Buffy was sitting in the blue cushioned chair, her face masked in worry.
Her knees were pulled into her chest. She had never felt this way before
–not even when Angel raped her. Tears weren't even flowing from her eyes
anymore, they were all dried out, but wet paths trailed from her eyes, down
her pale cheeks. Her head was pounding and her muscles were sore, but they
didn't matter. All that mattered was Spike. Her love. Her lover. Her soul
mate. Her...life.
Seconds blurred into minutes. Minutes bleed into hours. Buffy wasn't quite sure how long she was there. All she knew was that Spike wasn't there with her. No one was with her –not Giles, her mother, or her father. She was alone, once again.
Giles was really worried about Buffy. She looked frozen in time, like a painting that reflected a deathly ill child. She, surely, wasn't thinking when she said she loved Spike. It was a slip of the tongue, perhaps. She couldn't love his nephew. His selfish, annoying, badass nephew. Yes...he loved Buffy; how could he not? But just the thought of Spike touching her or kissing her or, God forbid, taking her to bed –forcing her to do things she wasn't ready to do –just made him ailing. He heard of how William treated his women, like sluts. That poor girl, Drusilla, didn't know what hit her when she started to date William. She was currently in a mental institution, out of her head and mind; believing in spirits and a talking doll!
Joyce sat on the vinyl chairs, her legs together with her hands folded in her laps. She seemed out of place or rather felt it. Her daughter, her only child, has been having God knows what with her lover's nephew. She should have seen it coming. She heard, from Rupert, what happened with Parker. What he called her, what he did and so on. In her eyes, Buffy would always be her little girl, and could never see her go through an episode like that –this –ever again.
Buffy's head was swirling with what just happened; it was too much to take in. Too much pain and too much hurt and too much loss –loss of self, loss of mind, loss of a part of her. Spike. All she could think about was Spike. She finally had enough courage to enounce her love, and then...he went. He's not here...with her. He's somewhere else...not with her. All that mattered to her is if he was with her or not. And he wasn't. So she was in the chair. Spike not found. And she was hurting –physically and emotionally.
She fiddled with a very interesting string hanging from her dirty shirt. It didn't consume her mind, though. It was off thinking of other things. Other things about Spike. Oh yea. She was head over heels.
The doctor came in with his covered shoes on. His head was hung low and he was messing with his hands. Buffy leaped from her chair and stood before him, as if it was her judgment day. "Ho-how is he?" she asked, not sure if her voice would actually come out of her mouth. "I'm-I'm sorry," he paused. "H-he didn't make it. He lost too much blood and his heart stopped. We tried all we could, but..." he trailed off staring at the young girl. She numbly shook her head. "If there is anything we could do, don't hesitate to even..." Joyce went behind Buffy and placed her hands behind her back to support her. "Thank you, doctor?" He extended his hand out, "Bradley. Doctor Bradley." She smiled warmly and shook his hand. "Thank you, Doctor Bradley." Joyce nudged her daughter's back, forcing her to say something, but all she did was nod her head.
He was dead. Buffy pushed away her mother's arms and went after the doctor. "Dr. Bradley." He turned around and smiled. "Yes?" She looked away from his glance. "How is-how is," she paused to control herself. "How is Spi-William Worthington doing?" His smile grew. "He's doing fine. He had a minor concussion, but is slowly recovering." She let out a long sigh of relieve. Her mind was doing the jig. "Can I-can I go see him now?" She bit her lip. Inside, she was pleading so hard. "I'm not supposed too..." his mind mused out loud. "Are you immediate family?" She shook her head, but answered anyway. "I love him, sir." He nodded his head. "I thought so. That look in your eyes. I remember that look." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Yes. You may see him. His room number is 932."
She walked away slowly, repeating the number in her head. "He loves you, too. Ya' know," he said before disappearing out of site. She turned around –searching for the doctor's face, but he was gone.
