Chapter Eleven: Fault Line
Three Years Later...
Her little girl was about to turn four.
Shuffling into the kitchen, Buffy yawned but felt content, for those were words she never thought she'd be able to say, let alone dream about, but Ashlinn, despite the odds stacked against her, had proven just how strong she was. Like a true warrior, she fought against her disease, struggling not to survive but to flourish as much as possible. She lived.
But it wasn't easy. Each and every day was a battle. Her body, long before, had turned against her, so Buffy's daughter confronted her own physical weaknesses and, so far, had managed to best them. However, there were limitations she couldn't surpass, obstacles that were simply too difficult to beat. Unlike other children her age, Ash couldn't go to school. She couldn't run, and jump, and skip, or do any of the other activities kids enjoyed, that kids and their parents both took for granted. She couldn't be alone.
Because they never knew when the moment would come, when her disease would finally catch up to her and force her to live off of machines from the inside of a hospital room, there was always someone with her, beside her, watching her. Since the night of her first seizure, she had shared a room with Buffy. Even when she slept, someone was constantly there to monitor her. Between the four of them, Ash was kept in a state of perpetual companionship.
As her mother, Buffy was with her the most. During the day while Willow, Xander, and Giles worked, she was at home, both taking care of her daughter and the house they shared with her two friends and the only parental figure she had left. During the evenings when she worked, her three roommates split the responsibility of caring for Buffy's only child. They never complained, and she would be eternally grateful for their sacrifice and their assistance. Again, at night, once she was home from the high school which she still patrolled and guarded, Buffy once more looked after her little girl. Most nights, she hardly slept, too afraid to close her eyes only to wake up and discover that something had happened to her baby, hence the yawning that morning.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee, the slayer took a sip and was immediately both aware of the fact and thankful that Xander had been the first one up that morning. It depended upon his and Willow's work load on any particular day as to which of them woke first. However, the coffee rule was set in stone. Whoever woke first, made it, and the entire household was always just a tiny bit happier the rest of the day when it was Xander who got to the pot first. For some reason, no matter how intelligent she was, Willow simply couldn't make a half decent cup of Joe. Now, they drank it anyway. Desperate caffeine addicts would inhale just about anything to get their fix... even if Willow's version of java made Buffy wonder if her witchy friend did indeed percolate the vile substance in one of Xander's work boots.
The house was quiet as she sat down to eat her breakfast. What exactly she was slowly putting into her mouth, she wasn't too sure. It was sweet, and it was cereal, and, beyond that, Buffy wasn't too concerned. By rote, the spoon moved from the bowl to her lips and then back again, pausing long enough for her to chew. It was a constant, circular pattern that she didn't have to think about, born from years and years of habitual behavior, and it was nice to have the still few minutes of solitude to just be. After all, Ashlinn wasn't the only one who seemed to never be alone.
Circling back to her previous thoughts, Buffy glanced around her for a notebook and pen, wanting to make a list of ideas for her daughter's birthday. Realistically, she knew that, in all likelihood, it was would be her last. Most children with Tay-Sachs disease didn't live past their fourth birthday, let alone actually reach it, so, not only did they need to celebrate the fact that Ash was turning four, but they also needed to somehow celebrate all the other birthdays that she'd never have.
Spotting paper, Buffy, still chewing and with her spoon still held in her hand, moved towards the fridge and took down the small pad they used for grocery lists. Rummaging through the junk drawer, she managed to find a pencil only half eaten, the eraser gone but the end used to write still functional. The paper was from UC Sunnydale, the type of mass produced product Willow and all her fellow admissions counselors swiped as a perk to go along with their less than noteworthy salaries, and the pencil was proof that, as a member of their county's road crew, Xander had left school behind years before, but school – and the habits formed there – still held onto him. Though just a quirk, the fact that Xander would chew on anything – pencils, toothpicks, his key ring – when bored, the dependability of his nature was reassuring to Buffy.
Seated once more at the kitchen counter, Buffy immediately set to work on her list, writing down ideas for presents, party themes, and decorations, her breakfast pushed aside, half eaten and ignored. She didn't get too far, though, before her right eye started to twitch, the muscle spasm obscuring her vision and distracting her. Though a minor moment, really, in the long road of Ash's terrifyingly eventful life, thus far, Buffy would never forget the first time her daughter's eye muscles spasmed. Then, in that moment, there had been no way for her to know what kind of disastrous repercussions such an innocent action would have, but, now, three years later, she could look back and see that day as the start of it all, of everything she feared and hated most.
