Chapter 4

One Year Later

Buffy pulled her jean jacket tighter around herself and stared at the night sky. She usually sat out on the roof whenever she needed to think and get away. The day before had marked the one year anniversary of Angel's death. Around her, life continued. People grieved and they eventually moved on. For them, yesterday had been an ordinary day. Buffy had reached a milestone.

According to most grief councilors, the first year of bereavement was the hardest. After a year, it was supposed to get easier. I think I'm supposed to be on acceptance by now. Or is it depression? Definitely feels like depression.

Buffy twirled the diamond encrusted Claddagh ring on her left finger. She hadn't taken her ring off since the day Angel had slipped it on. If she took the ring off, then it would truly mean he was gone. Tears brimmed in Buffy's eyes as she lifted her hand and pressed it to her chest.

Some days were easier than the others. There were times when she almost felt normal. Then it would hit her. Angel was dead. She'd be cooking or standing in the middle of the cleaning aisle in the supermarket when she'd suddenly remember he was never coming home.

Buffy thought about the funeral service the year before. It seemed like half the town of Sunnydale had shown up to pay their respects for one of their "fallen sons", as Mayor Wilkins put it. She'd been barely lucid during the ceremony and wake. The entire day was spent in a blur, smiling and talking when she was required to. She had to keep it together. She had to be the brave little widow.

In the weeks following the funeral, people she considered strangers would randomly stop her to express their condolences. Her husband had died, but they treated her as if she was terminally ill. Now, for them, Angel's passing was just a distant memory. For her, his absence was still a freshly opened wound.

She knew she had to learn to cope and move on. She had Emma to think of. As much as she wanted to slink into the shadows, Buffy knew she couldn't. She had to be both a mother and a father to her daughter.

Her friends were worried. They thought she spent too much time at work or home. They encouraged her to go out and even date. But she wasn't ready. Buffy didn't think she would ever be ready. She didn't believe she could possibly love anyone that hard again.

"I thought I'd find you out here."

Buffy quickly brushed the tears from her cheeks and pasted on a smile at the sound of Xander's voice. "I'm that predictable, huh?" She stared ahead, not wanting him to see that she'd been crying.

Xander shrugged his shoulders and found a comfortable spot on the hard surface of the roof. "Predictable? Nah, I don't think that would be a word I'd use to describe you."

"Is the movie over?"

"Yeah, it just finished. You know, there's something to be said about the wonderful world of Disney. You missed a great marathon. There were singing crabs, dancing candlesticks, and mice that sew. And they all lived happily ever after."

Despite her earlier melancholy, Buffy's lips lifted into a slight smile. "Except they really don't." Her voice was soft and wistful. "The mermaid gets her legs, she learns the shoe doesn't fit, and her handsome prince was just a dream."

Xander dipped his head and stared down into his hands.

"I'm sorry, Xander," Buffy said breaking the silence. "I just wasn't up for Disney tonight."

"I understand."

"Forgive me?"

"Already done." Xander winked and bumped his shoulder against hers. "Now Willow and Tara, they're a different story. Tara's cleaning up the kitchen and Willow is putting Emma to bed."

"I'm a bad mother. I should be tucking Emma in."

"Everyone deserves a break sometimes, even mothers. Besides, Willow loves it and Emma doesn't mind. And as her Godfather, I should know. "

Buffy was grateful to have friends like Xander, Willow, and Tara. The past year would have been harder without their support. She laid her head on Xander's shoulder and closed her eyes. Buffy didn't say anything when he took her hand in his and squeezed it lightly.

"I love you, Xander."

"Love you too, Buff." He wrapped his arms around Buffy's shoulder and pulled her tighter against him. "Come on, I want to say goodnight to Em before I leave," he said leading her back into the house through the window.

Spike sat in his wheelchair and stared blankly at the television in the V.A. Hospital recreation room. The staff tried hard to make the room look inviting with cushy sofas and matching lamps and drapes. But no matter how hard they tried, It was still a hospital.

Hospitals were for the sick and dying. He wasn't dying, but on the worse days he wished he had.

As far as Spike knew, he'd been the only one to survive the crash. By some divine miracle or stroke of luck, he'd been thrown from the truck and had managed to survive that too. Spike didn't know whether to credit that to some big ominous man in the sky or fate. Either way, he hadn't died. Although he should have. He was supposed to be driving that day. He should have been shipped home in a box, not Angel or the rest of the men in his unit. A deep scowl darkened Spike's features as he thought about waking up in that hospital crippled and being shipped back to the U.S. with an honorable discharge.