She stood outside elevator door. She pressed the button up. Nothing came. She pressed it again. Nothing came. She kept pressing and pressing and pressing, until a cool hand placed itself on hers. "Whoa there missy," the deep voice said. Buffy looked up at the man. He was a heavy black guy, with an old fashion boulder cap on. Closing her eyes she shook her head. "It won't go," she said as if she was a child. He chuckled, "Be patient, my dear. You know what they say, don't ya?" She shook her head no. "No? Well, they say, 'All good things come to those who wait.' And lemme' tell you something...it's true." She pondered the man for a second. The door opened for the elevator and they stepped in.
"Nine, please," she stated. He nodded warmly and started to whistle a tune. "I'm Charley, Charley Watson." She replied, "I'm Buffy." He smiled. She started to edge her way away from him. He chuckled a deep laugh. "Are you scared of me, girl?" She didn't answer. "Well...I'm far from scary." The door to the elevator opened and he stepped out. His back was facing her, but his head was tilt a little toward her. "You-you can't be afraid of everything in life, Buffy." He paused. "That's no way to live." Then, Charley walked out of the way of the doors. Before the doors closed, though, she caught a glimpse of the man; the man who taught her so much in so little time.
She was on floor nine, fast. The smell of Clorox and urine filled the air. She felt sick.
She paced in front of his door. She traced the numbers of it. Nine. Three. Two. 'You can do this,' she said unto herself many times. Opening the door slowly, she tiptoed in. She saw a Spiked bed.
"Hey love," he rasped. She smiled and ran over to him, hugging his head and kissing him with all her might. "Breath," he stated. Buffy let go quickly, apologizing while sitting down into a chair beside his bed. "How are you?" she asked. "I should be asking you the same thing," he said. She looked away from his eyes when his hand crept up her shirt to find Angel's mark.
"I missed you," she said taking a grasp of his hand in hers. "Me too."
An awkward pause settled between them. "I'm sorry," she said pushing tendrils of curled hair out of his face. "Me too," he said, but was sushehed by her finger on his lips. "No. Me first. I didn't mean-Well what I mean to say is. Uhh. When you told me no, I felt really bad. I felt that you didn't want me. And it hurt." He coughed. "I always want you, Buffy." She smiled, but slapped his hand. "Shh. My turn to talk. Anyway. I was being so bitchy and controlling. I just-I just love you so much and then..." He cut her off with his lips on hers. He broke away, leaving her speechless. He smiled inwardly. 'Yea. I still have it.' He sighed. "Buffy, love, I'm sorry I made you feel that way. It's just that. I wanted it to be all vanilla and all that rot. Ya know, perfect. For you. Because, Buffy Summers, I love you."
She squealed in delight and attached her lips back to his. "I'm so happy, Spike!" she said between breaths. They stared into each other's eyes. "You were gone for too long," she confessed. "'Didn't mean to," he mumbled. She got up from her chair and grabbed a cup. Pouring the glass of water for herself, made her shaky hands evident. "Wh'ts wrong?" he asked, faced masked in worry. She sat on the edge of his bed. "Nothing." She took a nervous sip of water. "Please...love, tell me what's wrong."" I
She put her cup on the table and started to fidget with her shirt. "It's- it's," she started, not being able to get the words out. "Tell me," he demanded softly. She sighed. "Angel's dead," she stated sadly. "Why so glum, 'bout that, pet?" She looked away from his eyes. "Because...I killed him." He didn't hear her. "What?" he asked. "I. Killed. Angel," she said over a trembling lip. "So?" he asked. "So?" she jumped up. "So! I killed a man. A human. There is one person less on the earth because of me. I have his blood on my fucking shirt. I killed him, Spike. I killed him in...cold blood." He urged her to sit back down. "He tried to kill you, kitten. And me, too. If your mum would've been there, he'd bloody well tried to kill her too." He pushed back a piece of hair. "He's a killer, love." She sighed. "I know. I know he's a bad person, but. But, I still killed him." His hand went to her face, his thumb tracing under her eye, "Love. Look at me. You didn't kill him. You bloody protected yourself and me. You're a soddin' hero. Think of how many other girls, he did that too. You're the lucky one, love. You survived and lived to tell the tale." She smiled and kissed his hand. "I love you," she assured. "And me, you. And me, you."
