Chapter Three: Grazed Knees
While doctor offices weren't as sterile or as cold as hospitals, they still made Buffy uncomfortable, nevertheless. Whereas the numerous awards and diplomas displayed proudly, haughtily, purposely on the walls were supposed to reassure the physician's patients, they, instead, reminded her of the fact that medicine was a learned skill. Doctors were not gods… no matter how enthusiastically they strived for such distinction or how pompously conceited their egos were. Just as she had easily forgotten the things learned in class when it came time to take the test, medical professionals could fail to remember as well. No, doctors were not invincible. Their patients couldn't depend upon them to always be able to fix or cure them. They were just as fallible, just as human as everyone else, as she herself was, slayer skills or no slayer skills.
The physician seated across from her was no different. While a kind enough man, one who seemed interested in his patient's wellbeing, he was also a stranger with as much control over another person's fate as anyone else. He could smile and tell her that everything was going to be alright, but that didn't guarantee anything, so, really, their meeting that afternoon was nothing more than a formality. No matter what his news was, believing him, trusting him was always going to be a chance but so would ignoring him. In fact, the latter option was the more dangerous of the two, so she bit her tongue, shoved aside her worries, and attempted to focus upon the doctor before her and what he had to say, but that was easier said than done.
Why was it that it was always the most difficult to concentrate when one needed to the most? It was like another example of Murphy's Law. Whenever she needed her wits and strength about her the most, they always failed. Instead of being able to focus, Buffy would find her mind wandering, weaving and dodging its way through her past as it sorted through all her various memories and focused on the very last one she should be recalling in that particular moment, and, as Doctor Feldman addressed her that afternoon, she found history repeating itself once more.
His voice was on the edge of her periphery. While she could certainly hear the words that spewed from his slightly lined but no less gentle mouth, their meaning, their importance was hazy. It was though there was a wave of water separating them, and, no matter what she did, Buffy couldn't find a way to wade through the liquid. It pounded against her, tossed her about, but never, unlike the ocean, receded back to the depths from which it was created.
"I'm surprised to see you here today alone. I thought that surely you'd have someone with you – a significant other, a family member, even a friend…?
Distractedly, the slayer admitted, "no, there's no one."
"Certainly, I don't have to explain to you, Miss Summer's, just how important it is that you have some sort of support system behind you. What you are about to face…" Allowing his sentence to fall and drop incomplete, the doctor re-gathered himself. "Let's just say that, if there is someone you can call, I think it would be a good idea. This is not something someone should go through alone."
"I understand."
And she did, but that didn't mean that there was anybody that she was prepared to share the burden of her situation with. Her friends were wonderful. She loved and appreciated them more than she could ever fully express, but that didn't mean this was something they would confront and deal with alongside her. Just like in the past, they would be on the outside of the situation, lending a hand as much as they possibly could, but they would never be in the thick of her battles, front and center as she faced the demons and monsters only she could defeat. Though this situation did not involve a supernatural being or a force of evil, it was, nonetheless, her situation to face alone, always alone.
It was New Years Eve. Willow was off at some gig with Oz. Her best friend had promised Buffy that she would have invited her, but the redhead didn't want her to feel like the third wheel, and she and Oz were planning to make a date of their evening despite the fact that he was with the band playing for the party. Xander was off with Anya, and, frankly, Buffy did not want to know what their plans were. As it was, she heard way too much about the ex-demon's sex life, and she certainly didn't need to hear more. Her mother was off celebrating the last night of the year with some art circle friends, Giles was busy doing whatever it was that Giles did when he attempted to have a personal life, and Riley was working.
