . . . l-lovers. I thought it was real, that I was . . . this person. This hero. That I had saved the world. That I was . . . loved." She dared a look up at his face. He looked stricken, horrified. Of course. She looked away again, tears welling up in her face. She should have worn water proof mascara.

"Last spring, I started seeing things . . . real things. The real world. I was able to wake myself up, pull myself out of the fantasy and start living again. That's why I started college this year. I never really finished high school. I never . . . I've never done a lot of things. Not for real. I have memories but not - oh god, Shannon, don't hate me. I didn't want to lie, but I didn't know what else to do and I can't . . . I've been trying so hard to be normal, to keep going . . . and I love you, and I had to tell you and now you . . . I don't blame you if you hate me . . ." She was crying now, her face crumpling, the words harder to push out. His arms encircled her and he pulled her head to his shoulder, cradling her gently.

"Shh, it's okay. I don't hate you. Oh god, Buffy, how could I - what you've gone through-"

He didn't understand.

"There's more," Buffy managed, taking a deep breath. Just . . . get it all out. Now or never. If he knew this much, he had to know it all. She sat up, out of his arm and wiped futilely at her face.

"What?" he asked gently, standing up long enough to grab a box of Kleenex for her.

"You," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face gently. His brows drew together again, troubled. "You know how I said you looked familiar? Well, when you saw me you were remembering the freshman you saw once or twice in the halls. When I saw you I was remembering the man I invented with the face of the senior I'd seen once or twice in the halls."

"The man you . . . ?"

"Angel," Buffy said, looking down. "He was my first love. Not real but . . . but I didn't know that. I loved him. He was a vampire with a soul, my soulmate, the one man I could never be with. He was the first man I slept with, only I didn't . . . really. He was the first man that left me." She looked up into those oh-so-familiar dark eyes. "He was you."

Shannon swallowed, his eyes narrowing briefly as he processed this information. "One of the people you imagined was . . . me."

"Like you. He looked exactly like you and he . . . had a lot of your characteristics."

"You loved him." Buffy nodded silently. "So when you saw me-"

"I thought you were him. I thought I was crazy . . . again. When I realized you were real I . . . I was so happy."

"So you love him-"

"No!" Buffy exclaimed, reaching out to touch him involuntarily. He'd moved restlessly, as if he would get up, walk away from her. She couldn't exactly blame him but she . . . she didn't want him to go. "Shannon, I loved a man I made up. Yes, he had your face, but he wasn't you. And when I was with him I was always . . . there was all this pain and all these things going wrong, all the time and even when I was happy, it always hurt . . . I made it that way because part of me believed that's what love was, but here, with you, in the real world it's not . . . it's not like that. When I'm with you I feel beautiful and . . . worthy, of something. And happy. And all the things I love about you are not the things I loved about him . . ." She crumpled again, unable to help herself to stay . . . upright and strong. He was going to leave her. So fantasy did mimic reality.

There was silence and Buffy's hand slipped down as he stood up, walking a few feet away. She didn't look up, trying very hard not to sob. She felt like her chest would burst open, as if one movement would make her entire body fall apart.

Before, she had always had an excuse; when she believed, they left because she was the Slayer, because her duty was more important to her and that was the way it had to be; after she woke up, it was because part of her needed them to leave, needed not to be happy.

Now, it was only her. The real her. Buffy Summers, crazy girl. Coward. Psychopath. This was the real her and he couldn't love it, couldn't accept it, couldn't possibly . . .

"I was your perfect man?" Shannon asked. Buffy's breath caught on a sob and she dared to look up. He looked upset but not . . . angry.

"Except for the whole vampire part," she agreed

"You love me?" he asked, and her tears ceased altogether. One slender ray of hope intruded into her consciousness. Before that night she hadn't even been sure it was true, but as the words came out, she knew it was. She loved . . . she loved a lot of things about them, least of all his face.

"Yes," she whispered.

"That's all that matters," he said, and walked back to her. By the time he arrived, she was standing to meet him.

