Past and Present by debxena
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters, but I enjoying manipulating them
RATING: PG
CHARACTERS: Angel/Cordelia; Holden; and Buffy (of course)
SPOILERS: Normal Again and Conversations with Dead People
FEEDBACK: I'm a feedback whore. Leave the bling on the bedside table, please
NOTES: for doylesb4 - for the Normal Again ficathon
THANKS: to doylesb4 for such a great request; willshenillshe for organising the ficathon; and to my wonderful FuzzyBen for his encouragement and comments (and kisses).
Cordelia looked proud and strong, but her lower lip wobbled ever so slightly, and her voice cracked as she spoke. "Angel, don't do this. We belong together. I know that you're older – way older, actually – than me, but that doesn't change the fact that the Powers That Be brought us together ..."
He broke in, cut her off. "Don't talk about the Powers That Be. All they're doing is messing up my life and making things harder. You should get out while you still have the chance. Go away – leave me alone!"
A tear slipped from her eye, tracing her cheekbone. "Angel, I ... I love you. Don't send me away." She wrapped her arms around herself, and Angel instinctively moved forward, gathering her in his embrace and murmuring, "There, there. I'm sorry Cordy, don't cry."
Sobs rippled down her body, her pale blue shirt and trendy black skirt showing the tremors. "Oh, Angel, I ..."
The TV flickered and died, and Holden turned to see Lily Chanterelle, the night-charge nurse, grimly holding the remote control. He blushed.
"Mr. Webster. I am well aware that the entire staff of this hospital appears to be obsessed with Past and Present and that appallingly saccharine couple, but this is a work-place. Even if you're only an unpaid intern, I expect you to uphold the high work practices required. People are ill, and eventually you're going to be set loose to treat them. Spending your time watching this," she gestured at the dark television screen, "is not going to help you at all."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Chanterelle." Deferential, apologetic. It wouldn't to do get on her bad side, especially as he was going to be working with her for another three months. "It won't happen again. I'll ... I'll go and check the chronic rooms." He'd been told that the nursing staff and the other interns called her Ms. Skankarelle – but he didn't think they'd ever had the nerve to say it to her.
"Mind you do, Mr. Webster. Just check that everything is normal, then update the charts."
Holden hurried from the nurses' station, his white sneakers scuffing on the dull linoleum. The Chronic Ward was his second rotation, and this was only his second night there. When he'd first joined LA Mental Hospital as an intern, the first rotation had been New Admissions. He had a theory that if that didn't scare a student off for life – or turn him into a new admission himself – he'd probably last a bit longer. Chronic Ward was considerably quieter – or it had been on his first night, at least.
Still a little unsure of where he was going in the maze of corridors, he followed the signs carefully. There was little noise other than the swiff of his trousers – it was late at night, and all the noisy patients were on the opposite wing, and probably sedated and sleeping. Pretty much all the patients here in Chronic were deeply catatonic, or very nearly so thanks to their medications.
He reached the first room - a private one, so there obviously was some money involved – and looked at the name slotted into the door. Buffy Summers. So this was where she was. When he'd first been told about her, shortly after beginning his internship, he'd been surprised to hear the name. It's not like 'Buffy' was exactly easily forgettable!
He vaguely remembered sharing some classes with her back at Hemery High – European History, he thought – but after the school dance, and the fire in the gym, he'd never seen her again. The rumours were strong that she'd caused it, and he'd guessed that she'd been expelled and transferred to another school. Now he found out that she'd been here ever since.
What he'd been told about her here didn't fit with the little he remembered. He hadn't read her file - deeply catatonic patients didn't have much to offer psychology students, due to the lack of consciousness and all – but the whole situation sounded intriguing. He mentally ran down the list of things he'd been told: calls herself a 'Slayer', kills vampires and demons, lives in the imaginary California town of 'Sunnydale', on a 'Hellmouth'.
He looked through the window inset into the door, and saw a single bed in the centre of the room. Leather restraints – not that they were being used. A chair next to the high windows. It didn't look very homely, but – he checked the clipboard on the door – she'd not been conscious since March that year. It was now November.
Unlocking the door with the keys on his belt, he pushed it open and walked in. Scuff, scuff. The light was dim, but bright enough for him to see the girl lying still under the covers. Her hair was straggly, some on the pillow and some creeping over the edge of the bed. He wondered, idly, if it ever got caught in the restraints.
Well, if he couldn't watch Past and Present, maybe he should take the time to get to know an old school friend? Well, not friend – she was part of the popular group, and he had been in band, so, so not popular. But an old face, anyhow. Their own high school reunion, going on in this dull gray room. If only he could get Crazy J over from new admissions, then they could really have a party. Balloons and cake, perhaps. Or perhaps not.
He pulled the chair – light moulded plastic – over to the bed, and sat down. "Buffy," he said. He touched her hand, resting on the covers. It was like touching putty. "I suppose you don't remember me, huh? Webs? Holden Webster. We went to school together. European History? I let you crib off my Vaclav Havel essay that time."
Well, it wasn't like he was exactly expecting a reply. It was nice to talk, though, not have to worry about the other person only waiting for a break in the conversation to say what they'd been thinking. "Junior year, spring production Pippin, uh, I did the lighting design. You'd helped me move the lighting board, and I dropped it on your foot. Sorry 'bout that."
Maybe if he held her hand? He slipped his palm underneath, tangled his fingers in hers. God, he'd wanted to do that so much when he'd been sixteen and all hormones and pimples. This wasn't quite how he'd imagined it, though.
"We're here to help, Buffy. No one's judging. I remember how they say you burned the gym down, and now I wonder if you were just ill. I hope we didn't make it worse." Was that – did she just squeeze his hand? Surely not. No emergence from her catatonic state since March, and he was just an intern and only twenty-two and he didn't have the training for if he woke up!
"I'm all alone." The words trickled from her mouth in a raspy whisper, and the shock at the sound was more than the joy. He snatched his hand away, reached for the buzzer. Stopped short, as he looked down and saw that her eyes were open. Green. How could he have forgotten how green they were?
Slowly, he sat down again. "You're awake," he said. There was no response, no movement, and he wondered if he were imagining things himself. A fine thing it would be, if he made it through the new admissions rotation only to lose it here in chronic! He nestled her hand back into his, and felt the barest pressure in return.
"Buffy, everybody feels alone. Everybody is, until you die. But we can be alone together, if you like." Pressure. The smallest squeeze on his fingers, and her eyelids slid down again, hiding the green.
"I fell into the moon," she said. "I fell into the moon and I'm all lost. Wandering in cheese. Are you the cheese man?"
Holden sat there, thoughts turning over like muffin mixture in his brain. She said nothing more, and gradually her hand was just an inert lump of flesh in his.
He stood slowly, patted her hand. There were other patients he had to check on. "I'll be back tomorrow, Buffy. It's good seeing you again." Lame, he knew, but it wasn't like she was listening.
He turned and looked back through the window before scuffing down the corridor. He knew that her mind had retreated again – perhaps may never return – but he could at least give her physical comfort - touch her hand, talk to her - in the cold lonely hours.
Not a schoolboy's dream, but the right thing to do.