SIXTEEN
* * *
She sat with Tara now, down in the living room.
"Nowhere?"
Tara shook her head.
"I tried. Everything. She's gone."
"She wouldn't just go, Tara."
"I know."
Tara's voice shook as she spoke and now they sat quietly. From the stairs Dawn sat, watching them, saying nothing. And as Buffy looked at Tara she found herself wondering if this was the way a normal house should be.
This isn't a normal house.
What is it?
The antidote had helped; things were calmer now. And the other place, where she wasn't who she was, seemed more distant.
But it was still there.
"Maybe Spike will know something," Buffy said. "I'll check with him."
Tara nodded. There was fear in her eyes. She still loved Willow, loved her deeply, and Buffy felt her fear. And as she looked at Tara she found herself wondering what it was like to love like that, what it was like to feel a physical attraction for someone and have it be much more.
Can I love that way?
Did I love Angel that way?
She didn't know. All there was for her was need, deep need, for a man's touch, for his body pressed against hers. It wasn't love, not with Spike. It was guilt and need and fear. Guilt because she knew that somewhere, deep inside him, was the man he had once been, the man he had once spoken of to her, his words bleeding with contempt at the man's weakness, while all the while wishing he would return.
That man loved her. He was capable of love.
But the demon was not.
She needed him, the demon. Xander had been right, all those years ago. She liked an edge to her men.
Fear was an elixir.
She was still watching Tara. "I'll find Spike, see what he knows. Can you stay here with Dawn?"
Tara nodded. Her hand went out, soft and gentle, over Buffy's. Her eyes said she understood.
"Be careful."
#
Garrett recited the names of vampires one by one. The Master. Angel. Spike and Druscilla. Willow, from that alternate reality.
He seemed most interested in this, so she elaborated.
"I don't know where she came from, exactly. It was Willow, but she was a vampire. Giles said there must have been a parallel universe where she had been made a vampire."
"A Willow in two places?"
She shook her head. "No. Two Willows."
He nodded.
"I see."
She knew Garrett didn't believe in them, but he seemed interested. She was seeing him daily now, sitting in the office and talking. He liked to listen to her, liked to hear her recount stories. From time to time he would ask for clarification about something, but mostly he was interested in letting her talk.
It felt good to talk.
The Mayor.
"Evil?" he asked.
She nodded.
Glory. The monks. Dawn.
"How is Dawn?" he asked.
"I don't know. She's angry all the time. Since Mom died --"
Her voice trailed off.
Mom. Just a few hours ago she had sat in the main room of the ward with Mom. Mom had brought in a hair brush and while Buffy sat quietly Mom had brushed her hair. It had felt good.
"Yes?" he asked. "Since your mother died there has been trouble with Dawn?"
"It's not fair," Buffy said.
"No?"
"I have Mom and Dad. Dawn doesn't even have me."
He looked thoughtful. "Is Dawn angry with me because you talk to me?" he asked.
"I don't know. She never talks to me anymore. I don't know what to do. Mom always knew --"
Silence, for a moment. Then he spoke and his words were not what she expected.
"I imagine that it is not easy for Dawn. She needs you, Buffy. She depends on you. But you must not think that you alone can help her. Are there others, other friends, who you can get to help her?"
"I don't know."
Garrett looked at her. "You know, Buffy, I think there is something you have a right to hear, but that you don't hear enough at all."
"What?"
"You do a lot for your friends. They should thank you. And they should be kinder to you, and stop expecting you to solve everything. I believe that you are an extraordinary young woman, Buffy, but that does not mean you should be required to always carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Put yourself first once in a while."
"You don't understand," she said. "I'm the slayer."
He shook his head.
"Even the slayer deserves a day off."
#
As the appointment ended Garrett watched her go and took a few minutes to scribble down some notes. He had to go soon himself. There was a meeting in Pasadena this afternoon and he was required to attend; there was a dispute over funding for the hospital and he was on the finance committee. This took a lot of his time and he saw no purpose to it; he was a physician, not an administrator. As he thought about this he kept coming back to Buffy Summers and her imaginary world, and he smiled ruefully.
How tempting it is, he thought, to simply escape into fantasy, into dreams. Reality is too hard, too frustrating sometimes. And to be able to create truly realistic fantasies; what a gift that must be.
A gift with thorns, hidden. A dangerous gift.
Buffy Summers was a young schizophrenic. She would in all likelihood never have a real life, would at best need to be medicated until the day she died, in and out of hospitals, would carry the brutal stigma of the mentally ill forever. But in her also was that spark, that intangible something that could create, that was no different from what had driven Shakespeare, Homer, Mozart or van Gogh.
Later, as Garrett fought his way through the midday traffic of Los Angeles, he found that a small part of him envied her this.