When he got back, everyone had commended him for his bravery. Spike wondered what was so brave about surviving a fiery crash by chance. He remembered laughing bitterly about it when one of the nurses handed him a bedpan for the first time. One moment he'd been laughing uncontrollably and the next moment, the steel bedpan had gone flying in the nurse's direction.

He had to use a bedpan now. Spike couldn't do anything without the supervision of another adult as if he were a child. He hated to see the muted sympathy in stranger's eyes when they saw him. When he noticed someone looking at him with pity, he usually scowled at them. If he was feeling particularly surly, he would make some kind of lewd comment. Because of it, everyone tried hard to avoid him.

Spike continued to stare unseeingly at the television screen. Around him other patients read, played ping pong, chatted with each other, and a few had gathered around to watch the end of Passions.

Without warning the television suddenly flashed and the screen grew dark. Spike was ready to bellow his protest, when he noticed his primary care physician, Doctor Winifred Burkle, standing in front of the television. Her expression was firm behind her glasses, and Spike knew she was all about business.

"I was watchin' that. They were about to reveal Theresa's big secret."

Fred looked down at Spike and tried hard not to roll her eyes.

He was one of the most difficult patients. Since the day he arrived at the clinic, Spike had done everything he could to make everyone's life a living hell. Because he was unhappy, he was determined to make everyone around him unhappy. No matter how much anyone tried, they could not reach Spike; he never let anyone close enough to help him.

Spike's prognosis was common among the veterans that were treated in the hospital. He had suffered spinal injury from the accident, but with therapy he started walking again. The progress wasn't as fast as Spike would have hoped for and because of it, he became stubborn and discouraged.

"Good for Theresa," Fred said patiently. "We had an appointment, Spike. You're late."

Spike looked down at his empty wrist. "Sorry. Guess I lost track of time."

Fred took a deep breath. "It's okay, we'll just make up the time." She moved behind his chair and released the safety.

"I can do it myself. I don't need you pushing me around like I'm a baby in a sodding pram."

"Fine, suit yourself."

Without another word, Fred walked toward the door and headed to one of the empty examination rooms with Spike wheeling closely behind her. Once they were inside, she washed her hands at the sink and waited while Spike struggled to pull himself out of his chair and on to the table.

"So, Spike, how was your day?"

"I don't know. How about you help me brighten it, pet? Show me some of that southern hospitality," he said, attempting to mimic her Texas twang.

Spike leaned back against the table and leered suggestively at his doctor. In his opinion, she looked more like a college coed.

"I see you're turning up the charm today. When was the last time you exercised?"

"I don't know, last week maybe."

Spike usually had a hard time getting under Fred's skin. She was always professional with him. He watched her with her other patients, the ones who weren't labeled as troublemakers and she was always professional, but with them she had a kind of warmth. Sometimes Spike longed for the same treatment she showed the others. She had been like that with him at first. But he had crossed the line one too many times. Now he got professionalism and concern.

"That's not good. You have to at least keep your upper body strength if you're going to be stuck rolling around in that chair for the rest of your life," Fred said with her back turned to Spike as she pulled out some supplies.

Spike glared at the back of Fred's head and muttered a string of curses.

Hearing him, she smiled to herself. "Lift up your shirt."

"Now Doc, don't go getting fresh on me." He lifted his black t-shirt and exposed his solid chest.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Spike flinched slightly as Fred placed her cold stethoscope on his chest. He took in a deep breath and exhaled, repeating the process when she moved around toward his back. He felt her fingers trace lightly over the scars on his back and tried not to shiver. Her touch wasn't sexual at all, but it still felt nice.

"All right, now to check your blood pressure."

Spike stayed silent as Fred went through his routine check up. He didn't say a word when she checked him for bedsores and infection. She went about it in a professional manner, stopping to ask him questions from time to time.

"You have to keep up with your exercises, Spike. It's important if you want to walk out of here one day," she chided as she tested the muscles on his calf. "Now wiggle your toes for me and flex your feet."

"What difference does it make if I do or I don't?" he said while flexing. "No point in walking if I'm like a shambling old man."

Ignoring him, Fred moved her hand over his knee, under his calf, until finally she reached his feet. The whole scene felt strangely erotic and Spike was tempted to make another crude comment, but refrained. His doctor was in rare form that day.

