Definition of Insanity
Part Two
by Karen

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, they belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy and Fox.
Rating: R for adult themes and drugs.
Genres: Angst and eventually romance
Summary: Buffy used to have a needle problem- she couldn't stand them. Now she has a different sort of needle problem, one that could kill her if she's not careful. But she has been careful, at least she was until someone from her past showed up and shook her hold on reality.
Author's Notes: This story came about after I went to the doctors and had to have blood drawn.
Warnings: Contains situations not suitable for children. Reader disgression is advised.
Feedback: A must.

I put the lid back on my salad, threw it into my fridge, grabbing up papers and my bags and folders…Once I thought I had everything I might need, I raced out of my office, slamming the door behind me. I raced down the hall, people moved out of my way, I was probably a pretty scary sight, and I reached my destination within minutes.

"Will, I don't feel well. I'm gonna go home and hope it blows over," I told the red head, my long time best friend, but suddenly I hated her, because she could be with the man she loved and I couldn't. She could trust Oz to not hurt her again even after what he did, but I could never trust Angel.

"Okay, Buffy. Do you want me to drive you?" she asked, "You don't look so good."

"No, that's okay. I'll take it easy, I'll be fine. See you tomorrow," I told her, before leaving. I was glad I had lied to Angel, I didn't have a meeting today, I just didn't want him hanging around, because if he did then he would break down all these walls I've built around myself to protect myself, and then I'd let him back in and he'd leave me and hurt me again.

I threw my things into the back seat of my small car, sliding into the driver's seat. I jammed the key into the ignition, turned it, and threw the car into reverse. I backed out of the space and headed for the highway. I gunned the engine once I hit the entrance to the high way, zooming up to the speed limit and far past it. I knew I was being reckless, and yet I didn't care. If I died in a car crash, then my heart could stop hurting, my head could stop screaming at me for still caring about a man who had broken me as easily as it took him to take a step.

I swerved around the light traffic, my slayer reflexes coming in use as I fled the city and him. I reached home in record-breaking time, and just in time too, because it wasn't until my heavy oak door slammed behind me with so finality that I allowed the tears to come. They fell all through the process of getting things ready, heating the powder until it melted, boiling the needle, just to be extra sure. I filled the syringe, and not taking the time to prep my arm, jabbed the needle into the thick vein in the crook of my elbow, squirting the drug into my system. I tapped my fingers on the kitchen table as I waited for it to kick in, but the high was slow coming, and was lower than it ever had been in the past.

Now I understand; the high, the euphoria I get from this could never measure up to the thrill I get at the way he says my name.

Fighting the effects of the drug, I prep more and shoot that into my arm as well. And then another needle full and yet another. Dreams will not plague me tonight, I couldn't bear it. But as it kicks in, I know it's too much; even a slayer has limits, and that last dose was past my own, twice as much as I've ever used in one sitting. I feel my heart slowing just as I feel his heartbeat next to my own, beating strong. My lungs slow, and I want to laugh for the absurdity of it. I don't have a drug problem; I have a demon problem. But it's the drugs that are going to kill me.

But now I have nothing to live for.

I sink back into the kitchen chair, not caring when I lose my balance and fall to the floor in a heap. There's no fight left in me. I have drowned before, and that wasn't the most pleasant way of going, and I bet suffocation isn't either, but oh well. Your brain can survive without oxygen for a few minutes before brain damage occurs. That's the thought that passes through my mind as my breathing slows even more.

I can't figure out if it's the drugs that make me not care, or his easy dismissal of us, and everything we were. Why didn't he fight me? Why didn't he make me see that we were meant to be, forever? Unless he truly didn't love me…

He threw open the door, scanning the empty house. His soul tugged him towards the left, and he followed. He found her lying on the floor in a heap. Drug paraphernalia littered the kitchen table, and a strange odor permeated the air. In a second he was by her side, pulling on the loose sleeves of her cotton top, pulling them back so he could see the insides of her elbow. Then he checked for a pulse, knowing he wouldn't find one.

"Call 911!" he screamed to those that followed him, slower than he was. Then he lay her flat on the floor, tilting her head back. He pressed his ear to her lips, trying desperately to feel a breath, but he felt nothing. She was still warm, he hoped he wasn't too late.