It was better than she'd imagined it.

*

Have you ever woken up with an epiphany?

Maybe it is something I dreamt, or a thousand things that happened to me in the past year, all clicking into place at the same time. Or maybe my mind is just . . . open, ready. Maybe someone whispered it in my ear.

When I wake up this morning, my skin tingling, my throat clogged with tears and kisses, I just . . . know.

Not that I am finally happy - though I am - or that he is it - though he is - or even that I've finally made it home - though I have. No, I wake up knowing that morning the answer to the question that has haunted me since I opened my eyes into the real world: what is real?

Nothing.

Sunnydale isn't real, but neither is the bed I am lying in. Not Willow, not Eve, not Dawn or Mom or my Psych professor. Not Angel or Shannon. Not even me.

Nothing is real, and everything is. That's the only explanation that makes any sense at all. Even if it doesn't.

If Angel was merely something I imagined, how did he have a son? How did that son have a life completely separate from my own? There is an entire world - several really - that were created inside my mind and yet live an existence beyond it. Real, in their own right, to the people that live within them.

And my real world? This real world? Maybe it's inside my head too, only maybe this time I'm not in a hospital but hooked up to a machine - what was that movie? The one with Keanu Reeves - or maybe, maybe someone is waking up in a bed right at this moment, believing that she dreamt me. And maybe she did. Only someone dreamt her too, or wrote her in a book or played her in a movie.

Nothing is real, which means that everything is. This just happens to be the reality I landed in. The one I'm quite content with, at the moment.

Shannon stirs, blinks open his eyes and bends to kiss my forehead. And I smile, and I know.

*

"C'mon, you know you want to wake up." Her boyfriend's voice was coaxing but ultimately unignorable. She tried anyway, moaning and burying her face in the pillow. It was too late, sleep and her dream were lost. She blinked at the thought, recalling the last, odd moments of the dream. "Ha! Got you. Now come ravish me."

"Lazy man, I do all the work here," she muttered, sticking her tongue out at him. He grinned and began pressing kisses along her spine. She batted at him ineffectually.

"You slept late, you can put in a little effort."

"I was dreaming," she told him, turning over onto her side. He gave her an inquiring look. "It was weird - I was this girl . . . well, sometimes I was here. You know how you change perspectives, like sometimes you're a person and then you're watching them, third person? It was like that. She was this superhero type, killing vampires but then it turned out . . ." Her brow furrowed, trying to recall the plot through hazy images. "It turned out she'd been imagining it all. The vampires and everything, I mean. All her friends. She had to watch them die and then she woke up and was normal again, in the real world but she met this guy who looked just like one of the imaginary ones-"

"Was he cute?"

She grinned. "Highly attractive."

"Cuter than me?"

"Definitely."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Did you dream-cheat on me?"

She smiled smugly. "That's for me to know and you to never find out." The smile faded slightly into thoughtfulness. "Have you ever wondered if this is real? I mean, maybe someone's dreaming about us right now. Or we're . . . I don't know, being thought up by someone."

"Or you're in a mental institute somewhere? Well, the last one sure but-" she punched him and he turned slightly serious. "Nah. It's silly to worry about stuff like that. What's it going to accomplish?"

"You're right but I just . . . it was weird, at the end, right before I woke up - before you woke me up! - it was like . . . she knew. That she wasn't real, she was just a dream."

"So you knew you were dreaming."

"No, it wasn't that . . . it wasn't like that. It wasn't me. I was watching her, but I knew what she was thinking and it was . . . it was her. She knew."

"That's ridiculous. Now, are you going to ravish me or are you just going to keep babbling?" She yawned, stretching. He watched with great interest.

"Bring me coffee and I'll think about it."

"You got a deal," he agreed immediately. She grinned and pulled him in for a quick kiss before pushing him off the bed. He scrambled away. Satisfied, she snuggled back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

"In the dream of the man that was dreaming, the dreamt man awoke."-Jorge Luis Borges

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