Seconds blurred into minutes. Minutes bleed into hours. Buffy wasn't quite sure how long she was there. All she knew was that Spike wasn't there with her. No one was with her –not Giles, her mother, or her father. She was alone, once again.
Giles was really worried about Buffy. She looked frozen in time, like a painting that reflected a deathly ill child. She, surely, wasn't thinking when she said she loved Spike. It was a slip of the tongue, perhaps. She couldn't love his nephew. His selfish, annoying, badass nephew. Yes...he loved Buffy; how could he not? But just the thought of Spike touching her or kissing her or, God forbid, taking her to bed –forcing her to do things she wasn't ready to do –just made him ailing. He heard of how William treated his women, like sluts. That poor girl, Drusilla, didn't know what hit her when she started to date William. She was currently in a mental institution, out of her head and mind; believing in spirits and a talking doll!
Joyce sat on the vinyl chairs, her legs together with her hands folded in her laps. She seemed out of place or rather felt it. Her daughter, her only child, has been having God knows what with her lover's nephew. She should have seen it coming. She heard, from Rupert, what happened with Parker. What he called her, what he did and so on. In her eyes, Buffy would always be her little girl, and could never see her go through an episode like that –this –ever again.
Buffy's head was swirling with what just happened; it was too much to take in. Too much pain and too much hurt and too much loss –loss of self, loss of mind, loss of a part of her. Spike. All she could think about was Spike. She finally had enough courage to enounce her love, and then...he went. He's not here...with her. He's somewhere else...not with her. All that mattered to her is if he was with her or not. And he wasn't. So she was in the chair. Spike not found. And she was hurting –physically and emotionally.
She fiddled with a very interesting string hanging from her dirty shirt. It didn't consume her mind, though. It was off thinking of other things. Other things about Spike. Oh yea. She was head over heels.
The doctor came in with his covered shoes on. His head was hung low and he was messing with his hands. Buffy leaped from her chair and stood before him, as if it was her judgment day. "Ho-how is he?" she asked, not sure if her voice would actually come out of her mouth. "I'm-I'm sorry," he paused. "H-he didn't make it. He lost too much blood and his heart stopped. We tried all we could, but..." he trailed off staring at the young girl. She numbly shook her head. "If there is anything we could do, don't hesitate to even..." Joyce went behind Buffy and placed her hands behind her back to support her. "Thank you, doctor?" He extended his hand out, "Bradley. Doctor Bradley." She smiled warmly and shook his hand. "Thank you, Doctor Bradley." Joyce nudged her daughter's back, forcing her to say something, but all she did was nod her head.
He was dead. Buffy pushed away her mother's arms and went after the doctor. "Dr. Bradley." He turned around and smiled. "Yes?" She looked away from his glance. "How is-how is," she paused to control herself. "How is Spi-William Worthington doing?" His smile grew. "He's doing fine. He had a minor concussion, but is slowly recovering." She let out a long sigh of relieve. Her mind was doing the jig. "Can I-can I go see him now?" She bit her lip. Inside, she was pleading so hard. "I'm not supposed too..." his mind mused out loud. "Are you immediate family?" She shook her head, but answered anyway. "I love him, sir." He nodded his head. "I thought so. That look in your eyes. I remember that look." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Yes. You may see him. His room number is 932."
She walked away slowly, repeating the number in her head. "He loves you, too. Ya' know," he said before disappearing out of site. She turned around –searching for the doctor's face, but he was gone.
She stood outside elevator door. She pressed the button up. Nothing came. She pressed it again. Nothing came. She kept pressing and pressing and pressing, until a cool hand placed itself on hers. "Whoa there missy," the deep voice said. Buffy looked up at the man. He was a heavy black guy, with an old fashion boulder cap on. Closing her eyes she shook her head. "It won't go," she said as if she was a child. He chuckled, "Be patient, my dear. You know what they say, don't ya?" She shook her head no. "No? Well, they say, 'All good things come to those who wait.' And lemme' tell you something...it's true." She pondered the man for a second. The door opened for the elevator and they stepped in.