He put his lips over hers, pinching her nose shut as he did so. He exhaled into her mouth, thankful to feel the breath go in. He repeated the procedure before he put his big hands over her heart and pressed down firmly. He didn't need to find her ribs and go from there, he knew where her heart was without thinking; it was where his own was. He then checked to see if she was breathing again, but she wasn't. He gave her two more breaths, starting the process over.

He went through eight cycles of CPR, two breaths followed by 15 compressions repeated four times, before the ambulance got there. As the rescuers moved across the kitchen, he continued until they forcibly pushed him away, fitting a mask over her mouth as someone else took over the compressions.

"She overdosed," he croaked, "Heroin." They took the information and filed it away, working as quickly as they could. They loaded her on the stretcher, the rescue breathing and compressions never stopping as they wheeled her out. They wheeled her down the front walk, and loaded her into an ambulance. He was right beside her holding her hand in his own.

They stopped him as he tried to climb into the ambulance with her. They asked him a question, a question he didn't hear over the blood rushing in his ears. "S-she's my everything," he stuttered, never taking his eyes off her pale face, and that must have been enough because they allowed him to climb in beside her, her small, fragile hand once more tucked in his.

When they reached the hospital, they sped her away, leaving him standing alone in the Emergency Room. But before his anguish could overwhelm him, the sight of the pretty red head that had shown him to her house showed up; his anguish turned to anger.

He stared at her tear-streaked face; the salty tracks should have cut him to the marrow, cut his anger at the base, but it did nothing. All they did was remind him of other tracks, the ones he had seen on her arms. "Your best friend was doing a hard core drug, shooting poison into her veins, and you didn't even know?" his voice was barely contained anger.

She flinched at his words as if he had physically slapped her. She shook her head, "She never changed. She showed up for work on time, she made reports when she patrolled. There were more all-night patrols, but not out of the ordinary. She didn't seem to have much of a social life, as far as I could tell. I-I never noticed."

"Not when you hung out, or just talked?" he asked.

She was silent a moment. "We haven't really talked, truly talked since Sunnydale. Maybe even before then, before her death, maybe even before her mother's death…" she looked up at him, and her tears became ones of frustration, "You have no idea what it's like. I tried, and tried. I really did. Xander did too. We tried. But she shut me out, shut us both out. I gave up. I know that's wrong of me to do, but I couldn't keep trying! She didn't want to talk, she didn't want to hang out, she didn't want to get piss drunk. So I left her alone, hoping all she needed was some space. And then Oz came back into the picture, and yeah, I got distracted. I admit that. But Xander, through it all, kept trying. And she still hasn't let him in. I don't think she ever will."

The flame that was his anger shrunk as it used up some of its fuel. He stared at the redhead, before sighing, "Just the thought that she could do so much damage to herself without either of you knowing…back in Sunnydale, I would have said it was impossible…" he ran a hand through his hair, "This isn't exactly the normal life I left her to…"

"It's not exactly the life I had envisioned for her after she told me about the spell, either," she informed him.

They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts for hours, until a doctor came out and headed their way. He jumped up, meeting the doctor half way across the room. After introducing himself, the doctor gave them the news, "We restarted her heart and filtered her blood to help her liver out in the long run. She's conscious, but sedated, and we will be holding her overnight for observation. We highly recommend that she go to a drug rehabilitation program, but we can't force her to do anything."

"No one can force Buffy to do anything she doesn't want to," Willow muttered.

"Can we see her?" he asked.

The doctor nodded, "She may be out of it," he warned, "Close brushes with death can do that."

They were silent as he led them to her room, not wanting to mention that this wasn't her first brush with death. When they entered her room, she was facing away from the door, towards the shuttered window.

"Buffy…" Willow started, headed towards the bed.

"Get out." The voice was hard, unfeeling. Willow stopped in her tracks.

"Buffy," Willow started.

"I don't need your pity!" she yelled at her friend, "I need you to mind your own business!" When she spoke again, her voice was softer, quieter, "If you knew what I did today, if you cared at all, you would have let me die."