Once a girl who lived for the weekends when she didn't have to go to school, Buffy now cherished the weekdays. Though she both adored and appreciated her mom and best friend, it was almost a relief when they left for work and school, respectively, in the mornings. When the house was quiet, and it was just her and Ash, Buffy felt the most relaxed, and she loved spending quality, mother-daughter bonding time with her little girl.
They had a routine. Every morning, once the front door closed behind whoever was last to leave, they would get up and have breakfast together. As Buffy ate, she would feed her daughter as well. Since she had started eating baby cereal, this task had become quite easier. While she had no difficulty running and shooting a crossbow at the same time, even when nine months pregnant, it took a whole different set of coordination skills to eat breakfast while breast feeding her little girl, a set she had yet to actually acquire. Sure, she attempted multitasking, but one of them always, inevitably, ended up with some kind of food, whether Buffy's or her daughter's, on them. It didn't matter, though, because they took a bath after breakfast.
While she would wash her hair at night after work and patrol, Buffy would bathe in the mornings with Ashlinn. Making sure that the water was only lukewarm and filled only a few inches of the tub, she would get in with her little girl, allowing the baby to lean against her and playing with her as she splashed and laughed in the water. Oftentimes, more water ended up outside of the tub and on the floor, but Buffy didn't care. It was easily cleaned up, and Ash enjoyed it. There was no harm in a little innocent mess making.
Following their bath, she would slip on her robe while dressing her baby. Although Southern California rarely experienced cold weather, there could sometimes be a chill in the air, especially during the winter months, and the last thing Buffy wanted was for her daughter to get sick. It was more important to dress her first, then, and she just waited her turn. While she dressed Ash, though, she teased her - tickling her stomach, playing patty-cake, blowing bubbles on her adorably round and baby soft tummy, and playing peek-a-boo. Ash would giggle, and giggle, and Buffy inevitably found herself chuckling along with her little girl. She was just too cute not to laugh with.
"So, Dumpling-O'-Mine, Mommy thought we'd go to the store today. Does that suit Her Highness' plans as well?" To punctuate the question, Buffy rubbed her own nose against her daughter's. Amongst the giggles that ensued and the peaceful baby cooing, the slayer smiled. "You, Missy," she explained, "are growing too fast and getting too big for your britches. Mommy needs to move you up to the next size, and who are we to turn down a trip to the mall? Summers girls never fight fashion."
Pulling away to reach for her little girl's socks, Buffy kept one eye on her daughter who was laying on her bed as she dressed her and used the other to spot the tiny accessories she was searching for. As always, she picked out Ash's outfit before starting to dress her. That way, everything was already out and available, ready and handy when she needed it. "Of course, we will have to do a couple loads of laundry today, too, but you already knew that, didn't you?" Ashlinn lifted her hand to her mouth and started to chew on her fingers. Buffy took that as a 'yes.' "You did, because you, baby girl, are a genius. Between my common sense, and your daddy's..."
It was too late. The words were already out of her mouth, so he was already on her mind, but, still, Buffy wouldn't complete her thought. Gone was the natural joyfulness of just seconds before, and replacing it was the forced good humor she hated resorting to when with her little girl. However, just as she refused to finish her previous sentence, she also refused to allow thoughts of Angel to ruin her day. So, instead, she simply ignored her own remarks and backtracked to a safer topic.
"Where was I...?" Shaking her head to clear her mind, Buffy smiled, a composed, serene grin and then said, "oh, yes... I think we both know whose fault it is that we have so many loads of laundry to do around here and why. You, my Pudgy-Princess," to emphasize her words, Buffy playfully pinched and jiggled her daughter's dimpled knees, "make too many messes. You're just like Mommy, though, aren't..."
Breaking her concentration, she watched as her daughter's right eye started to spasm. The tick was slight, and it wasn't constant, only moving once every fifteen seconds, approximately, but it was consistent, and it was also a first. Whenever Ashlinn did something for the first time, even if she wasn't actually the one doing it and, instead, it was just a natural bodily function, Buffy took note and then wrote it down in her little girl's baby book, right down to the very last, most minuscule detail.