"Nine, please," she stated. He nodded warmly and started to whistle a tune. "I'm Charley, Charley Watson." She replied, "I'm Buffy." He smiled. She started to edge her way away from him. He chuckled a deep laugh. "Are you scared of me, girl?" She didn't answer. "Well...I'm far from scary." The door to the elevator opened and he stepped out. His back was facing her, but his head was tilt a little toward her. "You-you can't be afraid of everything in life, Buffy." He paused. "That's no way to live." Then, Charley walked out of the way of the doors. Before the doors closed, though, she caught a glimpse of the man; the man who taught her so much in so little time.
She was on floor nine, fast. The smell of Clorox and urine filled the air. She felt sick.
She paced in front of his door. She traced the numbers of it. Nine. Three. Two. 'You can do this,' she said unto herself many times. Opening the door slowly, she tiptoed in. She saw a Spiked bed.
"Hey love," he rasped. She smiled and ran over to him, hugging his head and kissing him with all her might. "Breath," he stated. Buffy let go quickly, apologizing while sitting down into a chair beside his bed. "How are you?" she asked. "I should be asking you the same thing," he said. She looked away from his eyes when his hand crept up her shirt to find Angel's mark.
"I missed you," she said taking a grasp of his hand in hers. "Me too."
An awkward pause settled between them. "I'm sorry," she said pushing tendrils of curled hair out of his face. "Me too," he said, but was sushehed by her finger on his lips. "No. Me first. I didn't mean-Well what I mean to say is. Uhh. When you told me no, I felt really bad. I felt that you didn't want me. And it hurt." He coughed. "I always want you, Buffy." She smiled, but slapped his hand. "Shh. My turn to talk. Anyway. I was being so bitchy and controlling. I just-I just love you so much and then..." He cut her off with his lips on hers. He broke away, leaving her speechless. He smiled inwardly. 'Yea. I still have it.' He sighed. "Buffy, love, I'm sorry I made you feel that way. It's just that. I wanted it to be all vanilla and all that rot. Ya know, perfect. For you. Because, Buffy Summers, I love you."
She squealed in delight and attached her lips back to his. "I'm so happy, Spike!" she said between breaths. They stared into each other's eyes. "You were gone for too long," she confessed. "'Didn't mean to," he mumbled. She got up from her chair and grabbed a cup. Pouring the glass of water for herself, made her shaky hands evident. "Wh'ts wrong?" he asked, faced masked in worry. She sat on the edge of his bed. "Nothing." She took a nervous sip of water. "Please...love, tell me what's wrong."" I
She put her cup on the table and started to fidget with her shirt. "It's- it's," she started, not being able to get the words out. "Tell me," he demanded softly. She sighed. "Angel's dead," she stated sadly. "Why so glum, 'bout that, pet?" She looked away from his eyes. "Because...I killed him." He didn't hear her. "What?" he asked. "I. Killed. Angel," she said over a trembling lip. "So?" he asked. "So?" she jumped up. "So! I killed a man. A human. There is one person less on the earth because of me. I have his blood on my fucking shirt. I killed him, Spike. I killed him in...cold blood." He urged her to sit back down. "He tried to kill you, kitten. And me, too. If your mum would've been there, he'd bloody well tried to kill her too." He pushed back a piece of hair. "He's a killer, love." She sighed. "I know. I know he's a bad person, but. But, I still killed him." His hand went to her face, his thumb tracing under her eye, "Love. Look at me. You didn't kill him. You bloody protected yourself and me. You're a soddin' hero. Think of how many other girls, he did that too. You're the lucky one, love. You survived and lived to tell the tale." She smiled and kissed his hand. "I love you," she assured. "And me, you. And me, you."