"But I do care!" Willow cried, taking a step forward. It was then that she turned her head and saw him. Her face crumpled as she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.

He was still here, even after seeing me at my worst, and me being such a bitch to him, he still came.

"I-It wasn't a dream," I murmured, and he shook his head, "You…you really…?" I knew I didn't have to finish my sentence for him to understand what I was talking about. He nodded again. "Why?"

"I went to your house to get an explanation. I didn't understand why you acted the way you did…I still don't," his voice was harsh, and it cut me.

"Angel," I started, but he interrupted.

"What the hell were you thinking, Buffy? What the hell were you doing, shooting things into your veins? I thought you knew better than that?"

"And I thought you'd love me forever!" I yelled at him.

The doctor interrupted our little meeting, "You need to rest, Ms. Summers, to stay calm. You put your body through a tremendous amount of stress-"

"I know," I stopped him. I shook my fuzzy head, "I'm tired…"

"We'll let you rest," Angel said, pulling Willow out of the room. The doctor followed them. As they left, I broke down. Stay calm my ass.

The next afternoon I could go home. I spent just over twenty-four hours in the hospital. But that was still enough time. I didn't know it while in the hospital, but once I got home I learned what had been happening in my absence. Everything, everything, was gone. My box spring was gone, replaced by a mattress on the floor with two pillows and sheets and a blanket. All of the cupboard doors had been removed, my bedroom door had been removed, my clothes were living in laundry baskets…Even the bathroom door was gone.

Safe to say all my needles, my stash, my extra stash and my just in case stash were gone as well. It wasn't until I thought that did I realize just what a hold the drug had over me. But why shouldn't it? It made the dreams go away.

There was also something new, in the form of a blanket and pillow on my couch, and a suitcase behind the couch.

"What the hell is going on here?" I cried as I stared at my apartment.

"We're not going to force you to go to rehab," Angel said from behind me, he and Willow had driven me home, "But we are forcing you to clean up your act."

"Fuck you," I spat without even turning, staring at all the space uninhibited by doors. He stayed silent. I stared at everything, knowing it was futile to argue. I knew both of them well enough to know they were dn stubborn. Almost as stubborn as I was, even if they weren't as strong. "Who's my jailer?" I asked.

I felt a presence behind me, there couldn't have been an inch separating us, but he still wasn't touching me. "I am." I shivered at both his nearness and the ice in his voice. I wanted to cry and scream and throw a huge tantrum, I didn't want him knowing just how bad my life had become, and yet I wanted to throw myself into his arms and promise to be good as long as he would love me again.

Instead I kept quiet. I walked over to my sofa and threw myself backwards onto it with almost enough force to tip it over. I reached into the pouch on the side, that I had made, and grabbed the remote. I hit the power button and settled in to do some serious channel surfing. I've spent enough time with teenagers over the past few years to be able to pull off a pretty decent sulk in my old age.

I heard the murmur of voices, but I didn't look up from the television. After awhile I heard a door close- wow, so they actually left one door in my apartment alone- and then someone was standing in front of the television. Well, not someone, him. My babysitter, my jailor…

Without acknowledging his presence, I got up and headed towards the bathroom. I could hear the soft tread of socks on thick carpet. When I turned around, unbuttoning my pants as I did, he was standing in the doorway.

"Excuse me, but I have to go to the bathroom," I told him, glaring at him.

"I'm not stopping you."

I sighed, exasperated, "I would like some privacy, if you don't mind!"

"Actually, I do mind. Even though we went through this apartment top to bottom, you're resourceful. I wouldn't be surprised if we missed a stash. So no, you cannot have any privacy."

"Angel," I said, keeping my voice calm, when all I really wanted to do was scream at him, "It's that time of the month, I would really like it if you could at least turn your back for a moment."

"It's not like I haven't seen it before," he said, and I blushed crimson at the tone of voice he used, the lack of caring in his voice. But more than anything, I wanted to cry. Squashing that impulse, and feeling like I was on exhibit, I pulled down my pants and sat, going about my business as quickly as I was able. I was not going to allow him to think I was unnerved. Inside I was seething at this treatment, and I knew my face must have burned. Peeing in front of him like this was humiliating on so many levels.