July, 1999

"What kind of person leaves food in a coma patient's room?" You manage to slur around a mouthful of green jell-o. Oddly, it had had a spoon sticking into the top of it when you first came in. Faith neglects to fill the pause you left for her to reply but maybe it's better this way- god knows, she'd give you a heart attack if she actually did speak.

That and you don't want her to. Can you call it being in love if you want her to stay asleep?

You can image her reply anyway; something sarcastic and teasing, probably a sex reference. Anything to make you blush.

Jell-o is your comfort food. You eat it compulsively whenever bad things happen. And hey- it's good for you! Even if those bits of 'fruit' do occasionally turn out to be marshmallows… marshmallows are made with air, right? And air has good stuff in.

"Ok Buff, you're not even kidding yourself with that one." You sigh and put the pot down.

Three minutes of Faith-watching later you crack and pick it back up. It's just too weird watching her without something in your hands. Almost as if the jell-o gives you a reason to be here… well, it makes you feel less pervy.

"I'm only here for the Jell-o. I don't care about you." Faith's face remains static. "You're right- I'm a lousy liar."

It wasn't that good a reason anyway. Stinking Jell-o.

Stinking hospital.

Stinking life!

"Crappy." Your adjective of yesterday. Today's should be something worse. Something Faith taught you. Something… naughty! You sigh, you might be near-technically alone in the room but that doesn't mean you can actually say one of those words out-loud. Too many years of a good upbringing, swallowing down and suffocating it before you can shape your mouth to the first syllable.

Your stomach jumps as you watch her and then clenches to quash the feeling. Today you're all about repression. Stupid butterflies. You want to kiss her and you know it. Doesn't mean you have to like it.

You can't kiss anywhere other than her forehead since she's gotten ill. 'Gotten ill'; makes it sound like she'll get better. Like she's just unfortunate. Picked up a bug, a cold, few days in bed and she'll feel better. You'll take her soup and pat her hair and say 'there, there' and… she'll be up by the weekend, ready for your date and looking gorgeous. She'll hold your hand across the table, flash her dimples at you above the menu and you'll say how good it is to see her on her feet again. Her eyes will tear-up slightly as she thanks you for your caring act, tells you no-one has ever shown her love like this before and she's devoted to you- besotted. You'll kiss on the porch after an amazing meal where you laughed so hard your stomach ached and half the food went to waste. The apprehension in her eyes makes you feel bolder as you invite her upstairs to show her that she doesn't have to be scared anymore; she doesn't have to do stupid things. You love her. In the morning she brings you breakfast in bed and feeds you grapes to make you smile. She tells you to lie in bed all day and that she'll take care of you like you did for her. Then you live happy ever after.

Except she's not got a cold.

It's a coma.

She fell off a building.

You think that if she ever wakes up she'll probably say 'pushed'- because she's like that. In her mind things only 'happen' to her, she's never the problem.

The 'date night' is only one of your many fantasies. In another one she wakes from her coma without a memory. She knows she loves you the first time you step into the room. You don't tell her about her past but you still fall in love. Then either her memory comes back or someone tells her the truth- doesn't matter either way. She's angry and runs to the docks but by the time you find her (bathed in orange light from the sunset and with a gentle breeze ruffling her hair) she's forgiven you. You kiss… and live happily ever after.

Or maybe She wakes-up repentant. Or pregnant with your mystical love child. Or it's you in the coma and her watching over. Or-

"I think about you too much, you know. It's weird. And wrong. But I can't stop thinking about you. And they're not good thoughts… or… they are but that's where the whole 'wrong' thing comes in. I- I stabbed you. And you still won't go away. I hate you… but you're in my brain." On a Sunday months ago you'd sat curled-up in your duvet and dreamed about why Faith had wanted to meet with you the day before. Another mystery date? You'd spent the time tracking hellhounds and then at the Prom. She must have known where you'd be; you'd felt her eyes metaphorically stabbing into Angel as he'd danced with you, seemingly unaware. You wonder now if your absence and the reason was what made her shoot a poison arrow through him. Perhaps she'd known you intended to go solo and she- well, she invited you to homecoming, didn't she? Is it that strange to think she might have been planning… something?

You wait for her face to twitch, her hand to move, her voice to call you. She stays motionless and it brings up your irrational anger again. Like Pandora's box; once opened, always there. Brewing under the surface. Desperate to reach out and clutch those wires or that neck and clench- tug- rip- destroy. Whatever it takes to get her out of your life. "Angel left me and I didn't even do anything!" Yet you've tried so hard to rinse her out. The dirty little stain. " I didn't do anything except… age? Is that even a good reason to leave someone?" What about turning evil? Sleeping with your boyfriend? Lying bastard. She'd had the decency to write a note telling you the truth. "I mean; 'you're getting older'. Ok so, if I was, like, forty and he was, I dunno, twenty then yeah- leave me! But- hello!- HE's older. I should be the one doing the dumping! He's MY first love! I SHOULD BE THE DUMPER!" Two loud crackles later and you're staring at a leaking pot of green jell-o infused with purple plastic. "Stupid spoon."

Anger seeping away like blood congealing in reverse, you dump the sticky mess in the trash and suck your sickly-sweet and slimy fingers. Moving to check no-one's running down the hallway inspect the cause of the yelling you stand in the doorway, studying the places Faith's dimples would be if she was awake and could see the state you've got yourself in.

"Ha, ha, very funny." You mutter and wipe the last of the goo of on your top- fortunately an old one discarded into the 'slaying' pile. The jell-o oddly matches the crusty streaks left by the disembowelment of a slime-demon last year. It was easier to slide the knife into Faith. No resistance.

You sort of think she might have let you do it.

But only sort of.

"Do you want to stay asleep?" You talk to your shirt and she couldn't have heard you even with her slayer hearing fully functioning.

You came here the first few times wearing a pretty dress, perfume and make-up; just in case she woke up. Now you're dressed in a dirty, partly crispy hooded sweatshirt and tracksuit pants with the stretch long gone. Maybe it's just realistic- the doctors don't think she'll ever wake-up anyway. Maybe you don't want her to. You'd like to believe she'd think you were beautiful anyway.

You'd like to believe everything will be ok when she wakes up.

That all it takes for your problems to go away is for her to open her eyes.

And tell you that she loves you.

Because that is the only thing that will stop you from beating her back into unconsciousness.

And as much as you love her- you think that might be your first response.