"You really are improving Spike, and if you continue to work hard, you won't have to worry about looking like a 'shambling old man,'" Fred said with conviction.

Spike was momentarily taken aback by Fred's sudden warmth and couldn't help the smile that formed on his reluctant lips. "I'd still be limping around."

"Yes, you'll limp. But with time that can be reduced. You can walk, Spike. You really can if you would just try. And when I say try, I don't mean for a week and give up because you aren't ready to run the Boston Marathon."

Spike turned his head to the side. He didn't want to look at her face. It made him want, it made him hope.

"Spike, listen to me," Fred said, trying to gain his attention again. "You can walk if you want to. Nothing is really stopping you, but you."

Spike shook his head in protest. "Doctor Francois said-"

"Screw him!"

Spike's head jerked back at Fred's uncharacteristic statement. "Look, Doc, you don't know-"

Fred turned away from Spike and grabbed his chart from the counter. "There is nothing in this file that says you won't ever be able to walk again. Nothing. You just have to try. What are you so afraid of, Spike?"

He was afraid of trying. He was afraid of trying as hard as he could, only to be told it was all for nothing.

"Nothing. I'm just being a realist."

Fred let out an exasperated breath and stuffed her hands into her white coat. "Fine, you continue to stew and wallow. But you're not going to do it on my time. I'm tired of it. I'm going to help you walk again if it's the last thing I do. For an entire year you've had your run of this place, terrorizing the nurses and the doctors. Well enough is enough!" she said, slicing her hands through the air.

Spike watched in stunned silence as Fred let loose on him. She was completely brassed off, and he couldn't help but enjoy her tirade. He had never seen the petite brunette so prickly. When she was angry, she bristled up like a cat and he could feel her frustration coming off of her in waves. Spike attempted to get a few words in, but every time he tried, she would plow on, not letting him speak until finally she disappeared through the door.

Spike sat alone and wondered if he should leave but thought better of it. He didn't want to take his chances and piss her off even more, so he stayed put. After a few minutes the door swung open and Fred returned, but this time she wasn't alone. Spike eyed the man standing next to his doctor and sized him up. He made Fred look smaller than usual, but neither of them seemed to notice the difference in size. Spike could sense a type of familiarity between the two and narrowed his eyes.

"Spike, this is Charles Gunn. He's going to be your new physical therapist. I've already told Charles all about you. He doesn't scare easily and you won't be able to pull any of your stunts on him that you have with your last therapist. He's been doing this for a long time and he's very good at what he does. If he can't get you to walk again, then I don't know who will."

"Oh? Come to teach me how to do wheelchair wheelies, huh? Handicap exercises and all of that? I don't need a sodding physical therapist," Spike said with a scowl as he eyed the other man.

"Sorry, bro. You heard the doctor, you're stuck with me."

Fred looked up at Gunn and smiled. "Now we can do this easy way, or we can do this the hard way. It's your choice." She took Spike's chair and rolled it over to Gunn.

Spike continued to scowl at both of them and remained sullen. "I'll be needing that if you want me to actually make it to therapy. Or am I supposed to crawl?" he said after a few moments.

"No. You can walk," Gunn said.

Spike's scowl deepened. He looked at the wheelchair several feet away. A light sheen of sweat formed on his brow when he realized that neither his doctor or his new therapist was going to help him get into it. The idea of falling on his face in front of them terrified Spike and he found himself longing for the safety of his chair. He hated feeling weak and helpless. He hated the fact that they were watching him so closely. And he hated the fear that knotted in his gut.

Spike gripped the edge of the examination table and shut his eyes. He pictured himself walking in his head. In his imagination he didn't stumble or fall. Before he could talk himself out it and demand they give his chair back, Spike slid off the table and winced as his sneakers touched the floor. He held on for a few moments, allowing his knees time to absorb his weight. Sweat continued to bead on his forehead as he opened his eyes and took one slow unsteady step forward. He kept his eyes trained on the chair as he hobbled across the short distance. Spike's knees gave out just as he slid into the chair.

Fred and Gunn glanced at each other, suppressing their smiles as they congratulated Spike.

Spike didn't say a word as the doctor and his new therapist wheeled him out of the examination room into the gym. He stayed silent as Fred gave him another earful of warnings. And he didn't utter a sound as Gunn ran down his list of his expectations.

But he did start talking when he was forced to start working, and the things that came out of his mouth would have made a sailor blush.