While she knew that she should care that she wasn't spending the evening with… whatever Riley was to her now, she wasn't, but she did resent the fact that she was alone on what was, perhaps, the most important holiday of the entire year, for it wasn't any other contrived reason to dress festively and party that promised to determine what the next 365 days of one's life would be like. New Year's Eve shared that burden all onto itself. And she supposed that she should have been upset that there would be no one at her side to kiss that night when the clock struck twelve, but Buffy wasn't. In fact, the last thing she felt like doing was swapping spit with some guy, any guy other than the one that she did want… and for more than just kissing. Had she mentioned yet that she hated holidays? Years ago, she wouldn't have been in such a predicament. Before she was called as the slayer, she was the center of everybody's social calendar. No party worth attending would be organized without both her approval and her opinion. No two popular people would be allowed to couple off unless she deemed them a well matched pair. And, before, she certainly wouldn't have been alone on New Year's Eve. Hell, before, Buffy was never alone. Oh, how things had changed…. At first, being by herself had been difficult to get used to. Ostracized from popular company, she had been forced to find new friends, and, in retrospect, she knew them to be better friends, but, even after she moved to Sunnydale and was included in Willow and Xander's inner circle, there were still times when Buffy was alone. Her night job simply forced the issue, for there was no human who could possibly survive all the things she had to both face and win against. But then there was Angel, her… Well, she wasn't sure what he was to her at that point, but what he meant to her, still meant to her, couldn't be trivialized by simply referring to him as her ex as everyone else did when they thought she wasn't listening or around. Though it was painful to think about him, let alone voice his name even if only to herself, on that particularly, lonely night, Buffy needed the comfort his presence, if only remembered, brought her. Before he had left her, Angel had made her loneliness disappear, because, whenever her friends were busy or couldn't be there for her, he was. Being alone had meant that she could be with Angel, that no one would either know or judge her for spending time with the souled vampire they still blamed for his soulless alter ego's crimes and depravities. And spending time with Angel was when she was the happiest. Even if they weren't together physically, in her heart, they were still Buffy and Angel, so that meant sitting beside him quietly while he read, simply watching the ruby and amber flames of the fire dance and jump, twirl and die down only to reappear seconds later, was better than dancing to any new band playing at The Bronze or seeing any ridiculously cheesy action flick Xander dragged her and Willow to.
If Angel had still been in town, Buffy had no doubt that she would be spending the evening with him. Not like that, though the idea certainly didn't repulse her, but simply being. Existing. Cohabiting. He would have recognized the fact that, despite what she claimed, she still didn't feel well, that her Christmas flu bug was still lingering persistently even after almost an entire week of rest and taking it easy. He would have started one of his fires, fires that were warmer and more welcoming than anyone else's fires, he would have made her a cup of hot chocolate, and he would have held her in his arms, the strength and solidarity of his frame wound protectively around her doing more to make her feel better than any medication or doctor's recommendation ever could. And, when midnight came around, well… she certainly wouldn't have been sitting alone in the park on a cold, wooden, uncomfortable bench, eating her way through an entire snack pack of Jell-O.
It was lime. Despite the fact that it wasn't a particularly balmy evening, the coolness, the freshness of the lime was reinvigorating, soothing, and it didn't matter to Buffy, as she shoved bite after bite into her greedily anticipating mouth, that, typically, she wasn't much of a citrus fan. All that mattered was that, after a week of anything besides bland, boring carbs upsetting her stomach, it tasted good to eat something with a little flavor. What had made her break into the juvenile snack cups her mom had stocked away in the back corner of the pantry, she didn't know, but, as she finished her last container with gusto, with a satisfied sigh of contentment, Buffy smiled to herself. It was the first genuine smile she had worn on her otherwise sullen and depressed face in days. "Well, well, well, what do we have here," an unfamiliar voice asked from behind where she sat. "Is the slayer taking a break?" Returning with a glib retort of her own, Buffy asked, "are all vampires so inept with their comments and questions?" Standing, she stepped aside from the bench and prepared her body for a fight. Not that the vamp before her appeared as though he would present much of a challenge. He was slight in build, wiry, almost gangly even, and she found herself wondering just how old he had been as a human when he was turned. Despite the hardness in his undead, lifeless eyes and the apparent wear of time upon his unchanging appearance, she would have guessed he had been no more than an awkward teenager when turned, but that realization did not diminish her urge to send the nameless opponent straight to hell. Whether an innocent or not when drained and reanimated years before, he was now an unapologetic demon. He would show no signs of hesitancy when it came to ending her life, and she wasn't about to disappointment him by suddenly wimping out. "What's wrong, slayer? You don't look so good." "It's called the flu, jackass," she bit out. "Way to make a girl feel good about herself. Didn't your mother ever teach you that, when it comes to a woman's appearance, a guy – whether alive or not quite – should always lie?" As she spoke, she advanced towards the awaiting demon, her fists raised in anticipatory tension, but, even as she progressed towards her prey, he didn't back down, he didn't ready himself to fight back, he didn't even move to defend himself. "No, that's not it," he finally argued. At that point, no more than a foot separated their forms. "There's something else going on with you, something more than just the flu, slayer." "I don't care what it is," she snarked. "I'm still going to kick your undead ass."