* * *
She sat with Tara now, down in the living room.
"Nowhere?"
Tara shook her head.
"I tried. Everything. She's gone."
"She wouldn't just go, Tara."
"I know."
Tara's voice shook as she spoke and now they sat quietly. From the stairs Dawn sat, watching them, saying nothing. And as Buffy looked at Tara she found herself wondering if this was the way a normal house should be.
This isn't a normal house.
What is it?
The antidote had helped; things were calmer now. And the other place, where she wasn't who she was, seemed more distant.
But it was still there.
"Maybe Spike will know something," Buffy said. "I'll check with him."
Tara nodded. There was fear in her eyes. She still loved Willow, loved her deeply, and Buffy felt her fear. And as she looked at Tara she found herself wondering what it was like to love like that, what it was like to feel a physical attraction for someone and have it be much more.
Can I love that way?
Did I love Angel that way?
She didn't know. All there was for her was need, deep need, for a man's touch, for his body pressed against hers. It wasn't love, not with Spike. It was guilt and need and fear. Guilt because she knew that somewhere, deep inside him, was the man he had once been, the man he had once spoken of to her, his words bleeding with contempt at the man's weakness, while all the while wishing he would return.
That man loved her. He was capable of love.
But the demon was not.
She needed him, the demon. Xander had been right, all those years ago. She liked an edge to her men.
Fear was an elixir.
She was still watching Tara. "I'll find Spike, see what he knows. Can you stay here with Dawn?"
Tara nodded. Her hand went out, soft and gentle, over Buffy's. Her eyes said she understood.
"Be careful."
#
Garrett recited the names of vampires one by one. The Master. Angel. Spike and Druscilla. Willow, from that alternate reality.
He seemed most interested in this, so she elaborated.
"I don't know where she came from, exactly. It was Willow, but she was a vampire. Giles said there must have been a parallel universe where she had been made a vampire."
"A Willow in two places?"
She shook her head. "No. Two Willows."
He nodded.
"I see."
She knew Garrett didn't believe in them, but he seemed interested. She was seeing him daily now, sitting in the office and talking. He liked to listen to her, liked to hear her recount stories. From time to time he would ask for clarification about something, but mostly he was interested in letting her talk.
It felt good to talk.
The Mayor.
"Evil?" he asked.
She nodded.
Glory. The monks. Dawn.
"How is Dawn?" he asked.
"I don't know. She's angry all the time. Since Mom died --"
Her voice trailed off.
Mom. Just a few hours ago she had sat in the main room of the ward with Mom. Mom had brought in a hair brush and while Buffy sat quietly Mom had brushed her hair. It had felt good.
"Yes?" he asked. "Since your mother died there has been trouble with Dawn?"
"It's not fair," Buffy said.
"No?"
"I have Mom and Dad. Dawn doesn't even have me."
He looked thoughtful. "Is Dawn angry with me because you talk to me?" he asked.
"I don't know. She never talks to me anymore. I don't know what to do. Mom always knew --"
Silence, for a moment. Then he spoke and his words were not what she expected.
"I imagine that it is not easy for Dawn. She needs you, Buffy. She depends on you. But you must not think that you alone can help her. Are there others, other friends, who you can get to help her?"
"I don't know."
Garrett looked at her. "You know, Buffy, I think there is something you have a right to hear, but that you don't hear enough at all."
"What?"
"You do a lot for your friends. They should thank you. And they should be kinder to you, and stop expecting you to solve everything. I believe that you are an extraordinary young woman, Buffy, but that does not mean you should be required to always carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Put yourself first once in a while."
"You don't understand," she said. "I'm the slayer."
He shook his head.
"Even the slayer deserves a day off."
#
As the appointment ended Garrett watched her go and took a few minutes to scribble down some notes. He had to go soon himself. There was a meeting in Pasadena this afternoon and he was required to attend; there was a dispute over funding for the hospital and he was on the finance committee. This took a lot of his time and he saw no purpose to it; he was a physician, not an administrator. As he thought about this he kept coming back to Buffy Summers and her imaginary world, and he smiled ruefully.
How tempting it is, he thought, to simply escape into fantasy, into dreams. Reality is too hard, too frustrating sometimes. And to be able to create truly realistic fantasies; what a gift that must be.
A gift with thorns, hidden. A dangerous gift.
Buffy Summers was a young schizophrenic. She would in all likelihood never have a real life, would at best need to be medicated until the day she died, in and out of hospitals, would carry the brutal stigma of the mentally ill forever. But in her also was that spark, that intangible something that could create, that was no different from what had driven Shakespeare, Homer, Mozart or van Gogh.
Later, as Garrett fought his way through the midday traffic of Los Angeles, he found that a small part of him envied her this.
