A/N: Italicized portions are flashbacks. Thanks.

~Charlynn~

Chapter Two: Wake Up

A Year and a Half Later…

Fate had such a perverse sense of humor.

First, when she was fifteen, it had picked her as the chosen one – spoiled, selfish, obtuse Buffy Summers, and thrust her into a world she both didn't understand and didn't want to be a part of. She had liked her naïveté. In fact, she had blossomed underneath it, but that innocence had been completely ripped away by a single conversation. Now, countless battles later, she was reminded of destiny's depravedness as she walked the halls of her workplace.

Maybe her funny bone was on backwards, or maybe it had just been injured one too many times.

The latter option she could understand. If nothing else, the slayer was well aware of how the body could only take so much abuse. Though, physically, she always healed, mentally, she wasn't so sure. There was only so many times a woman could be beat down, bloodied and degraded, whether literally or figurative, past the point of recognition. Eventually, everyone, even the chosen one, had a breaking point. However, she couldn't give in yet. The cell phone clutched desperately in her sweaty, left palm was proof enough of that.

Needing a change in scenery, she decided to take the stairs to the second level. It had been more than an hour since she did a quick sweep of the school's upper floor, and, though one would think that any trespasser would need to enter the building by way of one of the many locked entrances, it was Sunnydale high, and they were located on top of the Hellmouth… literally speaking, seeing as how the school board had voted to rebuild the high school directly on top of the previous structure's charred out remains. At least, one could always count on the town's foolishness and gullibility, even without a demon mayor encouraging their clueless innocence on.

However, their inability to learn from their mistakes was the reason why she had a job… and a pretty good one at that. The hours sucked, the duties were monotonous, and the fact that she was back working in the high school was quite the joke, especially considering the fact that she spent more time there as an adult than she ever had as an actual student, but, at least, she didn't have to wear a uniform. She had nipped that little situation in the bud after being employed by the district for less than a week. With a suggestion by Giles and a speech prepared by Willow, she had approached the school board and calmly presented her argument, even going so far as to demonstrate how the regulation uniform hindered her range of motion and self defense skills. They had been impressed, and she had been able to burn the only outfit made entirely out of polyester that she had ever owned.

There were other aspects of the job that she liked, too. For one, it didn't bother her that she worked in the stillness and quiet of the dark. Maybe that was because she had years of slayer experience under her belt, but, whatever the reason, she found her second shift job as the school's security guard to be peaceful, relaxing. True, sometimes she missed the fact that her watcher was just down the hall in the library like he had been when she herself was a student, and sometimes it would have been nice to have her best friends nearby, willing and able to lend a shoulder or an ear, but, in general, Buffy cherished the alone time she received at work, for it was the only place she could get any privacy, and even a twenty year old, college dropout with no family and absolutely no social life to speak of needed a few minutes to herself to breathe; even she, the chosen one, needed personal, alone time to think.

Plus, financially speaking, the job treated her well. The medical benefits alone had been enough to tempt her to take the position, and the decent wage, much more than any other job she could have procured with only a high school diploma, provided her with the means to support herself, to put food on the table, clothes on her back, and to keep a roof over her head. It was nothing to brag about. She wasn't a doctor, or a lawyer, or even an accountant, but she didn't look good in scrubs, she couldn't lie well enough to be an attorney, and numbers had never been her friend. For now, she was, if not satisfied, then, at least, content with her profession.

Who knew her high school aptitude test would prove to be so accurate?

After doing a quick sweep of the classrooms upstairs, Buffy reconfirmed what she already knew – that the school's second story was clear – and worked her way back towards the wide, tiled staircase that would take her down to the main level once more. She walked with purpose, and she walked with confidence, but, on that particular night, her usual swagger was just routine. She felt anything but confident, and that had everything to do with the phone call she was expecting, hence the cell phone she was grasping like her very lifeline. Tense and stiff, her movements came across as mechanic, but the wide eyed rawness of emotion and fear displayed in her eyes screamed the story that nothing she did that night was natural or reflexive.

