Part 10b

Buffy's eyes shot open, baring themselves to the harsh florescent light. She lied there, as memories flooded back. The beep of her heart monitor evaded her brain and sounded a hundred times louder than it was in actuality. Despite the numbness throughout her body she could still feel the soreness of her torso and her hand went to her stomach. Her breath hitched when she realized there was no longer a bulge where her daughter rested. Her mind raced, trying in vain to search for the part where this had happened. When she came up blank, panic began taking over. Her heart raced and her breath became precariously uneven.

She forced her body to cooperate and sit up. Suddenly, she cried out in pain, curling herself over. With fumbling hands, she drew back her gown to reveal of large bandage stretching across her womb. Cautiously pulling back the tape and layers of gauze, her eyes widened when she saw an angry red slash of cut skin, sewn together with thin metal thread. She fingered it, gently testing how tender it was. Judging from the lack of scab, she could tell it had happened recently.

Hurriedly covering herself up, she grabbed onto the cool, silver pole of her IV and unstably raised herself to her feet. After taking one step, Buffy knew this was a horrible idea. It was sheer torture to try walking with the deep wound in her stomach. Every time she moved, the skin would resist and shocks of pain would be sent throughout her. Her limbs felt like a million pounds and she couldn't control how they shook. She felt so weak and so tired she knew she would collapse soon. Her knees seemed to have forgotten how to function, and the IV stand was a poor substitute.

The hall was eerily deserted and Buffy wished she knew what was going on, her whole being felt desperately empty. Her bare feet made no sound as she ignored how much it hurt to take each slow step. She made it to the end of that section of the long hall.

Weren't hospitals supposed to be chaotic and loud? She almost wished it were; that would be better than the quiet.

As she turned the corner, she saw that she was walking straight into the waiting room area. She watched as Willow put a consoling arm around her mother, who was sitting in a chair looking drained. Xander and Cordelia sat close by, and Xander was gently rubbing his girlfriend's back, trying to soothe her lingering tears.

Buffy stumbled back a little, out of their sight. The panic had started up again, and she couldn't face them now. She turned herself around and, narrowly escaping a fall, she went down another way.

The first thing that came to mind of when she though of hospitals were those rooms with those observation windows that had the wire making little squares in them. In movies, that was where the families stood as they watched someone, and Buffy came face to face with one. She read the file on the door and felt her jaw start to shake.

She flashed back to watching Steel Magnolias with her mom. She had probably only been eight or nine but the film seemed to be permanently engraved into her mind, though she didn't know why. Life support machines. They were by far the scariest things in the world. How could a machine be the heart of a person? It didn't seem right.

She approached the window, in an almost zombie-like fashion, her eyes never daring to blink. It was hard to see but she could make out a small plastic box that had assorted different tubes extending into bulky machines that surrounded it. And inside the plastic cell, lay a tiny, still baby. It had one of those hats that all babies got when they were born and had the plastic wristband as well. It looked like a normal baby but it was so deathly. As hard as Buffy looked, she couldn't see it moving at all.

Her legs seemed to work before her brain did, taking her into the room, past the manila folder that clearly read 'Summers.' She stood there, in front of in incubator, frozen in place. With a feeble limb, she extended her hand through the small hole in the side of it. Ever so gently, she placed her index finger on the baby's hand. A hushed sob escaped her lips when the baby barely reacted. Its minute hand powerlessly unfolded its fingers, trying to grab onto the larger on. But she couldn't.

~~~

The occupants of the still waiting room quickly raised their heads at the sound of footsteps, instantly becoming alert. Their shoulders sagged in a mixture of defeat and relief when they saw it wasn't the doctor.

Joyce immediately stood, went over to her ex-husband, and embraced him. Hank held her, allowing her weight to rest on him, feeling how tired she was.

"How is she?" he asked, once they'd released each other.

"Which one?" Joyce said quietly.

Hank dropped his head briefly, fighting the tears that threatened to grow. "Both."

"Buffy's still asleep. The baby…she's not doing too well. The trauma was…it was just too much. The doctors are doing everything they can but…" She shook her head.

Hank took a shaky breath and motioned for her to sit. She sank back down into her chair, grateful he was here. She glanced up and said, "This is Buffy's dad. Hank, these are her friends, Willow, Xander and Cordelia."

Hank managed a smile for the people around the room. "I'm glad Buffy has such good friends. It's nice to meet all of you. Finally." He sat down next to Joyce and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "Buffy's a fighter. If the baby got even one percent of her genes, it's going to be fine."

"I hope so," Joyce whispered. "She wasn't due until October, and when they finally got her out, she wasn't breathing."

Hank didn't know what else to say so he just nodded. Glancing around the room, he noticed something was missing. Or someone. Reluctantly he asked, "Is…Angel here?"

The three teenagers looked up in surprise, thoroughly confused. Cordelia, taking charge, said, "Angel? Why would you ask that? And how do you even know him?"

"He owns a company I do business with," Hank said with a slight frown. "I just figured he'd be here for Buffy."

"Who is Angel?" Joyce asked.

"My cousin," Cordy said. "He's our history teacher."

Hank winced at that, still sore about the whole thing. But he knew that was who Buffy needed, and so he tried to be open-minded and at least polite about it. "He isn't here?"

"No," the brunette replied, still unclear about what Buffy's dad was talking about.

"I don't understand," Joyce said, reading everyone else's minds. "Why would their teacher be here?"

Hank glanced around the room at each of their puzzled faces. Had something happened that he wasn't aware of? He opened his mouth to ask when a nurse rushed in, worried look in place.

"Excuse me," she said, "do you know where Ms. Summers is?"

There was a pause as everyone shifted subjects and digested the question.

"What do you mean?" Joyce asked, her voice rising.

"She's not in her bed. I went in there to check her IV and she was gone." The nurse wrung her hands, nervously searching eyes.

Joyce stared at the young woman. "She's gone…?"