He started talking again, but she only heard the words; their meaning didn't register until several minutes later. While his slightly high pitched voiced rambled on, she lunged towards him, but, at the last minute, the vampire shot a leg out, tripping the slayer and making her fall to her knees. She grazed them on the sidewalk, but, before she could access whether or not the fall had broken through the material of her jeans and the skin of her legs, the vamp was upon her, reaching out with both of his dirty, disgusting hands to take possession of her vulnerable neck. Without thought, she reached into her jacket pocket, producing the stake she always had ready, and plunged it into his waiting, still heart. The demon disintegrated into dust, unwanted, unwarranted tears started to slide down her clammy face, and, before she could even attempt to pick herself up off the ground, Buffy started to retch violently onto the grass beside her.
It was while she was throwing up that she recalled what the now dusted vampire had said just as she was attacking him. He had, almost reverently, started to chant, "two hearts that beat as one," but, unlike the vamp from the week before, the comment did not spark derision or humor from the slayer; her recently bested opponent did not bring to mind thoughts of Stacey Q or any other tacky pop song, but, at the same time, Buffy wasn't ready to face or to confront just what exactly the vampire's statement made her feel.
Standing up, she ignored the slight pain in her knees and hobbled back to her bench. Collapsing onto it, the wooden structure suddenly felt as soft as, as comfortable as, her own bed at home, and Buffy sighed in relief. With the silent tears still streaming down her face, she reached into the pocket of her coat, the one where she didn't keep her trusty stake, and pulled out a zip lock bag of saltine crackers. Silently, she ate, waiting for another vamp to dust but hoping that, for the rest of the night, she would be left alone, no matter how scary or frightening her current thoughts were.
By the time Buffy fluidly returned to the present, several moments of silence had stretched between she and the doctor, but Buffy refused to be the one to break it. After all, what exactly did she have to say? She surely couldn't explain her lifestyle to this stranger sitting before her. Not only would he be incapable of really understanding her, but he would also believe her to be insane. At this juncture of her life, the last thing she needed was an investigation into her sanity. Plus, if nothing else, she was stubborn. Yes, the situation awaiting her was complicated, and scary, and emotional, but that was her life, and no one, not even a doctor with several degrees – both earned and awarded – was going to tell her that she couldn't handle something… even if he was, in all likelihood, probably right.
So, instead of backing down, instead of admitting that Doctor Feldman had a point and that, at the next juncture of her journey, she would bring someone along with her next time, she sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared him down. While she might not have her PH.D., and while she certainly didn't have her name on several well-cushioned bank accounts, her will, her tenacity, her sheer obstinacy was unrivaled. The physician before her was going to cave.
And he did.
"Well, anyway, moving on, as I suspected, Miss Summers, this is, unfortunately, not a simple case of macular degeneration. I fear it's much more serious."
"What is it then?" She had no room for broad statements, for hemming and hawing around the issue without actually addressing it. She wanted answers, she deserved answers, and she was going to get them. For too long, whatever it was that she was about to face had been a mystery, had been the one unsolvable thing in her life when, no matter what, she always found a way to solve everyone's problems. After all, that's what she did. "What's wrong?"
"I want you to see a specialist, someone who is more familiar with this area of medicine."
Persistently, she pressed, growing more and more uncomfortable, more and more aggravated with the man's avoidance of the topic. Narrowing her eyes and leaning forward, Buffy pierced the doctor with her most unwavering glare. "No," she argued. "I came to you. You're supposed to be the best. I want you to tell me what you thinkis wrong."
"But, Miss Summers, I'm just an optometrist. You're asking me to diagnose something I've only seen in a textbook, that I've only read about. I can't…."
"You can tell me what you suspect," she interrupted desperately. Without conscious thought, she felt herself reach for the very knee she had remembered scraping years before, and, as if she could feel a phantom pain, she picked at the long-healed wound, nervously, through her jeans, worrying the perfect skin underneath. It was the only physical tell she displayed that told of her fear. Everything else she kept hidden, kept to herself.
"After waiting, patiently I might add, for days to find out what's wrong, your office called me to set up an appointment. Your secretary wouldn't tell me anything, just that you wanted to speak to me in person, and, now, I get here, and you still won't tell me anything other than the fact that you believe you know what's wrong, but you're too scared, too much of a coward, to tell me what it is that you think. I have been going out of my mind with worry, and you want me to go home even more terrified? What kind of doctor are you? I thought you guys promised not to do any harm? Well, let me tell you, you have caused me pain. While it might be emotional and not physical, I'll take a broken bone or a concussion any day – hell, every day – over this present torture you're putting me through." Resorting to pleading, she beseeched the physician, "please, Doctor Feldman, I'm begging you. Just tell me what's wrong."
Looking as chastised as he must have felt, the doctor apologetically replied, "I'm so sorry, Miss Summers, so sorry, but I fear that….
And that's when her world fell apart, no hell gods, demons, or egotistical mayors required.