She had always hated hospitals, and, over the years, despite the many times she had been forced to either stay in one for her own benefit or visit a friend or family member there, that feeling had not changed. In fact, it had just spread to include those employed at the overly sanitized buildings, for, in Buffy's mind, doctors only ever delivered bad news. Sometimes that bad news was disguised as good, but, in the end, everything around her always unraveled, fell apart, and became unpleasant. So, as she waited for the call, she cursed the fact that her worry was encroaching upon what was supposed to be the easiest part of her day.

It would have made more sense for her to request a call back during the day, during regular doctor office hours, but when had she ever been normal, and, for Buffy, that thought just wasn't an option. If she received the phone call she was waiting for at home, the chances were that someone would be there to overhear her end of the conversation, and, for now, this was no one's business but her own. They would only worry about her, ask questions and demand answers she didn't have, and she wasn't ready to face their fears. Hell, she wasn't even ready to face her own fears yet.

Needing to brace herself, to take a deep breath… or twenty… and get both her mind and body under control, the slayer took a seat on the top step, positioning her feet a few risers below. Leaning forward so that her elbows could rest on her knees, she simply stared forward, her eyes coming to rest upon the large, plain clock that hung from the wall before her. Effortlessly, her head fell forward and hung limply between her two braced arms, the loose, soft strands of hair that had escaped her simple ponytail whispering against the bare skin of her wrists, and Buffy found herself sighing out loud. One of the last warm, comfortable beams of sunlight fell in from a west facing windows, partly illuminating her slouched form, reminding her that her time was running out, that the day would soon be night, and her momentary reprieve of unknowingness would come to a halting, screeching end.

Not five minutes later, her cell phone rang.

Flipping it open, she accepted the call, but never said a word in greeting. She simply couldn't. It felt as if someone had stolen her voice, and, if anyone would know how that particular nightmare felt, she did. However, the person on the other end of the line didn't appear to have the same problem, for they were talking before Buffy could even open her mouth wide enough to bite down on her suddenly trembling bottom lip.

"Good evening," the perky voice greeted, all business yet kindhearted and cordial at the same time. "This is Susan at Doctor Feldman's office calling for Mrs. Summers."

"It's, uh, it's just Miss," the twenty year old corrected. To her own ears, her words seemed foreign, as if they were spoken in a different language or by a voice she didn't recognize. That meek and mild tone could not be her own, but it was.

Immediately contrite and sounding embarrassed, the secretary apologized, "I'm sorry. I just…"

"It's okay." And, really, it was. In that moment, Buffy really didn't mind what the other woman had assumed about her. She probably would have done the same thing, but she had more important things to worry about than whether or not she was being addressed by the proper name. "Could you just please tell me…."

"Oh, yes, of course," Susan replied quickly, interrupting the slayer. "Doctor Feldman asked me to call you and make an appointment. He wants to see you right away."

"So, then, it's bad news."

"I couldn't say," the receptionist answered calmly. Her lines sounded rehearsed, like a veteran stage actress bored by the repetitive nature of her role. "All he said was that he wanted to talk to you in person and that I should schedule you an appointment for as soon as possible. Will tomorrow at noon work for you?"

The young blonde laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah, I'll be there." Doctors who were in a hurry to meet with their patients… Buffy knew that was never a good thing. Distractedly, she added a quick, "thanks," before hanging up the phone. Without thought to what she was doing, she allowed it to slip through her clammy fingers and tumble loudly onto the step beside her.

Noon.

Twelve o'clock.

Tomorrow.

It was only a few minutes until nine. She had only a little more than fifteen hours to wait, but the upcoming night already felt like a lifetime. Suddenly, the clock before her was no longer her friend, promising her a reprieve from the wonder and worry. Instead, it was taunting her with the wait, laughing at her immaturity for believing a single, simple phone call would be able to dispel all anxiety and concern. But, worst of all, it reminded her of a dream, one that had haunted her for weeks, one that she, thankfully, hadn't had in well over a year.

Buffy knew she was dreaming. Despite her tenure as the slayer or maybe because of it, she had a firm grasp upon reality, so she knew the unnatural feel of the images surrounding her weren't real, but that didn't necessarily mean that they weren't important, that they didn't hold some kind of meaning. After all, a part of her duties as the slayer oftentimes included translating and deciphering cryptic, prophetic dreams, but that particular dream, which felt more like a nightmare, didn't seem to be of the visionary nature; rather, it felt haunting, evocative, as if it was trying to remind her of something.