Suddenly, she was laughing. "I get those, two, sweetie. Sorry about that," she apologized regretfully. "They're annoying, right? Don't worry, though. Mommy will just make sure that she starts to eat more bananas for you. Obviously, you're not getting enough potassium from me, but that's easily fixed. However," she warned, "this does mean we'll have to make a quick stop at the Magic Box before we hit Baby Gap. Uncle Rupert will want to hear about this."
And he would. If anyone doted on Ash nearly as much as Buffy did, it was her watcher. From the first moment he saw the little girl, Giles had been completely and totally smitten. At only five months, she already had him firmly wrapped around her little finger. In Buffy's opinion, it was a good place for him. She wanted her daughter and her watcher to be close, so much so, in fact, that she insisted upon him being a part of her family, leading to the name Uncle Rupert. Giles was too stiff, too British for a baby, and it did nothing to express just how important he was to her little girl. At first, she had suggested Grandpa Giles, and Xander had voted for Uncle-G. Uncle Rupert had been the compromise.
"Anya won't care. She'll just roll her eyes, but I'll feed you before we go, skip your burping, and then ask her to hold and walk you around for a few minutes. Baby spit-up on her shoulder should be proper punishment for being the ex-vengeance demon who hates all things more beautiful and more special than she is – namely you, don't you think?"
Gathering up her freshly dressed daughter, Buffy nodded in agreement with herself before putting Ash in her baby swing and setting about to complete her own portion of their getting dressed routine. Sadly, after being a mom for five months, dressing herself took less time than dressing Ashlinn... even when she did attempt to look her best. Timeliness, thy name is mother...
"BUFFY!"
Dropping everything she was doing, Buffy immediately rushed upstairs, not caring about the fact that, in her haste, she spilled her leftover cereal all over the list she had been making, rivulets of milk drip, drip, dripping onto the clean floor below. She took the stairs three at a time. Despite her short height, her slayer strength and sudden intense surge of adrenaline lifted her above the normal realm of ability that her body should have been capable of, providing her legs with the musculature necessary. It was only seconds after Giles first called for her that she reached the room that she shared with her daughter, but it was seconds too many.
"I was just... she was just, and then..."
Using the steady, calm tone she usually reserved for the more stressful slayer situations, Buffy asked, "what happened, Giles?"
She knew it had something to do with her daughter, for the watcher was obviously fine, but he was standing in front of Ash so that she couldn't see her little girl, and there was a sense of foreboding hanging over the three of them, one that she both feared and needed to alleviate. As Giles formulated what he was going to say, stumbling over his attempts, Buffy noticed that the room was absolutely silent, and her little girl, her precious baby, wasn't moving at all. Despite her rapidly deteriorating health, such stasis was odd for any three year old.
"All of a sudden, she stopped..." Pushing Giles out of the way, she noticed what he had yet to say. "... breathing."
Already bending down to administer CPR, she yelled over her shoulder, "call 9-1-1, Giles. Hurry."
For several tense moments, her watcher simply stared at her, his mouth agape, tears filling his age-worn eyes. She knew that he was upset, that he was scared, and nervous, and suspended in a state of paralyzing concern, but this was her daughter, and she couldn't allow one second of uncertainty to cause her any more pain, any more discomfort. Although she didn't want to hurt him, she needed him to move; she needed him to do what she told him to do. "Now, Giles!"
"Yes, yes, of course," he murmured before slipping out of the room.
Distantly, she heard him running down the stairs, picking up the phone, and talking to the 9-1-1 dispatcher, but, up close and personal, all she could see, hear, and do was focus on her daughter. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten; breathe. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten; breathe. Over and over, she performed the necessary steps to keep her little girl alive until the paramedics arrived.
Once they were loaded into the ambulance, the rescue workers hooked her daughter up to machines to help her breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out, the oxygen went into her system and then left. Up and down, up and down, up and down, Ash's chest rose, a visible proof that she was still, in fact, alive, and Buffy found herself finally capable of breathing again herself.
Her little girl's birthday was in a month's time, and she would be turning four... if she lived long enough to see that wonderfully bittersweet day. Buffy was thankful for the time with Ashlinn, desperate for more, and grateful that Angel would never have to watch their daughter die.