~~~

Angel halted when he turned to corner. Cordy had decided to stay and, upon her requests, he'd gone and got her some coffee, grateful for the escape. But he caught sight of Hank Summers and knew there was no way he could deliver the steaming cup to her with the man there. Hank wouldn't understand why he was there. He'd want to know, and they'd have to explain that he was a history teacher at Buffy's school. That would develop another discussion about why he didn't say anything even when he'd seen Buffy in LA. And Angel did not want to get into all that, knowing his brain was too full of other things to make up an acceptable lie.

He stepped behind the corner of the wall so they weren't likely to see him.

"What do you mean?" he heard Joyce say.

Another female voice answered, "She's not in her bed. I went in there to check her IV and she was gone."

"She's gone…?"

Angel quickly swiveled around and started the other way. Right then, he forgot about his feelings about what was going on, forgot of Cordelia's coffee, even forgot about Hank's sudden presence. All he could focus one was one thing: her. He knew she would be hurting and filled with confusion, and the thought of her wandering around this huge hospital with a major cut through her abdomen, made his composure lessen drastically.

He was nearly running down the hall when his eyes caught something on a door. The name Summers was written of the file, and he knew it was not talking about Buffy. His pulse quickened as his steps slowed and he prepared to look in the window if the room.

The paper cup crashed down to the linoleum floor, throwing hot coffee from it. The liquid seeped across the big square tiles, stopping when it reached the wall. But Angel didn't notice. His eyes were focused on something else.

Buffy had dropped to the ground many minutes ago and she now just stared ahead, her gaze blank. Her body jumped at the sound of the door opening.

Angel's expression was unsure as Buffy looked up at him. Nothing was said or done as they saw one another for the first time in months. It wasn't until her eyes wandered away from his that Angel realized she was in partial shock, not really seeing him. The IV connected to her wrists had closed in, nearly empty.

He kneeled down next to her, grabbed her upper arms and tried to get her to stand. "Buffy, we need to go. Come on."

She was aware enough to feel herself being taken from her place by her baby, and suddenly pulled back. Angel was a lot stronger than her, who, in addition to her size, was incredibly weak. As he got her to her feet, she started thrashing her arms lamely into his chest, trying to make him let go.

"Stop it," Angel said quietly.

A harsh sob escaped her throat when she realized she couldn't make him go away. "Let go…"

"Buffy, stop," he said, his voice tight when a knot had formed. His own eyes burned and he tried to lock his jaw.

"Let go of me!" she cried, throwing her upper body back.

"Dammit, Buffy, stop." He could see a faint coat of blood where she'd ripped some stitches.

As he nearly yanked her onto his chest, she allowed her legs to give way, pulling them both down. Buffy crumpled against him, her hands rootlessly trying resist. She finally just let herself start to cry, unable to support her body any more. Angel's grip on her shoulder still held firmly even as he felt himself give in.

"What's wrong with her?" Buffy sobbed.

A single tear fell over Angel's eyelid, dropping down to land on Buffy's hand. She raised her head to look, really look, at him, searching for something unidentifiable, begging him for an answer, needing him to make things better. But he had nothing to left to say.

She seemed to surrender to the never-ending pain of not understanding. She caved into herself, crying almost silently. Angel leaned over, gently pressing his forehead against hers. Her tiny arms wound around his neck as he cradled her to him.

~~~

Maybe if she just laid here then she would never have to get up; never have to face the world. So many emotions were crashing down around her and she couldn't control what her heart wanted to feel. Her body, her mind – everything was so very tired. She knew that no amount of sleep could ever swallow that feeling. The plus: she didn't notice how uncomfortable the hospital beds were, the exhaustion seemed to just block it out.

Her eyes opened and she solemnly stared at the ceiling. The fluorescents had been turned off so the only light came from the border on the headboard above her. The pain medication was still going strong, giving her a numb feeling all over. It wasn't until her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting that she realized she wasn't alone. In a chair next to the bed, sat Angel, his head buried in his hands, unaware of her awakening. Buffy lay frozen, watching him sit there, listening to the ragged sound of his breath. It wasn't usual for Angel to be flustered. He was Mr. I'm-so-smooth-and-cool-that-you-can't-figure-me-out-even-if-you-tried. But his breath came out uneven and shaky and his shoulders were quivering.

She must have been awake for ten minutes before he finally realized it. He looked up. His eyes were overblown with guilt and regret and pain. He hadn't really looked at her for the entire night but now their eyes met and he saw her for the first time.

"Buffy."

Breakout the tissues already, she thought, feeling the familiar lump form in her throat. She almost wished he wouldn't speak her name; it generated far too much anguish on both their parts. He would say that one, simple word and it made her want to just…to just die right then and there. There was just something in his voice that released all of her emotions about anything else and made her think of only one thing: him. She decided that it was imperative that she create her own dictionary with lots of new words to describe what she felt when he merely looked at her. Their eyes would meet for a second and it was instant fever, leaving her disoriented and completely lovesick. Sometimes she just wanted to beg him to get out of her heart and her head and wished that she had never met him. Life would be so much simpler, so much clearer. She would go to college, met some nice, polite boy, end up marrying him, pop out a few kids, live in a Martha Stewart Living house, and play right into her devoted mother role. OK sure, so maybe she wouldn't be head over heals in love with her imaginary husband but at least their lives would be nothing out of the ordinary. But what about the fire? What about the crazy, what-hell-are-we-doing passion? Could she live without it? Would she wake up at night and yearn for something more?

His hand reached out. His finger slid silently under hers. A small drop of salty water dropped onto the white pillow.

She would never know.