Nonetheless, though, it was still very much disturbing. Because of her calling, time already was a mocking device used to torment her. Each and every day there were colorful, tangible, all together too real reminders of just how short her life could be. With danger lurking in every nook, cranny, and shadowy corner, she was always at risk. Every morning that she managed to wake up still alive could very well be her last. She had already managed to surpass the average slayer lifespan… sort of, and that realization, for Buffy, sometimes made her feel as though she was living on borrowed time. So, the fact that she was dreaming about oversized, looming clocks just felt like one, big, mean taunt.

The only truly clear images in her unconscious state were the time telling devices; everything else was hazy, cloudy, indistinct, so she had no idea where she was or what she was doing there. There were no demons to fight, no vampires in sight for her to stake. Rather, she just stood there, listening and watching as the clocks around her steadying moved forward, time slipping by at a speed that seemed faster than normal. For a moment, Buffy wondered if she had somehow slipped into another dimension, but she quickly dismissed that notion when she reminded herself that she was just dreaming. However, that didn't stop her near frantic desire to stop time, to break each and every single one of the clocks surrounding her.

She was stuck, though. Whether she was physically incapable of moving or simply powerless against the natureal course of existence, Buffy didn't know, and she was too worried about what would happen when her one minute time limit was up. Why she only had a minute, she didn't know, and why that minute seemed to stretch on forever in reality but fly by in her dream, she was utterly stumped. What she did know, though, was that nothing would be the same once those precious sixty seconds were over, and she didn't want whatever was going to change to take place, to ever take place.

Sobbing miserably, she waited hopelessly, helplessly. In that short plane of time, she was no longer the slayer, looking to prevent yet another tragedy; she was just a girl – a normal girl who wanted something so desperately but knew she couldn't have it. And then it was all over, the clocks disappeared, and she was rocketing herself out of bed and running as fast as she could for the bathroom.

Slowly, her surroundings came back to Buffy as she sat wretchedly on the cold, hard bathroom floor, her body wrapped around the solid, stationing form of the toilet. Outside, it was gray with the kind of light only achieved in the very early moments of the pre-dawn. Officially, it was Christmas morning. Although it wasn't snowing like the year before, it was still gloomy outside. Cold and damp, overcast with clouds so thick there would be no hope for the sun to peak through that day, the slayer felt like the weather was an appropriate expression of her own emotions.

Standing, she pulled herself up so that she was positioned in front of the sink, her pale, hollow face displayed clearly in the mirror before her. After rinsing out her sour tasting mouth, the petite blonde brushed her teeth and washed her face, but, still, she didn't move. Rather, she remained where she was, simply watching her own empty, emotionless eyes. She felt like crap.

After dusting the vamp in the cemetery a few days prior, she had experienced brief waves of dizziness and nausea, but she had believed that the worst of the flu bug had passed her up this time, especially when her mom and two best friends were back on their feet less than forty-eight hours after getting sick in the first place. Now, though, she knew better. Instead, the virus had just been biding its time, kicking its feet up inside of her body, and getting good and comfortable before it revealed itself, gaining strength.

Dejectedly, the slayer crawled back into bed, drawing the covers up tightly all the way to her chin. But she didn't close her eyes. Anything, even being sick again, would be better than having her dream once more, so, instead of sleeping, she remained awake, watching as the light from outside her closed bedroom blinds slowly changed as it bled into her room. Eventually, her eye lids became too heavy for her to hold open any longer, and she succumbed to her body's need for rest but not before she came up with a plan to pay Xander back for his wonderful, oh so kind and generous Christmas present.

After all, hell hath no fury like a slayer sneezed upon. Right?

Shaking off her melancholy recollections, Buffy picked her cell phone back up, stood, and dusted off her backside. Bad news or not, memories of a recurring bad dream that she'd like to eternally forget about or not, she had a job to do, and, if nothing else, Buffy was dependable. Pushing off from her position on the top step, she slowly moved down the staircase.

She only had fourteen hours and forty-five more minutes until she had to meet with Doctor Feldman.

It was going to be a long night.